Throne of Ash and Shadows

Chapter 1 Vlad Vasiliev

Thick, hot blood trickled down my leg as the crooked smirk of a Caldorian general hovered above me like a dark cloud. My jaw clenched, teeth grinding together to stifle the wince threatening to escape my throat. Slowly, I pushed myself to stand, wary of causing further damage to my battered leg. Too weak to summon my dual ability—the rare power to wield both water and fire—I was left vulnerable, exposed.

"Look at you..." she sneered as we circled each other. "So weak."

I swung my sword at her, but she blocked it with trained ease, his movements graceful yet menacing.

For centuries, Avernia and Caldoria had been locked in an unforgiving war, each kingdom wielding its unique forms of magic, driven by ancient betrayals and a shared thirst for dominance over the world's most coveted relic—the Heartstone. This ethereal gem was believed to be the source of all magical energy, granting immense power to whichever kingdom possessed it. Its influence amplified magic tenfold, and whoever controlled it held the fate of the world in their hands.

Long ago, our kingdoms coexisted in fragile peace, with the Heartstone serving as a shared resource. But Caldoria's insatiable greed shattered that delicate balance. In their lust for power, they launched a surprise attack, seeking to claim the Heartstone for themselves. Their treachery failed, but the Heartstone was damaged, splitting into two fragments—one in Avernia's possession, the other in Caldoria's. We, the people of Avernia, believe that Caldoria's greed corrupted the natural flow of magic, casting a shadow over the world. Our celestial mages claim the stars no longer shine as brightly, that time itself has twisted, and even the constellations have shifted in the heavens. Our only hope is to reunite the two halves of the Heartstone, restoring the balance and bringing peace to our fractured world.

But the Caldorians? They call us weak, sneering at our visions and prophecies, dismissing them as cowardice. To them, the Heartstone is a tool of strength, meant to be wielded by those bold enough to seize it. They see us as hoarders of magic, twisting the world from the shadows while they seek to rule openly, to bring prosperity through might. For them, the Heartstone's fracture only fueled their desire for dominance over the magic of the world.

"You seem weaker than I expected, Commander-in-Chief of Avernia—or should I say, Prince?" The general's voice dripped with malice as she stepped forward, her left foot shifting subtly, signaling his next strike. Her sword swung with brutal precision, the blunt edge grazing my temple as I ducked at the last moment.

A muscle in her jaw twitched, and suddenly, the world around me dimmed. The light shrank into a small, suffocating radius. My pulse quickened, the rapid thudding filling my ears, drowning out all sense of reason. The sword trembled in my grasp. Goosebumps prickled my skin—she was close, but I couldn't see her. I was at the mercy of an illusionist.

"Damn it," I muttered through gritted teeth, turning in a slow circle, terrified of exposing my back to her. Her mocking laughter echoed around me, bouncing off invisible walls, offering no hint of her location. A tap on my shoulder—my body jolted, and I whipped around, swinging my sword wildly. Nothing. Another tap.

"We all have weaknesses, don't we, Prince?" Her voice slithered through the darkness, wrapping around me. "No one knows yours, do they? The chosen commander of Avernia, the prince."

Suddenly, a throwing knife hurtled toward me. I ducked, feeling the sharp tip graze the edge of my ear, warm blood trickling down to my shoulder. I wiped it away—only to realize it vanished into thin air. Another illusion.

"Not quick enough, Prince," the general taunted, another knife flying toward me. I dodged, watching the blade disappear into the blackness surrounding us. "It must be hard," she continued, venom lacing her voice, "always trying to gain your family's approval. Bred for war, weren't you?"