King

Arian opened his eyes—
—and found himself cradled in the sands, near the border of Sylandrin.

The Sacred Tree.
The place where he’d been born.
Where he’d lost his parents.

Yet he remembered none of it.

A storm raged around him now—a tempest of screaming shadows and clashing steel. Every battle cry pricked his skin like needles.

«Where... am I...?»

«No way the desert could teleport me this far... So how did I—
—AGHHH!»

He clawed at his skull as white-hot pain split his mind. A scorching wind lashed his cheeks—
—then the metallic tang of blood flooded his senses.

Silk. Screams. Women’s voices.

He was suddenly kneeling in a tent, surrounded by frantic midwives. A woman thrashed on a birthing mat, her shrieks piercing the air.

«My Queen—just one more push!»

Again, that same hollow sensation—
—and now he stood in a boundless void.

A tall figure with tapered ears stepped toward him. Yet, for once, no fear took root in Arian’s chest.

«Who are you?! Where is this place?» He slashed a hand through the air, as if clawing at invisible threads. «I’m asking you—answer me!»

The stranger’s lips curled.
«You know, Arian... it’s fascinating.»
A pause. The void hummed.
«In three thousand years of this desert’s existence, never has an eight-year-old boy wandered in alone... let alone one whose mindscape stretches this wide.»

He flipped a coin—the void itself snatched it midair.
«First question answered: who am I?» The elf’s smile held millennia. «Zinarphil—that fussy dragoness—must’ve mumbled some of this desert’s history. I’m the one who forged it. Though...» A shrug. «Every tale about me is wrong. Not that it matters now.»

Arian’s fingers twitched toward his dagger.
«Hold on—why should I trust you? You could be another trial!»

«Understandable.» The elf flicked the vanished coin’s ghost between his fingers. «But the trial’s over. Or rather... I ended it. Why? Because risking you—a boy who’ll reshape this world’s future—on mere tests? What a waste.»

«What are you talking about?! Where are you going?!» Arian’s voice cracked as the void began dissolving around him. «And those scenes you showed me—where was that? Who were those women?! Speak already!»

The elf’s form flickered, his voice echoing as if through water:
«Listen, Arian... I can’t reveal everything now. But remember—
—all things unfold in their own time.»
A fading whisper:
«Farewell... King.»

«Hey! At least speak up! What did you just call me?!»
But only silence answered.

After the elf vanished, Arian jolted back to consciousness—only to find himself and Shadwolf at the very edge of the desert, right where their trial had begun. A gentle breeze carried the faintest hint of dragon musk, and before he could process it, Zinarphil descended from the skies, landing with a grace that sent ripples through the sand.

«Hey, Arian!» The dragoness closed the distance between them in three strides, her voice bright with pride. «How’s my champion? Congratulations, little flame—you’ve completed Amorana’s Trial! Faster than even your father managed, I might add.»
Her snout nudged his shoulder playfully. «...Why so quiet? Cat got your tongue?»

«Why am I quiet? WHY AM I QUIET?!» Arian’s voice cracked, fists trembling at his sides. «I nearly starved to death in that gods-forsaken desert—where the hell were YOU?!»

Zinarphil took one look at his flushed, sputtering face—and burst into roaring laughter, wiping tears from her snout.

«Oh, hatchling!» She wheezed, tail thumping the sand. «Now this is a reaction! So—tell me, who’d you battle in those hallucinations?»

«No one.»

«...Eh?» Her laughter died mid-chortle. «"No one"? That’s impossible.»

Arian tilted his head, mentally cursing Zinarphil. «First it was near Sylandrin... then this endless void where some white-haired, pointy-eared bastard showed up—»

Zinarphil’s brows slammed together.
«What in the Twin Moons are you babbling about, boy?! You met an elf? And no battle?! Just... subconscious mind games?»

«No ‘battle’!» Arian threw up his hands. «He said he* ended *the trial himself because ‘risking me’ was a waste—that the future ‘waits’ for me or... whatever!»

The dragoness’s pupils shrunk to slits.
«You’re telling me one of the Desert’s Creators came to you? Personally? To say you’re ‘too precious to kill’?!»

«YES! How many times—?!»

Zinarphil stood utterly bewildered. The being Arian had encountered was one of the most powerful Manaweavers in all of recorded history - a legendary figure whose ancient battle had forged an entire realm that became a threat to the known world. And this entity had looked upon Arian... differently. Seen something special in him.

"Arian," Zinarphil said, her voice uncharacteristically solemn, "that elf you met was the most powerful sorcerer in the 23,000-year history of Manaweavers. If someone of that magnitude considers you special... then special you truly are."

She spread her massive wings, preparing for flight. "We should return to the capital of Kaloustia now. You've reached your ninth year - time for you to begin formal schooling at the Academy. Your basic training is complete..."

The dragon's eyes gleamed with a mix of pride and concern as she added: "...but know this, Arian - if what I suspect is true, your life will never be simple again."

Zinarphil jolted upright, dragging Arian forward by his wrists. «Tell me he said something else!» Her claws trembled. «A title—'soldier'? 'Commander'? 'Sage'?! Nothing?!»

«Master—» Arian winced as his joints popped, «—you're breaking my arms! But... now that you mention it...» His voice dropped to a whisper. «At the end, I think he said... 'Farewell, King.'»

The world stopped.

Mana congealed midair, frost crackling across the dunes. Zinarphil's heartbeat thundered loud enough to shake the sand itself—even Shadwolf's growls died in his throat, fear silencing the pup completely.

"Arian... King?! WHAT?!!"
Zinarphil's wings flared wide enough to blot out the sun.

"He said 'Farewell, King' - what's the big deal?!" Arian shrugged, poking his empty stomach.

The dragoness's tail slammed into a dune, sending up a sand geyser. "You FOOL! When a sorcerer of that caliber calls another 'King,' it means they either already outpower them - or will! Don't you see?! You're the prophesied anomaly of this era!"

"Master," Arian groaned, "I don't care if I'm 'King' or the 'Strongest' right now - a stray scorpion could murder me. Let's. Get. FOOD. By the Fire Goddess's tits, MOVE! Poor Shadwolf's about to starve to death!" He paused. "...Oh right - you got any clue what breed he is?"

A laugh laced with anger echoed in the air, and Zinarphil didn't know how to deal with this boy. He muttered to himself, "To become the strongest in history, yet be concerned about your stomach?! Well, it seems like this is going to be interesting..."