In the shadowed halls of Nickolas’s tower of magic, tension brewed like a storm.
The study was a whirlwind of parchment scraps, glowing runes, arcane crystals, and half-burnt candles. Shelves towered to the ceiling, groaning under the weight of ancient grimoires. Glyphs flickered across the walls.
At the center of the chaos stood Queen Shira, arms crossed, expressing a mask of composure barely concealing the fury beneath.
Across from her, hunched over a worktable cluttered with scrolls and relics, stood Archmage Nickolas Granfry. His fingers traced the jagged edge of a broken eggshell fragment—black and veined with faintly glowing starlight, pulsing as though it.
“ I waited patiently for almost seventeen years.” Shira said, her voice cutting through the dusty silence. “ Seventeen years and the great and powerful Nickolas Granfry still hasn't broken the curse or taught my son how to control it.”
Nickolas didn’t look up. “I have my theories but as of right now that is all it is. The creature was more than a beast. It's sadistic and more intelligent than we thought. It probably created this curse itself.”
“And you’ve done nothing to help Dante overcome this,” she snapped. “You locked yourself away in this tower while Dante suffered. While I’ve raised him alone. While the court whispers and the kingdom watches him like he’s a ticking bomb.”
“I have done something,” Nickolas said, his knuckles white against the edge of the table. “I’ve studied every scrap of lore on chaotic mana. Every deviation of wild magic. This power—whatever lives in him—responds to thought, to emotion. It warps reality around Dante. If I can isolate a framework, a method to—”
“And if you can’t?” she demanded, slamming her palm against the desk. The runes on the walls shimmered in agitation.
He finally looked at her.
“Then it will destroy him,” Nickolas said quietly. “And maybe even the world.”
The silence that followed pulsed with quiet, crackling magic.
“You left me years ago and I accepted that. Your study and work was always more important to you.” Shira said, voice softer but no less sharp. “ You disappeared into your books and wards and didn’t come back. Not when I needed you before Dante was born. Not after the sky tore open.”
Nickolas turned away, pain tightening his shoulders. “You look too much like your mother when you're angry.”
Shira stared at him, wounded and furious. “ Is that why you avoided me all these years?”
“I see what I’ve failed,” Nickolas said, almost to himself. “Every day. Every time he becomes emotionally unstable. Every time they call him cursed. I wasn’t there to stop it then… but I’m trying to save him now.”
Shira said nothing more. She turned and walked toward the tower stairs, footsteps echoing in the flickering light.
“I’ll find a way,” Nickolas whispered, almost too quiet to hear. “I have to.”
But the fear in his voice—quiet, cracking—betrayed the doubt even he couldn’t hide.
------
Far from Greaves Castle, in the shimmering depths of the Liatrey Woodland Realm, the elven high council gathered beneath the sacred tree of the forest. Light filtered through golden leaves like strands of silk, painting the elders in shades of amber and emerald.
“King Hawthorn sends his son?” one Councilor asked, raising a single brow. His voice was smooth and youthful. “The one plagued with chaotic mana?”
“Not just chaotic,” murmured another. “Volatile. The flames, the frost, the accidents… the incident at the southern arena spread faster than wildfire.”
One of the Elders, whose age surpassed most of the forest itself, closed his eyes and placed a hand against the tree’s bark. “He is young. Cursed or not, he is still the blood of the elves though he is only a half breed. Perhaps this is not a threat… but a plea from the king.”
“Or,” another council member said, his lip curling, “they’re just trying to offload a ticking calamity into our borders.”
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High in the Gymiekah Mountains, deep within the volcanic stone halls, the dwarven king along with his advisors gathered around a table.
A raven had arrived that morning, bearing the seal of King Hawthorn.
“Dante?” said King Gruemmeki, stroking his braided beard. “That’s the one whose mana eats enchantments, aye?”
“He turned a silver scepter into salt,” grumbled a warrior at his side.
“Made a bard levitate into the chandelier at a royal banquet,” another added.
“And didn’t someone say he turned a noble’s clothes into spiders?”
“That was unconfirmed,” muttered a scribe. “But there were a lot of spiders.”
There was a pause.
Grummek sighed and stood. “Prepare the guest chamber with anti-magic wards. And someone lock up the heirloom vault. If we’re about to host a walking storm, I’d rather not have the fortress and all our valuables turn into mud or something ridiculous.”
------
The next morning, as the first threads of dawn unraveled across the horizon, the castle courtyard stirred to life.
Horses were saddled while servants packed provisions. Scouts studied the maps like students preparing for a test. Some guards went around testing soldiers' armor to confirm proper usage and durability. Servants moved quickly, quietly, their eyes flicking toward the figure standing near the stables, isolated by presence alone.
Dante stood apart, adjusting the leather strap of his travel pack with fingers that twitched with unspoken tension. The King’s words echoed in his skull:
“Prove you are more than a curse.”
A horse was brought forward for him—tall, steady, with protective runes painted meticulously across its body. Not to guard the prince, but to guard others from him.
He stepped toward it. His hand hovered inches above its neck, a breath away from contact. Behind him, footsteps approached—measured and calm.
Captain Amedria, cloaked in silver and shadow, stepped beside him. Her blade hung at her hip like it was part of her being. Her expression was sharp like it was carved from marble.
“A minor adjustment,” she said. “You’ll be accompanied by a carriage unit. Four guards, two servants—close enough to assist, far enough not to have— mishaps.”
She glanced toward the uneasy soldiers, whispers already growing like mold.
“We leave shortly. One week to the forest. Three more to the mountains. Travel light. Keep your nerves steel. If you need anything, Your Highness…” she nodded, “say it now.”
Her gaze swept the courtyard. “Ignore the talk and whispers. They're scared and honestly, for good reason.”
Dante tilted his head and smirked, a sharp, dangerous grin.
“How bold of you to say it to my face.”
Amedria didn’t flinch. “I don’t deal in lies, prince.”
She walked off to resume preparations, her cloak flicking behind her. Dante clenched his fists, anger wrapped around him like a winter chill. The whispers crept in like ivy through cracked stone.
“Why are they sending him?”
“Is he really going with us?”
“Monster...”
He heard it. Every word those bastards barely tried to hide. Dante bit the inside of his cheek. He tried meditating to block out the voices In… two… three… out—
But the anger bubbled up quicker than his breath could calm it. He tried to ignore it and mount the horse. Moments after he was on the horse he could feel the shift in mana around him. The enchanted mare beneath him shifted uneasily beneath his weight as his fingers curled into her mane. His mana was hot now—crawling under his skin like fire given thought.
One final word he heard whispered behind his back drifted into Dante's ear.
“Monster.”
The rune-covered horse screamed and split. The air cracked with raw magic as flesh twisted. Runes erupted into sparks.
In one awful moment, the mare’s body buckled, bones snapping, skin tearing open like fabric. A second head burst from its side—serpentine, shrieking. Wings ripped from its back, soaked and half-formed. Horns jutted from its spine as claws slammed into the earth, cracking the flagstones.
The enchanted horse was gone but a chimera stood in its place—snarling, snapping, its many heads lashing at the air.
“TO ARMS!” a soldier cried.
Amedria spun instantly. “DO NOT ATTACK THE PRINCE. FORMATIONS—SURROUND THE CREATURE!”
Steel rang from scabbards as ropes were hauled. Shields formed a protective wall around the beast with spears lowered ready to attack. The chimera lunged toward a food cart and smashed it apart. Two guards were nearly trampled, but Amedria’s voice cut through the noise with precision.
“Draw it in—don’t provoke it! On my mark—net it, now!”
The courtyard erupted into motion. Soldiers moved in perfect drills, circling, pinning, driving the creature toward the stone wall.
Dante slid off the saddle after he managed to free himself and landed with a thud. He didn't run away or feel he had to apologize. He didn’t hang his head in shame, instead he glared.
Everyone was too focused on subduing the chimera to look at him—but he knew they would. He knew they’d talk.
He didn’t feel guilty but instead felt a slow fury growing.
He honestly wasn't trying to create that beast but deep down, part of him almost enjoyed the look of fear on their faces. Like it finally matched the truth.
He wasn’t the one who turned that horse. They did with their words and their fear. With every whisper that crawled into his bones. They twisted his mana into something wild.
When the chimera was finally pinned beneath three nets and six spears, Amedria strode back toward him. Her armor was dented. Her cheek bloodied. Her eyes locked on his.
“We’ll replace the mount.”
Dante shrugged, jaw tight.
“ Don't bother wasting paint this time,” he said. “Unless you’ve got runes that ward off resentment.”
She stared at him and said nothing.
