Fire Soul

Chapter One

In the hushed embrace of dawn, King Barthol stirred from his slumber. Streams of golden sunlight flooded through the stained glass window, painting the chamber's tapestries and ornate furnishings with vibrant hues. As he stretched, a knot of unease tightened in his chest, overshadowing the invigorating warmth of the sun. Today heralded the arrival of his daughter's betrothed, Prince Phillip, yet beneath the facade of celebration lay a foreboding sense of uncertainty.

Despite having initially agreed to the arranged marriage, Barthol found himself plagued by doubts as the wedding day approached. He couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't getting much in the bargain, his thoughts often drifting to alternative arrangements that would better serve his kingdom's interests. However, the reputation of Prince Phillip's father, King John, loomed large in Barthol's mind, a formidable barrier to pursuing other alliances. He knew all too well the consequences of defying a ruler with such power and influence, and the last thing he wanted was to incite a war that could tear his kingdom apart. So, despite his misgivings, he begrudgingly remained committed to the alliance, even as uncertainty gnawed at his resolve.

Barthol ran his fingers over the detailed engravings of his signet ring, encountering the unsettling texture of dried blood marring the gold. He resolved to have one of his trusted servants clean it later. With a firm tug on the gilded cord beside his bed, he set in motion the resonant toll of the bells, signaling his awakening and readiness to face the day ahead. It was a call to action, igniting the castle into a flurry of activity.

As was customary, the stalwart Gareth, a loyal knight and steadfast companion, arrived at his side first. With a respectful bow, Gareth greeted his liege, his armor clinking with each step. As Gareth's gaze swept the chamber, his keen eyes soon fell upon the figure nestled beside King Barthol in the bed. It was not the first time he had encountered such a scene, and with practiced stoicism, he knew his duty.

Even with her bloody, matted hair and pale complexion, he recognized her as Nicole, a baker from the castle kitchen. Memories of their past conversations flooded his mind, the warmth of her laughter echoing in his ears as he recalled the delectable cakes she had baked for him on his birthday. An olive-skinned beauty, she had always possessed a fiery spirit that ignited the castle halls with her presence. Her smile, wide and bold, was a declaration of her indomitable will, daring anyone to challenge her resolve. Despite the gravity of the situation, his heart wavered with conflicting emotions as he gazed upon her, torn between duty and the stirrings of an unspoken affection that had long sat dormant within him.

But now, she lay unconscious next to the king, her once fiery eyes bruised and swollen shut. With a solemn resolve, Gareth gently lifted the baker onto his shoulder, her form limp and lifeless. Despite the weight of sorrow that hung heavy in his chest, he maintained his composure. A subtle nod to the king conveyed his acknowledgment of the situation as he made his departure from the chamber.

As the king rose from his bed, the stirrings of the impending celebration drew him to the window. With a firm hand, he pushed it open, revealing the vibrant exhibit unfolding in the courtyard below. Amidst a whirl of activity, servants adorned the space with vivid blooms and flowing ribbons, weaving a tapestry of color in anticipation of the forthcoming nuptials.

A sudden jolt of discord broke through the calm. The chants of youthful voices drifted up to the king's ears, carrying with them the echoes of an age-old prophecy, whispered through the annals of time. "One king. Two king. Three. Four. Five. Nothing will keep him alive. When the moon crosses the sun, the wicked king will be undone. "D." "R." "A." "G." "O." "N." "D." "R." "A." "G." "O." "N." Dragon. Dragon will be his end."

Annoyance flickered in King Barthol's eyes as he listened to the childish refrain, a mockery of his authority and lineage. The prophecy, a relentless specter that had haunted him since birth, lingered like a bitter taste upon his tongue, a constant reminder of his cursed fate. With a swift motion, he seized a pitcher of water from his table, and without hesitation, he emptied it upon the unsuspecting children below, their startled shrieks piercing the courtyard's serenity as they scattered like frightened deer. A deep, hearty laugh resonated from the king's chest, reverberating through the stone walls of his chamber.