The training ended when the sun was already blazing high. Lukas collapsed, sitting on the cold floor of the courtyard, his whole body throbbing. Sweat trickled down his face, his breath heavy — but in his eyes, there was a living flame.

  He looked up at his siblings, still stretching.

  — Why are you here? In your letters, you said you weren’t coming.

  Luiz was the first to answer, serious:

  — Yeah… but every cell in my body screamed for me to come.

  Valquíria smirked:

  — Same for me. I can’t explain it.

  Inside Lukas’s mind, César spoke in a grave tone:

  — Even if they don’t remember… their souls do.

  Morgana added, almost with respect:

  — The “them” of the past is still here, Lukas. Even if they don’t know it.

  Lukas lowered his head and clenched his fists.

  — Then… I’m not as alone as I thought.

  He took a deep breath and stood. His legs protested, but he crossed the courtyard and climbed the stairs leading to the Castle of Seasons.

  The castle was a labyrinth, but only one hall made his heart heavy: the Patriarch’s Hall. At the end of the corridor, ebony doors opened, revealing a vast, silent chamber.

  And there it was. The Throne of the Black Sun. Made of ancient wood, it bore countless scars — cuts, scratches, deep marks of battles and decades of command. It wasn’t a throne to be shown off as a jewel; it was a throne that mirrored the greatness of Kyros José Fernandes II, a king who had not inherited a crown but conquered it with his own hands.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  In the Empire, not even the Emperor had true influence over the South. Though Kyros respected the Imperial Throne and recognized that the South was part of the Empire… everyone knew the truth: the South belonged to Kyros.

  Six captains were lined up, three on each side, motionless like statues. The air felt heavier, as if the hall had its own weight.

  The herald raised his voice:

  — The tenth young master, Lukas Fernandes, enters!

  Lukas walked down the central aisle without looking away. He was no longer the boy who once trembled before that throne.

  From the shadows behind the seat, Kyros emerged. He crossed the row of commanders, stopped before his son, laid a heavy hand on his head — a gesture of protection and authority — and only then sat upon the throne marked by history.

  The air seemed to flow again, but the tension remained. One by one, the captains gave their reports: Naira spoke of the festival; Lancelot tried to raise the issue of the border with the Winter Elves; Gerald, Elena, and Draken brought news from other delegations; Catarina pressed on a subject and was silenced coldly by Kyros, leaving the atmosphere almost suffocating.

  When everyone had left, only father and son remained.

  Kyros softened his expression:

  — How are you, my little boy?

  — Better than ever, father.

  Kyros smirked.

  — I thought I’d have to force you into the festival. I even prepared a speech…

  For a moment, the weight lifted, but then Kyros’s voice carried once again the weight of the South:

  — You will found the Tenth House of Fernandes. Gather followers. Forge your destiny. And remember… you are my son. That alone is enough.

  Lukas clenched his fists tight, resolute: I will change everything. Even if I must defy fate itself.

  End of Chapter 3