Chapter 1

Corvak

The air in the King’s council chamber is thick with a silence that feels heavier than the ornate tapestries hanging from the stone walls. Light from the enchanted sconces flickers, casting long, dancing shadows that seem to recoil from the gravity of the moment. I stand with my brothers-in-arms, my back straight, my gaze fixed on the weary face of my King. I have served on this council for fifty years, advising, protecting, and fighting for Osiris, but I have never felt a tension so profound it seems to vibrate in my bones.

King Theron, his mane more silver than gold now, rises from his throne carved of ironwood and Zable Crystal. The crystal, once a vibrant, pulsing blue, is now a faded, milky white, its inner light nearly extinguished. That is the reason for this somber gathering.

“My loyal council, my trusted warriors,” the King’s voice, though strained, resonates with the authority of his lineage. “I will not soften the truth. Osiris is dying.”

A collective, muted gasp ripples through the assembled manticore.

“Our Zable Crystals, the very lifeblood of our home, are failing,” he said. “The great ward that shields our shores from the monsters of Protheka’s seas flickers and weakens with each passing day. The unique flora that provides us with both sustenance and powerful healing remedies begins to wither. Even our own healers find their restorative arts failing without the crystals’ power.”

He gestures to the dying crystal in his throne.

“Without a new source, our way of life will perish,” he said.

My jaw tightens. The King's words paint a picture far more dire than any of us had imagined. It is not just our comfort that is at stake, but our very survival. The King’s gaze sweeps across the assembled warriors, settling on each of us in turn.

“There is one hope,” he continues. “The ancient portal. It can take our bravest to Protheka. Legends speak of Zable Crystals in the caves of Northern Rach, but they are fiercely guarded.”

“By whom, my King?” Silas asked.

“The continent is treacherous, and the crystals are controlled by cruel dark elf traders who see all other races as tools or chattel,” the King said.

He pauses, letting the danger sink in.

“This mission is not a request I make lightly,” he said. “It may be a journey from which you do not return. But the fate of Osiris rests upon it. I ask now… who will volunteer?”

Before the King has even finished his question, I step forward, my bootfalls echoing in the hallowed silence. I do not hesitate. Duty is etched into my very being, a creed I live by more devoutly than any prayer.

I am not alone for long. Silas, our strategist, steps forward to stand at my right, his pale grey eyes already distant as he calculates the immense odds against us. Caspian joins him, our charmer and negotiator, offering the King a confident smile that cannot quite hide the gravity in his striking green eyes.

Then comes Tarek, a silent mountain of a manticore, his presence a comfort and a promise of unbreakable strength. He is followed by Ronan, his hand already resting on the hilts of his twin blades, his fiery spirit eager for the challenge. Finally, young Lucaris steps forward, his restless energy for once focused into a sharp point of determination, his eagerness to prove himself plain for all to see. We are six. It is enough.

A flicker of pride, fierce, and bright, cuts through the gloom in the King’s eyes as he looks upon the six of us. He gives us his blessing, his voice thick with emotion as he warns us of Protheka’s dangers.

As I bow my head, I make a silent promise to my king and my people. I will not fail. We gather before the glittering gold temple that houses the portal. I look at my five brothers, these men I have fought beside for decades, and I feel the immense weight of my responsibility as their leader.

With a nod, I step through the shimmering veil, the world dissolving into a brief, chilling vortex of color and sound before solidifying again. The air that hits me is colder, sharper, carrying the unfamiliar scents of salt and damp earth. This is the Protheka that does not know about Osiris. .

We find the Minotaur trade ship docked nearby. With Caspian at my side lending his diplomatic grace, I negotiate our passage to Northern Rach. Soon, the ship is pulling away from the shore, the vast, slate-grey ocean stretching out before us.

Later that evening, the six of us stand together near the bow, watching the twin moons of Protheka begin their ascent.

“This air feels wrong,” Lucaris said.

“It is the air of a world without the crystals’ light,” Tarek said, his voice a low rumble.

I turn to face my brothers, my expression unyielding.

“We do not know what lies ahead,” I said, my voice carrying over the sound of the waves. “If we are separated—by storm, by treachery, by the will of the gods—we do not falter.”

“What is the protocol?” Silas asked.

“We make for Northern Rach,” I said. “We find the caves. We complete the mission. And we find each other. Is that understood?”

A chorus of assent answers me, each voice laced with steel.

“Then let us swear it,” Ronan growls, his hand gripping the twin blades at his back. “By the Triad and the blood we share, we will meet in Rach.”

“No matter the cost,” Caspian added, his usual levity gone.

One by one, we clasp forearms, our circle a bastion of Osirian resolve against the encroaching darkness. I look at the determined faces of Silas, Caspian, Tarek, Ronan, and Lucaris. These are not just warriors. They are my brothers. And I will bring them all home.