CHAPTER TWO

  “THIS IS BULLSHIT!”

  The angry crack of a book slamming shut echoed through the vast marble pillars of the royal library, startling a few fluttering wisps of enchanted light that hovered between the shelves. Joran stood at one of the far reading tables, fists clenched, chest rising and falling with restrained fury. He glared down at the cover of the book—Mythic Culture by Dorian Lamaar—as if the words themselves had offended him.

  He exhaled sharply and snapped his fingers. A soft pulse of magic lifted the book from the table and sent it gliding back to its proper place among the towering shelves.

  “Father won’t let me go anywhere because of his overdramatic paranoia…” he muttered under his breath.

  His side throbbed with a sudden flare of pain from one of the training sessions—no, from the bloodletting sessions disguised as “instruction.” He winced and lifted his shirt just enough to see the bruise blooming over his ribs, still dark and tender. The knights never said why they did it—why they collected his blood after wounds or harvested his tears in silence—but if he asked, they only made it worse.

  He let the shirt fall back into place, jaw tightening.

  “I’m not some fragile thing… I’m not a prisoner,” he whispered bitterly. “I just want to see the realm. To live.”

  A soft knock echoed from the archway of the library, followed by a hesitant voice. “Prince Joran?”

  He turned, startled. A tall minotaur woman stepped inside, her horns curling back neatly along the sides of her head. She wore the deep blue and silver of the palace servants, her long brown fur brushed and gleaming in the library’s magical light. Her hands were clasped before her, fingers fidgeting as she stepped into the room.

  “Mira,” Joran said, forcing a smile. “I didn’t expect anyone this late.”

  “I noticed the staff were avoiding the west wing tonight,” she said gently. “I figured it was either Father yelling again… or you tearing apart a poor book.”

  Joran snorted. “Both, actually.”

  Mira walked closer and gave him a soft look, her dark eyes filled with concern. “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” he replied too quickly, then sighed, lowering his gaze. “I just… I hate feeling useless.”

  “You’re not useless,” she said at once, her voice firmer now. “You’re just… waiting. That doesn’t make you weak.”

  Joran looked away.

  Mira moved to stand beside the table, glancing at the book title still faintly glowing on the shelf.

  “You remember when I first got here?” she asked after a moment. “I was a disaster. I broke four plates the first week. Spilled hot tea on the Chancellor. Got tangled in the drapes and nearly tore down the whole guest wing…”

  “I remember,” Joran said with a small chuckle. “You also knocked over a knight.”

  “He shouldn’t have been standing that close to the dessert tray,” she said with a huff, before smiling softly. “But it was you—and the others—who helped me feel like I belonged here. Not because of strength or lineage or horns. You just… accepted me. Helped me find my place.”

  She paused, laying a large but gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “You want to help people. And I believe you will. Maybe not today, maybe not this season… but soon. Don’t let your father’s fears make you forget who you are.”

  Joran swallowed the knot in his throat. “Thanks, Mira.”

  She gave his shoulder a squeeze, then stepped back. “Try to get some rest, my prince. You’ll need your strength. Whether for meetings… or whatever else you’re planning.”

  Her knowing glance lingered just long enough to make his ears burn before she bowed and turned to leave.

  As the library doors closed behind her, silence returned—heavy and solemn.

  Joran stood there for a long time, watching the dust float in the shafts of moonlight spilling through the arched windows. The anger returned. So did the ache in his chest. The ache of waiting. The ache of being told no over and over again while the world beyond the walls burned without him.

  No.

  Tonight… tonight was the night.

  He turned sharply and stormed from the library, his boots echoing through the hall. The staff offered greetings, but he ignored them. Not out of disrespect—but urgency.

  Back in his chambers, Joran pulled open the wardrobe and grabbed a simple travel sack woven with golden strands. A gift from the court mages, it was enchanted with preservation magic and capable of holding far more than its size should allow.

  He filled it with folded clothes, books on magical theory, mythic geography, and languages—anything that might be useful. Rations. Flasks of water. A small pouch that carries a large amount of gold coins through magical means.

  Then he turned to the mirror and took a steadying breath.

  With a snap of his fingers, his royal clothing shimmered and shifted—magic folding into itself, reshaping into something far more practical.

  A weathered brown cloak, lined with faded leather at the edges, now rested over his shoulders. Its deep hood could easily shadow his face when drawn. Beneath it, he wore a forest green tunic, fitted and breathable, paired with worn black trousers reinforced at the knees. A thick leather belt buckled at his waist, pouches already full.

  His boots were the same—dark, laced, meant for distance.

  He looked down at his right hand, then slowly raised it before him.

  Focusing his mana into the skin, a symbol began to glow faintly on the back of his hand—the mark of his bloodline. A fearsome red dragon with wings outstretched, fire billowing from its jaws. The sigil of Lothara. The proof of his royal claim.

  He stared at it, the light illuminating the reflection of his own eyes in the mirror.

  Then, as quickly as it came, he let it fade.

  Joran exhaled once.

  "Tonight," he whispered, tightening his cloak. “Tonight… I stop waiting.”

  And with that, the prince of Lothara vanished into the shadows of the palace, heart pounding and future uncertain—but more determined than ever to forge his own path.

  __________________________________________________________________________________________

  That night, cloaked in shadow and determination, Joran moved silently through the winding, torchlit halls of the castle. The soft rustle of his cloak was drowned beneath the distant crackle of braziers and the hush of moonlight spilling through the high windows. He kept his steps measured, his body cloaked in an invisibility spell, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his short sword—the same training blade he’d used for years, familiar in weight and grip.

  Every corridor passed was a familiar reminder of the life he was leaving behind.

  He paused briefly at the palace kitchens—long abandoned at this hour—moving with practiced ease through the pantry shelves. Loaves of bread, dried meats, hard cheeses, and a few glass jars of preserved fruit disappeared into his enchanted satchel, the golden-threaded bag humming faintly with preservation magic. When he was sure he had enough, he moved on, heart hammering with the rising thrill—and fear—of what he was about to do.

  He reached the final hall leading to the servant’s gate, near the edge of the outer wall, when he whispered the incantation to drop his concealment. The magic dispersed like mist in sunlight.

  That was when the voice came.

  “Going somewhere, pup?”

  Joran flinched. His head turned sharply—and there he was, leaning against the wall with crossed arms and an unimpressed scowl.

  Eitri.

  To anyone else, he might have looked like a regular smith—stocky, short, soot-streaked—but Joran knew better. Everyone in Orano did. Eitri Stonehand was no ordinary blacksmith. He was a legend.

  Though standing at just over four feet, the dwarf’s presence was enormous. His arms, thick as tree limbs, bore veins and scars like rivulets of molten iron, a testament to centuries spent hammering metal and weaving magic into steel. His hands—rough, cracked, powerful—had shaped weapons that felled dragons and crowned kings. The great blade that rested across the Dragon King’s back, the one said to drink the fire of anything it struck, had been born from Eitri’s forge.

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  And not just his forge—his blood, sweat, and fury.

  His beard, long and braided with rings of mithril and charred steel, swayed as he stepped forward. Sparks still clung to his leathers and apron, as though the forge itself had followed him here. His eyes—sharp, amber, and filled with firelight—studied Joran not with anger… but concern.

  “You’re lucky I’m the one who found you first,” Eitri muttered, stepping closer. “The guards would’ve sounded the alarm. And your father would’ve had half the garrison tripping over their boots searching the castle.”

  Joran lowered his hood, guilt flickering in his chest.

  “I didn’t want to drag you into this, Eitri.”

  The dwarf grunted, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Too late for that.”

  They stood in silence for a moment.

  “Does he know?” Eitri asked at last.

  Joran looked down. “He said no. Again. I tried to convince him—tried everything. He won’t budge.”

  Eitri let out a sigh like a smith releasing a bellows. “He’s scared. And not just of the world. Of what’s in it. Of what’s in you.”

  Joran’s jaw clenched, his hand brushing the amulet at his neck.

  “I have to do this, Eitri,” Joran said, his voice low but firm. “I love my father, but he’ll keep me caged here for the rest of my life if I let him. I need to see the world. I need to do something now—not wait until he finally decides I’m ready.”

  Eitri crossed his arms, his beard bristling as he stared at the young prince. “And sneakin’ out in the dead of night was the grand plan, was it?”

  “I’ve made up my mind. You can stop me or you can help me, but I’ll find a way out eventually.”

  There was a long pause. Eitri’s gaze burned like the heart of a forge.

  “You really are a stubborn little shit,” he muttered finally. “Almost makes me proud.”

  He snapped his fingers, and a circular portal blinked open beside him, humming with golden-orange magic. “If you’re leaving, you’re leaving with gear worthy of your name.”

  He reached into the portal and pulled out a sheathed sword wrapped in crimson cloth. “First thing’s this. Vermillion Fang.”

  Joran’s eyes widened slightly.

  “It’s made from the same metal as your father’s blade,” Eitri continued. “Forged it myself, just like his. Took me a week of sleepless nights in a forge so hot it nearly cooked my bones. It’ll cut through dragon scales, enchanted steel, even protective wards—if you feed it enough magic.”

  Joran gently took the sword, reverence in his grip.

  “But it’s not for just anyone. Only you—or someone you give permission to—can lift it. Anyone else might as well be trying to swing a mountain.”

  Joran slowly removed his old training sword and slipped Vermillion Fang into its place at his hip. “Thank you, Eitri.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Just don’t lose a limb figuring out how much power to pour into it.”

  The dwarf reached into the portal again, retrieving a folded cloak the color of old earth. “Next. Your traveling garb’s not bad—but this’ll keep you alive.”

  He gave the cloak a shake, and faint silver runes shimmered across its surface under the torchlight.

  “Made this with some elven spellweavers and an arachne silkmistress. It'll muffle your footsteps and mask your scent. Camouflages you in shadows or total darkness. It won’t stop a war arrow, but it’ll turn away knives and give you a fighting chance if someone tries to stick you from behind. And it’ll keep you warm or cool, no matter the weather.”

  Joran slid the cloak around his shoulders. It fit like a second skin—soft, breathable, and strangely comforting.

  “Feels like it was made for me.”

  “It was,” Eitri said, matter-of-fact. “And now this—”

  He pulled out a thick leather belt reinforced with mithril studs and fitted with several rune-marked pouches. “The Everforge Belt. Dwarven-made, naturally. Used by master smiths to carry half their workshop with ‘em.”

  He pointed to the largest pouch. “This one’s a tiny forge. You break a weapon? Stick it in there. Comes out good as new. No weight limits. No rust. Ten items, max. You call for what you need, and it comes right to your hand.”

  Joran fastened the belt around his waist, testing the draw of the pouches. “Feels balanced.”

  “Damn right it does.”

  Then Eitri retrieved a smaller object—no larger than a monocle, a silver frame encasing a polished black gem that glimmered like a still pool.

  “The Voidglass Eye. Rare, even for dwarves. Clip it to your belt. Once per day, it’ll let you peer into a person’s soul. Not literally—but enough to see their true intentions, emotions, even buried memories. Don’t use it lightly.”

  Joran turned the lens in his hand, watching the gemstone shift.

  “And don’t use it on me,” Eitri added with a grunt. “I’ve got enough buried memories for ten lifetimes.”

  A smile ghosted across Joran’s lips, but faded when Eitri pulled the last item from the portal—a dagger in a plain leather sheath, its silver hilt wrapped tightly and engraved with runes that pulsed faintly.

  But Eitri didn’t hand it over immediately. His grip lingered on the weapon.

  “This,” he said softly, “is not for you to use. This isn’t for fighting. This blade is for trust. When you find someone out there who earns it—someone you’d bet your life on—give them this.”

  Joran’s brow furrowed. “What’s so special about it?”

  Eitri met his gaze. “That dagger’s tied to something… old. And dangerous. just promise me. You don’t draw it. You don’t use it. You give it only when you’re sure.”

  Joran hesitated, then nodded solemnly. “I swear. I won’t unsheathe it.”

  Finally, Eitri let go of the dagger, and Joran slipped it into an empty loop on his belt. The portal behind Eitri shimmered and vanished with a quiet pop.

  There was nothing else to say. Joran adjusted his cloak and turned toward the door. But just before he stepped away, he spun back and threw his arms around the dwarf, holding him tight.

  Eitri stiffened, muttering something under his breath—but after a beat, he wrapped one thick arm around the boy he considered kin.

  “You’re a pain in my ass,” Eitri grumbled. “But I’ll be damned if I don’t miss you already.”

  Joran pulled away, wiping at his eyes. “Thank you. For everything.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Eitri muttered, patting his shoulder with a soot-stained hand. Then he gave him a hard push. “Now get the hell outta here before I change my mind and knock you out with a wrench.”

  Joran managed a small smile, tugged his hood up over his head, and slipped into the dark.

  __________________________________________________________________________________________

  The capital of Lothara, a grand and ancient city built on the foundations of mythic and human unity, unfolded like a dream before Joran as he stepped out from the castle’s rear gates and into the open night. Drakhalis—his home, his cage—glowed beneath the twin moons of Orano, its skyline painted in gold and sapphire by the ethereal light of arcane lanterns and bioluminescent flora.

  For a moment, Joran just stood at the overlook behind the palace, his cloak tugged tight against the breeze. The spires of the city stretched outward in every direction—ivory towers, moss-draped bridges, sweeping domes of enchanted glass. It was breathtaking, even now. Even knowing what he’d be leaving behind.

  He took a breath, descended the sloped path that curled down from the royal grounds, and for the first time in his life… stepped into the streets of Drakhalis.

  The Grand Market District greeted him like a warm song in the dark.

  Despite the hour, it bustled with the hum of life. Floating lanterns drifted lazily through the air, their colors shifting with the mood of nearby crowds. Merchants, some shouting deals while others simply offered a knowing nod, lined the stone-paved avenues. The smells of spiced meat skewers, enchanted honey cakes, and crisp baked bread wafted through the air, mingling with the sweet tang of alchemical incense.

  A hulking minotaur wearing a bright pink apron stood behind a grill, flipping skewers with surprising grace. When he caught Joran looking, he grinned.

  “First taste is free, stranger,” he rumbled, handing Joran a freshly grilled skewer. “Spiced hydra tail—don’t worry, it won’t grow back in your gut.”

  Joran chuckled softly. “Thanks,” he said, taking it. “Smells better than half the palace kitchen.”

  The minotaur blinked, then let out a laugh that shook the cart. “You’re a funny one. Stay safe out there.”

  Joran nodded, slipping into the crowd once more. He passed a pair of Arachne seamstresses—elegant and poised, their humanoid torsos graceful, their lower spider halves weaving vibrant silk tapestries as they chatted in hushed voices. A fae child hovered nearby, wings glittering like dew-covered crystal, begging her mother for one of the glowing garments.

  “Only if you promise not to vanish with it again,” the elven mother sighed, clearly exasperated.

  Farther down, Joran paused at a dwarven smithy stall nestled under a stone awning. The dwarf behind the counter—no taller than Joran’s chest—noticed his gaze lingering on a dagger etched with golden runes.

  “Handcrafted, rune-sealed, fire-forged steel. Guaranteed to pierce troll hide and heart,” the dwarf said proudly. “You look like a man who knows how to handle a blade.”

  Joran smiled. “I’ve had a good teacher.”

  The dwarf grinned, his beard bristling with silver beads. “Then maybe you’ll be the one to finally put that thing to use. It’s been waiting long enough.”

  He politely declined, thanking the smith, and continued his quiet trek through the glowing maze of stalls and walkways. Each corner of the city seemed alive—dryads speaking softly to trees that lined the streets, a satyr playing an enchanted flute near a wishing fountain, even a pair of cloaked merfolk gliding through a long, water-filled canal that arced above the street in a crystal tube.

  At one point, he found himself lingering at a bridge over the Nymian Canals. Magical lilies floated in the dark water, glowing faintly as a gondola passed beneath him. The cloaked pilot gave him a curious glance but said nothing.

  “You okay, lad?” came a gentle voice.

  Joran looked up. A soft-faced nymph woman stood behind a wooden flower cart nearby, her skin faintly translucent like morning mist, her hair flowing with the texture of water.

  “You look like someone saying goodbye,” she added.

  Joran offered a faint smile. “Maybe I am.”

  She didn’t pry. Just nodded and pushed her cart along, her presence as fleeting as a breeze.

  The deeper he moved into the city, the quieter things became. He passed through the Ivory Ward, where manors stood behind enchanted gates and patrolling golems watched with glowing eyes. The silence here was not emptiness, but restraint—the stillness of power asleep.

  Finally, he reached the Outer Ring, where homes were simpler and the people quieter. A half-orc boy and a beastkin girl were drawing chalk runes on the side of a wall, giggling as they tried to make the symbols glow. An elderly human woman swept her doorstep, pausing to give him a small nod as he passed. She didn’t ask who he was. She just smiled.

  When Joran stood at last before the towering obsidian gate of Drakhalis, flanked by twin statues of dragons whose ruby eyes flickered in the moonlight, he paused.

  He turned back for just a moment.

  The city glimmered like a living dream—full of voices and colors and warmth. Drakhalis was beautiful. It was hope. It was everything his kingdom stood for.

  And he couldn’t protect it from within gilded walls.

  With a breath, Joran turned from his home, pulled the hood tighter over his head, and stepped into the unknown.

  The wilds of Orano awaited.

  And so did his destiny.