[Daedor]
Kian'dor left the estate just after dawn, the air still cool and damp with morning mist. The village was already stirring, bakers hauling bread from stone ovens, hunters tightening straps, children chasing one another through the narrow paths with sticks for swords. He greeted them as he passed, nodding to elders and exchanging quiet words with those who shared his routine. Life here was simple, repetitive, and honest. There was comfort in its predictability, even as a restlessness tugged at him, an unspoken sense that this quiet rhythm could not last forever. As the temple's weathered stone roof came into view beyond the trees, Kian'dor's expression darkened slightly, not from dislike of the work but from the weight of knowing it was all he was allowed to be.
Kandor Bonduir was waiting for him near the temple steps, leaning against a cracked pillar with the lazy confidence of someone who had never learned the meaning of patience. "You're late," he said, grinning. "I was about to start cleaning in your place, then I remembered I value my dignity." The two spent the morning working and joking in equal measure, sweeping dust from the ancient halls and hauling buckets of water while Kandor talked endlessly about rumors, imagined adventures, and how he would one day leave the village and see the world. Kian'dor laughed more than he had in days, the echo of their voices filling the quiet temple like a reminder that youth still lived among the ruins of history.
It was near midday when the scream tore through the calm.
The sound came from behind the temple, sharp and terrified, cutting off as suddenly as it began. Kian'dor froze, heart hammering, while Kandor was already moving. They rounded the rear of the temple and burst toward the treeline, only to stop short at the sight before them. Rising from the churned earth was a towering golem of stone and mud, twisted and uneven, its surface crawling with dark veins that pulsed as if alive. The air around it felt wrong, heavy, suffocating like the world itself was recoiling.
"Run!" the priest shouted, standing between the thing and the forest, his hands glowing faintly with light. Kandor grabbed Kian'dor's arm. "This isn't our fight," he pleaded. "This is Cuendi real Cuendi!" But Kian'dor couldn't move. His feet felt rooted to the ground, eyes locked as the priest raised his hands and the world changed. Symbols burned into the air, geometric arrays forming and collapsing as waves of energy slammed into the towering monstrosity. Fire and wind twisted together at the priest's command, the earth itself responding to his will.
Kian'dor's breath caught in his chest. This was no story, no drunken tale told by travelers. This was power made real, terrifying, beautiful, and absolute. Kandor stared in stunned silence, his earlier bravado shattered, whispering, "So… this is what they meant." As the ground shook beneath their feet, Kian'dor felt something stir deep within him, not fear alone, but awe… and the first, dangerous spark of longing.
While the earth still trembled behind the village temple and awe-struck two young men to the ground, another force was already in motion, swift, deliberate, and far more aware of the consequences it had set loose.
[Avalor]
Avalor was not asleep that morning.
From the thief's perspective, the capital was a living maze of sound and motion, its streets packed shoulder to shoulder with early merchants, pilgrims, nobles under morning light, and soldiers rotating patrols beneath the towering banners of House De'mir. He moved among them like a shadow stitched into the crowd, cloak drawn low, breath measured. The scroll was secured against his chest, wrapped in ward-cloth that hummed faintly with restrained power. Even contained, it felt alive, heavy with knowledge that did not wish to be carried. When the first alarm bell rang, sharp and unmistakable, his jaw tightened not in fear, but irritation.
"Too soon".
The streets erupted into chaos. Shouts rippled outward as armored boots thundered from side alleys and raised platforms. "Seal the districts!" someone cried. The thief darted left, then right, overturning a fruit cart with a flick of his heel, vanishing beneath flapping awnings and into incense-choked corridors between stone buildings. With Cuendi-enfused weapons flaring as soldiers gave chase, their presence warping the air itself. A spear grazed his shoulder; he hissed but did not slow. He vaulted a low wall, slid beneath a noble's carriage, and burst back into the open street just as a line of guards closed in ahead. For a heartbeat, he thought it over.
Then he smiled and ran straight through the crowd.
People screamed as he shouldered past them, knocking bodies aside, blending chaos with intent. A soldier reached for him; the thief twisted, letting the man's momentum carry him forward into another guard. The main gate loomed ahead, massive and iron-bound, already beginning to close. With a final surge, he slipped beneath the narrowing gap, rolling hard onto the dirt road beyond as arrows shattered against the stone behind him.
The forest swallowed him whole.
Branches lashed at his cloak as he plunged into the trees, lungs burning, senses sharpened by survival and triumph. The noise of the city faded, replaced by the breath of leaves and distant shouts that dared not follow too far. Only when he was deep enough, when even Cuendi-tracking would falter, did he slow, pressing a hand to the scroll beneath his cloak.
"What stirs in villages," he murmured, "is born in capitals."
And with that, he vanished into the dark, unaware, or uncaring, that the ripples of his theft had already reached far beyond Avalor's walls.
[Daedor]:(Old Temple)
The ground shuddered as the priest was struck.
A jagged limb of stone and mud tore through the fading glow of his defenses, hurling him across the clearing. He crashed hard against a fallen pillar, the light around his hands flickering and dying as he cried out in pain. The towering golem lurched forward, its dark veins pulsing faster now, sensing weakness.
"Stay back!" the priest shouted hoarsely, struggling to rise.
But Kian'dor was already moving.
He sprinted across the churned earth, sliding to the priest's side as the man collapsed to one knee, blood seeping through cracked robes. "You fool," the priest snarled through clenched teeth, grabbing Kian'dor's arm. "Run while you still can. This is beyond you." His gaze flicked past him, fear sharp and unmistakable. "You will die here."
Kandor froze for half a heartbeat, terror clawing at his chest, every instinct screaming for him to flee. The thing was still coming. The air felt wrong, heavy and suffocating. His legs trembled, ready to turn and run… but he didn't. With a strangled breath, he swore under his breath and ran toward them instead.
"I'm not leaving him. Not again. Not ever."
The golem let out a sound like grinding mountains and surged forward, earth splitting beneath its weight. The priest tried to raise his hands, but nothing answered him. His Cuendi was spent.
Time seemed to slow.
Kian'dor rose to his feet, placing himself between the wounded priest and Kandor. His heart hammered so violently it drowned out the world. Fear, anger, desperation, all of it crashed together inside him. He didn't think. He didn't plan. He only knew one thing: they would not die here.
Something answered.
A force tore free from Kian'dor's chest, raw and uncontrolled, erupting outward in a blinding wave. The air screamed as invisible pressure crushed the charging monstrosity, stone shattering into dust, dark veins evaporating like smoke beneath the sun. The ground buckled, trees bending outward as the golem collapsed in on itself, then was simply gone, scattered into lifeless debris.
Silence fell.
Kian'dor stood frozen, arms still outstretched, breath ragged. His body trembled as if it no longer belonged to him.
"I didn't… I didn't mean to."
Kandor stared at him, mouth open, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Fear warred with awe, disbelief with something dangerously close to pride.
"That was him. Kian did that. By the gods…"
The priest looked up slowly, eyes wide, not with pain, but recognition.
"We must go," he rasped at last.
They didn't argue. Kandor half-dragged the priest back toward the temple while Kian'dor followed in a daze, every step heavy, his mind screaming questions he was not ready to answer. Inside the temple, they laid the priest upon the cold stone floor and began treating his wounds with trembling hands.
As Kandor worked, his thoughts spiraled. Fear of what they had faced. Fear of what Kian'dor had become. And deeper still, the terrifying certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.
As the afternoon sun settled over the village and the wounded priest slipped into an uneasy sleep, the temple grew quiet once more. Candles flickered against ancient stone, and the echoes of battle faded into whispers and unanswered questions. Kandor sat near the doorway, eyes fixed on Kian'dor as if afraid he might vanish if he looked away for too long. Outside, the forest breathed softly, indifferent to what had awakened within one boy and what it might mean for the world beyond their hills.
That same day, far from the village's fragile peace, failure weighed heavily in the streets of Avalor.
[Avalor]
As hidden chambers beneath the capital buzzed with restrained urgency, cloaked figures removed masks and bloodied gloves. The Shadow Order Durendor's unseen blade had returned empty-handed. Scouts spoke in low tones of blocked routes, broken formations, and a thief who moved as though the city itself bent to his will. When the final report was delivered, silence followed. Cae'dor Va'gadir, Head of House Va'gadir and Master of the Shadow Order, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp and unreadable.
"He knew our patterns," he said at last. "Or worse anticipated them." His voice carried no anger, only resolve. "Prepare a full account. The King must be informed."
With the afternoon sun breaking over Avalor with ceremonial splendor that barely masked the tension beneath. The Royal Parliament convened as it always did, lords in polished armor, scholars draped in sigil-marked robes, banners of House De'mir hanging heavy above the chamber. King Tae'argon De'mir sat upon the Lion Throne, his presence commanding silence without a word spoken. When Cae'dor stepped forward, the room stilled further. He knelt once, then rose to deliver his report of the stolen scroll, the pursuit through crowded streets, the escape beyond the main gate, and the Shadow Order's failure to reclaim what was lost.
The King listened without interruption; his expression carved from stone. When Cae'dor finished, Tae'argon's fingers tightened on the armrest. "Then the matter has moved beyond secrecy," the King said calmly, though the weight of his words pressed hard upon the chamber. "If the scroll is in motion, so too are forces we cannot afford to ignore."
Outside the palace walls, the city continued its restless rhythm, unaware that threads drawn tight in village, forest, and capital alike were beginning to converge, pulling the kingdom toward a reckoning long foretold.