The child was one year old when the Tower swallowed him.
The earth split open beneath the ruined palace, and from its wound came a vortex of screams, fire, and shadow. Soldiers, nobles, and servants alike fled in terror, their faces contorted with panic as the fabric of the world bent inward. At the center of it all, a wicker basket floated—suspended not by magic or ropes, but by the will of something ancient.
Inside the basket, the baby prince wept.
His cries were thin and human, a soft sound against the roar of the Tower's awakening. The sky above the broken kingdom was dark, though no night had fallen. Clouds swirled into a spiral above the opening chasm, and lightning etched twisted symbols into the air. The Tower did not rise—it descended, roots of black stone and silver light growing downward into the wound like a parasite burrowing into flesh.
On the crumbling palace steps stood the Demon King, draped in robes woven from starlight and bone. His eyes, the color of scorched ivory, watched the child descend. He did not blink. He did not breathe.
"Let fate decide," he said, his voice carrying over the chaos. "If he is to end me, then let the Tower forge him."
And with that, he turned and walked away.
The boy's name was forgotten. Stripped from the records. Burned from memory. Only the Tower remembered him now.
The first realm was a desert of mirrors.
The child lay on a stretch of silver sand, the basket gone. Around him, countless mirrors floated, spinning gently in the heatless wind. Each reflected a different version of himself—older, younger, crying, laughing, dying. He reached for one with chubby fingers and it shattered, the shards vanishing before they hit the sand.
He would have died then, not from hunger or thirst, but from the mind-breaking loneliness of mirrored echoes—had the red-eyed guardian not found him.
Her name was Shyra.
She was no demon, not truly. Something older. Horned, yes, but with eyes that mourned. Her skin shimmered like dusk, and her voice was a lullaby of thunder and wind.
She cradled him in her arms and whispered an oath, a binding vow in a language not meant for mortals.
"I will shield you from the hunt. I will teach you the truths they buried. You are not their pawn. You are not their prince. You are possibility."
From that moment, he was hers to protect.
Shyra took the child far from the realms of chaos, through shifting pockets of the Tower, until they reached a forgotten city hidden deep in a calm dimension—quiet, almost untouched by the Tower's madness. There, in a modest stone house with ivy-covered walls and glowing lanterns, they lived.
Shyra was not alone.
She introduced the child to her companions—two men and an elder woman, all bound together by a secret vow to protect the boy. The first man, Kael, was a swordsman with scars like stories carved into his skin. The second, Arin, was a quiet mage whose magic bent light and shadow. The elder lady, Marella, knew ancient rituals and the old ways of healing, and her laughter could break silence like dawn broke night.
Together, they became his family.
The city was small, a hidden sanctuary carved between realms where time moved slower. Here, the child had a name again. A life. He learned to walk on mossy stones and chase fireflies that whispered riddles. He learned to speak in three languages, to cook stew over open flame, and to laugh—though the echo of sorrow never truly left him.
Kael taught him the sword, every morning under the rising twin moons.
Arin taught him magic, slowly, carefully, making sure the boy understood that power was not a right, but a responsibility.
Marella told him stories—not of heroes, but of people who survived. Of love that endured, and wounds that taught.
Years passed. Peacefully. As peacefully as one could live beneath the eye of the Tower.
By sixteen, he had grown into something rare—balanced, calm, and dangerous. The innocence of childhood lingered in his eyes, but beneath it burned focus. Resolve. His body was trained, his mind honed, and his heart, though scarred, was not hardened.
On the night of his sixteenth birthday, Shyra called him to the garden behind their home. The others were waiting, seated around a fire of blue flame.
She stepped forward and held out a long, cloth-wrapped object.
"You've carried this since the day the Tower took you," she said.
He unwrapped the cloth slowly. Within it lay a sword—not ornamental, but ancient. Black steel etched with shifting runes, the hilt wrapped in fading royal blue leather.
"This was forged by your ancestors," Marella said. "Not just a weapon—an inheritance."
Kael nodded. "It won't accept you unless you're ready."
He gripped the hilt.
The runes lit, one by one, as though
recognizing him. The blade pulsed once—like a heartbeat.
No words were spoken. They didn't need to be.
That night, he stood atop the roof and watched the stars.
He felt the Tower shift in the distance.
And for the first time, he did not feel fear.
He felt purpose.
He was ready.