He slowly opened his eyes. A sharp, strange smell hit him—nothing like the stone halls of Elyndor. His head throbbed; his thoughts scattered. He didn't know where he was.
"Where… am I?" he whispered. The room was too bright, too quiet, filled with strange blinking lights and soft beeps. He tried to remember.
The last memory was fire and steel. His younger brother, Callius, standing over him with a blade. Betrayal.
Alaric Valerius Caelmont, the crown prince of Elyndor, should have been leading armies, not lying here helpless.
Anger and disbelief twisted inside him, but the pain in his head pressed heavier than any feeling.
Then another memory hit—raw and vivid.
He had been standing on a hard, flat path beneath an unfamiliar sky. Something massive and fast came rushing toward him—metal, glowing eyes, roaring like a beast. He reached for his sword... but his hand met only air.
A sudden pull. Someone grabbed him, yanking him aside.
A deafening crash followed, a blinding light, and then—darkness. The world spun and swallowed him whole.
Now, consciousness returned.
A girl sat beside him, calm, her gaze fixed on a flat, glowing object in her hands—as if none of it had happened.
His dark energy stirred—the Caelmont Pulse. It shimmered faintly around his palms, warning him. Something about her felt... radiant. Power and serenity wrapped into one.
"Who… are you?" he asked, his voice rough, low, urgent.
The girl looked up, startled, then smiled faintly. "Oh—good. You're awake," she said softly, setting aside the shining block.
Her eyes were hazel, flecked with gold, and when they met his, he felt both alert and strangely safe.
"My name is Elara," she said. "You're in the emergency room at St. Jude's Hospital. I'm the one who pulled you out of the road—just before that taxi hit you."
Alaric pushed himself up on one elbow, ignoring the pain.
"A taxi? A road? This isn't a prison... What kind of magic is this? Where are my guards? And what are those strange roads…those moving metal beasts?"
The words snapped with sharp confusion. He felt cornered, stripped of control, of his sword, his crown—his world.
And then the pressure broke.
The Caelmont Pulse erupted.
It wasn't a controlled burst; it was a wild, desperate defense. His sharp blue eyes suddenly flashed gray-black. The air in the room turned heavy and cold, and a sheath of shadowy mist poured out from his hands. The machines around the bed began to scream and blink fast.
Alaric looked at his hands, watching the thick shadows writhe, and felt a dangerous instability—a feeling that the energy was about to break free and destroy the small room.
Elara gasped, pushing her chair back. Fear flickered in her eyes... but she didn't run.
She stayed. Watching. She stared at the darkness covering his hands.
Just as the dark shadows felt ready to explode, a counter-force arrived. It was silent, smooth, and like a gentle heat against the cold.
A soft, gold-white light seemed to come from Elara herself. Alaric, in his state of panic and heightened power, could see it perfectly. It was the purest, most ancient energy he had ever sensed. His unstable dark energy, which should have attacked or shattered, instantly calmed down. It bent toward the golden light, becoming dense and focused, finding a sudden, perfect peace.
The smoky shadows vanished. The beeping machines went silent. The oppressive cold left the room, leaving only a tingling weakness in Alaric's arms
Alaric stared at Elara, forgetting his pain, his betrayal, and the strange room, breath uneven, his mind blank.
For the first time since Elyndor, his power obeyed someone else's presence.
He knew, deep in his bones—
this was no ordinary girl.
She was the anchor his chaos had been waiting for.
Elara, unaware of the truth written in his stare, spoke quietly.
"What…what just happened? Are you okay?"