The main market of Velmor, usually alive with the scent of fresh bread, spiced meats, and the ringing voices of traders, had transformed into a battlefield.
Today, there were no merchants.
No music.
No laughter.
Instead—there was rage.
Hundreds of starving citizens packed the streets. Banners waved. Torches burned. Voices clashed in fury, their anger rolling through the square like a storm ready to consume everything in its path.
"We are starving!"
"Where is the king when his people suffer?"
"Velmor is dying, and he sits in his castle!"
The air reeked of sweat, unwashed bodies, and desperation. Smoke curled into the sky, dark clouds rising from the scattered fires set in the corners of the market.
Rotten vegetables and stones hurled through the air, clashing against shields, splattering against armor. The royal guards, drenched in sweat and exhaustion, struggled to hold the line.
Their shields pressed together, a fragile wall between the desperate and the damned.
A guard, his face streaked with dirt and panic, turned to his captain, voice shaking.
"Sir! If they break through—"
The captain's jaw tightened.
"Hold the line!" he ordered. "The King is on his way!"
The words sent a chill through the soldiers.
The king? Here?
One guard stumbled back, pale.
"The king? In the middle of this? He'll be torn apart!"
While the people screamed in the streets, far from the fire and filth, the true enemies of Velmor watched from the comfort of silk-draped lounges.
A lavish manor, hidden behind grand gates, glowed with golden candlelight. Inside, Velmor's richest traitors gathered in secret.
Glasses filled with the finest wine clinked together. Laughter—the kind only men with too much power and too little conscience could manage—echoed through the hall.
By the balcony, a noble sipped from a jeweled goblet, smirking as he overlooked the chaos below.
"A beautiful sight, isn't it?" he murmured, swirling his drink.
Another noble, his rings flashing under the chandelier's glow, chuckled.
"Finally, the people are turning against that fool Eldors."
A corrupt high official raised his glass.
"Today, my friends, we drink to the future. A future where Velmor belongs to us."
From above, they watched the suffering.
From below, their pawns carried out their will.
One noble, lounging lazily on a velvet couch, sighed mockingly.
"Poor King Eldors. I wonder how long he'll last once he steps into that mob?"
Another chuckled darkly.
"Not long. And once he falls…" His eyes gleamed like a predator's. "So does Velmor, right into our hands."
They raised their glasses in celebration.
Outside, their pawns were ready.
Inside, their ambitions burned hotter than the torches in the market.
***
The marketplace was a storm.
A storm of voices, fists, and fury.
The air was thick with the stench of sweat, desperation, and burnt oil from dying lanterns. Traders' stalls lay abandoned, overturned by the restless mob. Children clung to their mothers, their hollow eyes filled with fear. The guards stood in trembling ranks, shields cracked, spears wavering—not just against the crowd's anger but against their own uncertainty.
Then—
King Eldors entered the storm.
A hush rippled through the crowd. Not respect. Not reverence. Something colder.
The King of Velmor was flanked by Raezel and Krios, their presence casting long, foreboding shadows in the firelight. He wore no crown, no jewels, no golden embroidery—only plain, unadorned royal robes. A message, unspoken yet clear.
I am not here as a ruler. I am here as a man.
The silence didn't last.
"The king came?" A whisper.
"Fool. Does he think words will feed us?" Another.
"Why is he here? Shouldn't he be hiding in his palace?"
Among the murmuring, high-ranking officials who had followed the king shifted nervously, muttering under their breath.
"This is madness—he shouldn't be here."
"These wretches don't deserve an audience with the king."
"They could kill us all, does he not see that?"
But King Eldors did see it.
And yet, he stepped forward.
A man emerged from the crowd. Weathered. Hardened. Starved. He looked as though he had been forged in the very suffering Velmor had endured—his cheeks hollow, his clothes frayed, his hands rough with scars of labor.
But his eyes burned.
Not just with rage, but with injustice.
"Your Majesty." His voice was measured, but edged with steel. "We have suffered. We have waited. But now we ask—"
His fists clenched.
"What has Velmor's King done for his starving people?"
The words struck harder than any blade.
King Eldors inhaled sharply.
For a moment, he felt every year he had ruled weighing down on him. He had once been a king of promise, a ruler of strength. Now? Now, he saw his people wasting away before him.
"I know your suffering. I know your pain."
His voice was not grand. Not powerful. It was just… weary.
"And I will not deny Velmor is struggling—"
"Struggling?" The protest leader cut him off. "Velmor is dying."
The crowd erupted.
Voices surged, fists raised.
"We have waited long enough!"
"While your nobles feast, our children starve!"
"Enough words—where is the change?"
The heat of the mob's rage scorched the air. The guards gripped their weapons, torn between duty and doubt.
Then—
"And do you believe the answer is destruction?"
Raezel.
His voice cut through the fire of the moment. Cold. Controlled. Unwavering.
The protest leader's gaze snapped toward him.
"No."
Then his voice hardened.
"But I do believe we need change. And if you truly want to save Velmor—"
He stepped forward.
"Then tell me—what have you done to stop the corruption festering in your own court?"
Silence.
King Eldors' fingers curled against his robes.
Raezel's golden eyes flickered over the crowd. Measuring. Calculating. The king had hesitated. That was a mistake. The people had sensed weakness, and now they were hungry for something stronger than words.
His mother, Medusa, had taught him long ago—
Power is not in the throne. It is in control.
Right now, control belonged to the people.
Raezel's golden eyes narrowed.
He exhaled, about to take another step—
Before he could answer—
Three figures exploded from the crowd, faces hidden beneath tattered rags.
Blades flashed. The firelight glinted off cold steel.
The crowd SCREAMED.
Guards scrambled, shields clashing in chaos.
The first assassin lunged—blade aimed for the king's heart.
But—
Like a viper coiled in silence, Krios lashed out—his grip locking around the attacker's wrist mid-air.
Then—CRACK.
A savage twist—bone snapped like dry wood.
A scream ripped from the assassin's throat as his dagger clattered to the ground.
Krios yanked him forward—
KNEE TO THE FACE.
Blood sprayed. The assassin's head snapped back, body collapsing.
The second attacker rushed in.
Krios whirled—grabbing the first assassin's body mid-fall—and used him as a human shield.
A hidden dagger arced straight for Krios' neck—
SHNK.
*Steel met flesh—but not his.
The second assassin stabbed his own ally.
His eyes widened in horror.
That's when Krios struck.
ELBOW.
Straight into the attacker's jaw.
Bone crunched. Teeth shattered.
The assassin reeled—but Krios didn't stop.
His hands shot forward—grabbing the man by the collar—
Then—
HEADBUTT.
A sickening CRACK echoed through the air. Blood gushed from the assassin's shattered nose.
His legs buckled. His body slumped.
Krios tossed him aside.
One left.
The third assassin raised a crossbow.
Too close.
The bolt fired.
STRAIGHT FOR THE KING.
Krios snapped to the side.
His hand lashed out—
SNATCH.
Mid-flight.
The crowd GASPED.
Krios exhaled. Rolled his neck.
Then—SNAP.
He broke the bolt in half between his fingers.
The last assassin staggered back. Hands shaking.
Krios tilted his head.
His golden eyes scanned the crowd.
A smug, dangerous smirk.
"Anyone else?"
The mob froze.
The would-be assassins lay broken at his feet.
Then—
"Don't kill them, brother."
Raezel's voice was calm. Absolute.
Krios exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders.
"Ahhh, why not, Raezel?!"
Raezel's golden eyes gleamed.
"Because dead men don't talk."
***
Royal Guard: "Your Majesty, a young woman seeks an audience with you."
King Soren: "What business does she have with me?"
Royal Guard: "Your Majesty, she hails from our neighboring nation, Velmor."
King Soren: "Princess Elaria?!"
Royal Guard: "No, Your Majesty. But I would advise you to receive her. Should you test her patience for too long, the outcome may not be favorable."
King Soren: "Does she belong to any of Velmor's noble houses?"
Royal Guard: "She is royalty among royals, Your Majesty."
A heavy silence settled over Zeloria's grand hall.
King Soren: "Permit her entrance."
The great doors parted, and with measured grace, Nyssa stepped forward. A subtle bow accompanied her knowing smile, exuding both confidence and decorum.
Nyssa: "I extend my greetings to you, Lord of Zeloria—King Soren."
King Soren: "Welcom—"
His words faltered. As his gaze met Nyssa's, a rare hesitation clouded his regal composure. The weight of her presence, her lineage, and the implications of this meeting were not lost on him.
Noting his struggle, Nyssa's smile remained gentle, her voice carrying an air of quiet authority.
Nyssa: "I am Nyssa, the eldest of Queen Medusa's three heirs."
The very mention of that name struck King Soren like a bolt of lightning. A storm of questions raged within him, yet he mastered his expression with the practiced ease of a sovereign.
King Soren: "Princess Nyssa, forgive us our discourtesy. We have failed to receive you with the honor befitting one of your station."
Nyssa: "I arrived in Zeloria unannounced. You need not trouble yourself with such concerns."
A flicker of admiration crossed King Soren's features as he studied her.
King Soren: "Your lineage may grant you the title of princess, but it is your character that truly defines you—Princess Nyssa." He inclined his head ever so slightly, an acknowledgment of her presence. "Speak, that I may know how best to serve you."