Across the galaxy, far from Earth's blue skies, the royal palace stood in ruins.
The sky above the palace burned red, heavy with smoke and ash. Two suns hung low in the distance, dimmed by the haze. The air smelled of metal and old fire.
The war was over.
The king's brother stood alone in the throne hall.
The floor was cracked and stained. Broken banners lay where they had fallen, their symbols torn apart. The great throne still stood, but it was empty, darkened by scorch marks along its sides.
He walked slowly across the hall, boots echoing in the silence.
This place had once been loud with voices, arguments, and celebration. Now it held only the soft hum of damaged systems and the distant sound of repair crews working through the ruins.
"The king is dead," one of his commanders said from behind him.
"I know," the brother replied calmly. He did not turn around.
"The queen was taken alive, as you ordered."
"Good."
"And the children?"
The brother stopped walking.
He looked up at the ceiling, where cracks ran like thin veins through the stone. For a moment, his expression tightened. Just slightly.
"There were no bodies," the commander said carefully. "But no signs of survival either."
The brother exhaled slowly.
Immortals were difficult to kill completely. Children even more so.
"Search every sector," he said. "Every world that still owes this throne loyalty."
The commander hesitated. "Even… the lower worlds?"
"Yes," the brother answered. "Especially them."
He turned at last, his face calm, controlled, almost bored. "If they lived, they were sent far away. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere insignificant."
His eyes narrowed.
"Somewhere people do not think to look."
The commander bowed and left.
The brother returned his gaze to the throne.
He did not sit.
Not yet.
Outside the shattered palace, the planet mourned in silence. Fires still burned in distant cities. The royal bloodline was believed to be ended.
Believed.
And that, he knew, was the most dangerous kind of lie.
Morning light filled the small house.
The windows were open, and the curtains moved gently with the breeze. The smell of toast drifted from the kitchen, mixed with the sound of soft laughter.
A small girl of about seven to eight years sat on the floor of the living room, surrounded by scattered papers and crayons. She laughed as she tried to stack books taller than herself, only for them to fall over again.
"You're messing everywhere up," her mother said from the kitchen. "Just get up already."
"Give me five more minutes mom" the child replied quickly. "I wanna finish this thing."
The mother frowned.
"Just let her be, she's still a small child," her father said, smiling as he walked past with a mug in hand.
The girl frowned for half a second. "I'm not a small child ". She said glaring at both father and mother.
"All right, you're not " the father said sighing. 'What a naughty child'. He thought.
The girl then shrugged and continued what she was doing.
Her parents watched her quietly. She was quick—not just in how she moved, but in how she thought. Too quick sometimes.
At breakfast, she finished her food early and leaned over to look at her father's newspaper.
"Why are the numbers different today?" she asked.
He blinked. "What numbers?"
She pointed. "Yesterday it said something else."
Her mother paused mid-sip. "You remember yesterday's paper?"
The child nodded. "Yes."
Her parents exchanged a look.
"She's seven," her father muttered.
"And correcting us again," her mother replied, though she was smiling.
Later that day, neighbors stopped by. One bent down to greet the child and laughed softly.
"She's grown so much," the woman said. "And she's beautiful. Just like her mother."
"And smart," another added. "Very smart."
The child smiled politely, already distracted by something else. She noticed things others didn't—the way people spoke when they were tired, the way adults changed their tone when they were unsure, the way words didn't always mean what they sounded like.
At school, her teacher frowned at her work.
"This is next week's lesson," the teacher said slowly.
The child tilted her head. "But it was easy."
The teacher didn't know what to say to that.
At home that evening, her parents argued over something small—whether the lights should be turned off, whether the door had been locked. Their voices rose, then softened again.
"You always forget," one said.
"You always exaggerate," the other replied.
The child sat between them, listening, smiling slightly.
She understood the argument before it ended.
The house stayed warm. Safe. Full of noise and laughter.
Nothing seemed wrong.
And yet, something about the child felt quietly out of place—not dangerous, not strange—just a little ahead of the world around her.
In another planet called Xyrathis.
The skies were darker, layered with slow-moving clouds that reflected the pale light of distant stars. The capital palace rose from black stone cliffs, carved directly into the rock as if it had grown there instead of being built.
Tall spires curved upward, sharp and clean. No banners flew. Xyrathis did not celebrate loudly.
Inside the palace, the war council had gathered.
A wide circular hall stretched outward, its walls lined with symbols carved deep into the stone. At the center stood a long table made of crystal and dark metal. Around it sat leaders, generals, and strategists—faces calm, voices controlled.
"The Veylorian throne is stained," one of them said. "The massacre has disrupted the balance."
"The king's brother crossed a line," another replied. "Even for immortals."
"He slaughtered his own bloodline," a third added. "That will not go unanswered."
A figure at the head of the table remained silent. His presence alone quieted the room. He was the leader of Xyrathis—tall, composed, his expression unreadable.
"The war will spread," he said at last. "Whether we act or not."
"The other races are already choosing sides," a general said. "Kaelthar arms itself. Orryath watches carefully. Earth remains unaware."
The leader's eyes narrowed slightly. "Earth will not remain untouched for long."
At the far edge of the hall, near one of the tall pillars, a child stood quietly.
He was no more than ten years old.
His hair was golden, falling straight and neat against his shoulders. His eyes were sharp, their color pale and cold, watching the council without curiosity or fear. He wore simple dark clothing, untouched by ornament.
He did not speak.
He did not move.
Yet the air around him felt heavier, colder, as if the space itself was more alert when he was near.
A general glanced in his direction, then looked away quickly.
"The next generation will inherit this war," someone said.
The boy's gaze remained steady.
He already knew.
Outside the palace, Xyrathis prepared quietly. Ships were fueled. Orders were written and sealed. No alarms sounded. No celebrations followed.
The war was not loud yet.
But it was coming...