Chapter 4

  The thick, warm smoke from the Heartlight Candles nearly burned Thivan's eyes. The fumes were unusually dense and sweetish, an overly cloying scent that overwhelmed the senses. Thivan flinched and reacted instinctively: he unleashed a small, controlled gust of wind into the room, which at least slightly dispersed the mist of life-prolonging mana.

  The entire room was filled with the gentle, golden light of the candles; the light of the chandelier was almost redundant. The Heartlight Candles, their wax enriched with concentrated healing mana, dripped incessantly. The dark red, viscous wax ran down the sides of the candles, staining the white marble floor of the palace room. It looked as if the luxurious floor was slowly being drowned in blood and the last breaths of a titan.

  The walls were set with gold inlays, otherwise bare—a gesture of modesty amidst the wealth. Except for the gigantic window front on the left side, which offered the best, breathtaking view over Drymon, the capital of the Black Woods and the heart of Caleon. It was Thivan's legacy, the undisputed center of the realm he wished to reunite. Inherited from his father.

  And that very father… was sitting at the desk!?

  Thivan’s mouth fell open. The impossibility of the situation paralyzed him. His father, the last true King of Caleon, had not left the ornate bed for months. He couldn't leave it; his physique was too weak, his muscles atrophied. Movement to the heavy desk was physically impossible for him.

  Nym must have placed him there, Thivan thought, his pragmatic mindset fighting against the shock. Nothing else is possible. But why? Why the desk?

  For a short time, Thivan racked his brain over things he had almost erased from his thoughts to attend to something far more important: the unification of his realm. But what he saw before his eyes was a miracle—the power of a dying will. And for a miracle, it was worth taking his time.

  “Dad,” Thivan began, stammering, unable to put the complex reality into words. The cold mask of the Supreme Lord instantly crumbled. “How… how?”

  The Supreme Lord slowly approached, his steps cautious in the thick air. He finally knelt at his father's side, ignoring the dripping wax and the humid air. The humility of the son outweighed the arrogance of the ruler.

  His father, old King Sothar, began to speak. His voice was soft but clear, in unmistakable words, without the usual slurring or confusion of the illness.

  “You have learned much,” King Sothar breathed proudly. The glow in his eyes was gentle and warm. His boy could do nothing but smile back. The pain of the last months was forgotten.

  “You are uniting my realm.”

  Thivan’s smile widened. A triumphantly warm current of surging pride spread in his chest. Finally, recognition.

  “Yes, yes Dad,” he spoke with deep devotion and certainty. “I am succeeding. I am fulfilling your dream and your father’s. The Houses will bow. There will be order.”

  His father nodded slowly, the confirmation absolute.

  “You are,” he said. Then he slowly turned his head, the movement laborious but deliberate, until he looked directly into his son's eyes.

  The warmth in the King's eyes vanished at that moment. It was replaced by an unbearable, cold emptiness. It was an alien, inexplicable coldness that extinguished every spark of paternal love. It was the gaze of total rejection.

  “And yet, you remain unworthy.”

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  Thivan’s smile did not fade. It froze on his face. He continued to kneel there, his posture rigid. His mouth was open, but this time not in admiration, but in naked horror. His eyes confusedly scanned his father's, which suddenly held only coldness, incompatible with the affectionate tone of a moment ago.

  What the hell…?

  “Your Golem rejected you,” Thivan’s father said, the words now clear, harsh, and cold like the marble beneath their feet. He stood up, a majestic movement that had been impossible for him in recent months. The Heartlight Candles seemed to nourish him with a final, golden strength, but the splendor of the past stood proudly before Thivan.

  “And it still would.”

  Thivan stood up. Slowly, thoughtfully, confused by the sheer physical impossibility of this resurrection. His newfound joy over the alliance had been washed away by this icy accusation.

  “How…?” he whispered, his voice incredibly soft. His eyes fixed on his father’s, searching for a shred of love or confusion.

  “The gods have allowed me to deliver this final message,” the former King of the Black Woods continued, his eyes now gleaming with the alien, borrowed clarity of the cosmic medium. “Your spirit is too weak, Thivan Sothar!”

  Thivan’s mind raced. He saw the lies, the hypocrisy of the gods, and the disgrace of the past. He broke down, but not under the burden; he broke down in a fit of laughter. Not a laugh of joy, nor one of amusement. It was a laugh of pain, defense, and self-satisfaction. A laugh that assured him that he was right, and not the stubborn shadows of tradition.

  “You… you still believe in the Golem thing?” Thivan scoffed, his voice almost cracking with bitter amusement. “That tiny little accident eleven years ago? That this pathetic thing defines my entire life?”

  Thivan rose proudly. He walked laughingly to the gigantic window that showcased the power of Drymon and spread his arms as if to embrace the entire city. Anger and pride combined into a unique, dangerous cocktail.

  “Look around, Dad!” he spoke solemnly, his voice now echoing with magical amplification. “I have a team!”

  To his left, he created a luminous image of his sister, Nym, and Iden standing side-by-side from twitching clouds and condensed mana, the illusion perfectly staged. “Loyalty! Power! Diplomacy!”

  “I am fulfilling your dream!” he cried out further. To his right, a spectacular illusion of the crests of the most important princely houses appeared, joined not by chains or treaties, but by glowing hearts and symbolic handshakes.

  “And everything I do,” he said loudly and solemnly, his gaze piercing the window front and focusing on the future, “is to win!”

  “No!” his father said loudly, his borrowed energy seeming to grow again through the pure rejection of his son. He stepped forward, his eyes sizzling with cosmic annoyance. “Your spirit is too weak! A King without a Golem is—”

  “A King!” Thivan interrupted his father brutally, growling the words out. The repetition of this old tune was too much. “This. Connection. Is. NONSENSE!!”

  “Every member of a Caleon line once sat in their Golem! Even your sister!” his father barked. “You deny the foundation of our ancestors!”

  “I…” Thivan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The anger was now controlled but absolute. His next words were clearly deliberate and carried the cold resolve of the new age.

  He smiled a cold, determined smile. “The past…” he began, slowly rising into the air. The energy around him altered the structure of the room. An ever-growing storm surrounded him, its wind not coming from the window, but from within him.

  “…is over,” lightning crackled around his forearms, violet and blue electricity danced over his skin. The black clouds over Drymon, which he had unconsciously summoned, grew denser and darker.

  “But the future,” he said solemnly, the power continued to swell, his blood boiling with concentrated mana, “begins now!”

  His father showed reverence. The cosmic spark in his eyes flickered with surprise and fear as the first, massive thunder echoed in the room. The air grew heavy with ozone. A cloak of purest, twitching electricity materialized around Thivan’s shoulders.

  “And it must go forward!”

  The power and mana that Thivan radiated were so immense that they shook the entire room. The marble crackled under the static charge. The discharge was no longer stoppable. It was the ultimate declaration of his independence.

  And finally, at the peak of his power, Thivan struck the floor as a lightning bolt.

  CRACK!

  The candles instantly went out, the intense blow of concentrated energy hitting the floor. The room was shaken, the crackling of the reverberation deafening.

  When his father began to gasp, the borrowed power holding him collapsed under the violent mana surge. In that moment, Thivan Sothar first realized what he had just done.

  “HEALERS!” he cried out frantically toward the door. “HELP HIM!”

  Nym and the priests streamed in wearing their red robes, their faces alarmed. Thivan knelt again, looking at his suddenly dying father, whose eyes were now again filled with human confusion.

  “I will show you,” Thivan Sothar whispered softly, the resolve cold and unwavering, “what a worthy King is.”