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  Long before there was a prince in the kingdom of Aurum, before its towers gleamed like spears against the dawn, there was Prince Victor — the golden heir of Aurum’s first line. He was upright, brilliant, beloved by all who saw him, and cursed by that same adoration. His name was sung in the Maharlikan lands, his wisdom admired by kings, yet behind his calm eyes burned a quiet suffocation.

  In the golden court of King Leroy of Aurum, a proposal was forged — a union between Aurum and Diospyrus, land of the blackwood and half-druid blood. The daughter of King Arden, Princess Valeri, was fair and quiet, her lineage half-mortal, half-ancient. She carried in her veins the silver light of druids. To the court, it was a perfect match. To Victor, it was a gilded chain.

  For long before the treaty, Victor’s heart had already chosen.

  Her name was Helena, a girl who lived in the wheat fields beyond the castle walls — not noble, not powerful, but alive in a way no one in the court had ever been. Victor met her when he was ten, a boy running from guards, tripping through the fields like a fugitive prince. She found him hiding behind a stack of grain, panting, eyes wide with fear.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, frowning.

  “I’m not supposed to be anywhere,” he replied.

  And she laughed — the first laugh he had ever heard that did not bow before his name.

  Years passed, and he returned to her whenever he could, slipping away from councils and ceremonies, trading his crown for her laughter. She showed him how to mend fences, how to run barefoot across the plains, how to listen to the wind. In her presence, he was not Prince Victor. He was simply a man.

  But in the halls of Aurum, storms were brewing.

  The rivers had begun to dry. The soil cracked. The people starved. King Leroy grew desperate. To save his kingdom, he sought the wealth of Diospyrus, offering his son as the price.

  When the decree was made, Victor stood before his father in the throne room.

  “I will not marry her,” he said.

  “You will,” said the king. “For Aurum.”

  “I would rather see Aurum fall than sell my heart.”

  The king did not reply. But his eyes — dark and unreadable — lingered too long.

  From that day, Victor withdrew from the court. He refused feasts, ceremonies, councils. The people whispered that their prince had turned cold, prideful. And the king, ever cunning, began to weave his plan.

  The famine worsened. And soon, the whispers began.

  The king told the priests that a witch had cursed Aurum — a peasant woman from the wheatlands who had ensnared the prince.

  The people believed.

  Victor and Helena fled one night on a single horse, riding through the dying fields until they reached a small cave they had claimed as their own. The moon was high, and the world seemed still — as if holding its breath for them. There, beneath the slow dripping of water, they lay together, their bodies trembling with fear and love.

  “I’ll speak to him,” Victor whispered. “I’ll make him see. We’ll end the engagement. I’ll marry you.”

  She smiled through tears. “I’ll wait for you, Victor. Always.”

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  When they returned to her home at dawn, the air reeked of smoke. The wheat was burning. The door was open. Inside, the walls were painted red.

  Helena’s father and mother lay skewered on wooden pikes. Her brother — still breathing — knelt before a mob of villagers. “She cursed the land!” someone screamed. “Witch! Witch of the prince!”

  Before Victor could shout, a farmer thrust a rake into her brother’s throat. The sound was wet, final.

  “NO!” Helena ran to him, catching his collapsing body. Blood covered her hands.

  Victor tried to speak, tried to reason, but the mob’s eyes were wild with hunger and fear. They surged forward, tearing Helena from her brother’s corpse, dragging her by the hair. Victor drew his sword.

  “Enough!” he roared, but the words drowned in chaos. He struck — not to kill, but to save her — yet each blade found flesh, each motion fed the madness.

  When the guards arrived, the people scattered, and Victor was seized. Helena screamed his name as they bound him.

  At dusk, the mob gathered before the old cathedral — a ruin older than Aurum itself. Its bell tower was broken, its altar drowned in vines. Beside it stood a well — deep and ancient, black as night. None had seen its bottom.

  They dragged Helena to its edge. Her hands and legs were bound; her mouth gagged. Her tears streaked through soot and blood.

  The king arrived on horseback, his gold armor gleaming in the torchlight. Victor was dragged beside him, wrists tied, clothes torn.

  “Father,” Victor pleaded, his voice raw. “Stop this madness! She’s innocent!”

  “Upset me one more time, son,” King Leroy said, voice cold as stone.

  He raised a hand.

  The guards poured a thick, black liquid over Helena’s body. The stench of oil filled the air.

  “No!” Victor struggled, shouting until his voice broke.

  The king’s hand fell.

  The torch was dropped.

  The fire took her instantly. Helena’s scream tore through the night — not of fear, but of betrayal. Her eyes locked on Victor’s, wide and glistening with horror.

  Then, as the flames consumed her, a guard kicked her burning body into the well.

  Victor lunged, ripping free of his captors.

  “NO!” The word echoed against the cathedral walls.

  He sprinted past the guards and dove after her, vanishing into the dark.

  The descent was endless. Wind roared around him, the light of Helena’s fire tumbling with him, dimming, flickering. Then — water. Cold, thick, foul.

  He sank through it, deeper and deeper, until the flames reached him. He saw her — floating, her hair ablaze, her skin cracked with light. Her eyes were open.

  “Helena…” he whispered, pulling her close.

  But beneath them, the water moved.

  A hiss filled the darkness — a sound of countless legs. Then came the touch — the first centipede crawling across his ankle, then another across his arm. The water writhed. It was not water at all. It was insects — a living sea of crawling bodies, of clicking jaws and whispering wings.

  They surged up his legs, burrowed into his clothes, into his mouth. He tried to scream, but they filled his throat.

  The light from Helena’s body pulsed once — then died.

  He was alone.

  And in that silence, something else moved — vast and unseen, deeper still.

  A voice, ancient and terrible, rose from below the swarm.

  “Do you wish to save her, little prince?”

  Victor trembled, eyes wide in the dark.

  “Do you wish to break the law of men, of gods, of kings?”

  He tried to speak, but his mouth was filled with writhing bodies.

  “Then surrender. Let your flesh be the seed. Let your grief be the flame.”

  The centipedes poured into his eyes, his ears, his lungs. He felt his body burning from within.

  And then — the pain was gone.

  His heart slowed.

  His skin hardened.

  The swarm stopped moving.

  And beneath the stillness, the prince began to change.

  The darkness cracked. Light spilled through the edges of the dream — red, pulsing, alive.

  Barang gasped. He sat upright, drenched in cold sweat. The echoes of Helena’s screams still hung in his mind, fading like smoke.

  The chamber around him was dim, lit only by the crimson glow of the Revenants’ sigils carved into the stone. His breath came ragged.

  For a moment, he did not know who he was — Prince Victor or Barang. The dream still clung to him, sticky as tar. He could still feel the centipedes crawling beneath his skin.

  A voice spoke from beyond the door.

  “My lord,” it said — one of the Revenants, kneeling. “They are gathered. All are waiting in the Hall.”

  Barang rose slowly, gripping the edge of the stone bed. His reflection flickered in the blackened mirror — the faint trace of royal features long forgotten beneath the scars of centuries.

  He looked at his hands. They trembled slightly. The same hands that once held Helena’s burning face.

  He inhaled, steadying himself. “I’m coming.”

  He walked toward the door. The red sigils along the wall pulsed brighter as he passed — like veins remembering the beat of an ancient heart.

  And somewhere, far below the fortress of the Revenant, something stirred in the dark — the whisper of wings, the hum of a thousand tiny legs — waiting for their master’s command.