The Kingdom of Valoria stood as an ancient sentinel atop the Cindrial Peaks, a mountain range that cradled the borders of the known world. The wind that blew down from its snow-capped peaks was not only cold—it was a herald of time itself, carrying with it the whispers of history, long buried beneath the dust of centuries. Every stone in Valoria's Great Castle had been touched by the hands of kings, each one more powerful than the last, shaping the kingdom into the towering fortress it was today.

  This was a place where time had no choice but to bend, for the kings who sat upon the thrones of the Seven Kingdoms were not ordinary men. They were legends, rulers whose names had echoed across the ages, their legacies carved into the annals of history. The Tournament of Kings, which occurred once every century, was not merely a contest of strength, but the binding of fate itself. The victor was not only crowned King of Kings—he became the vessel through which the power of the realms flowed, a man who would alter the very course of time.

  Yet, despite its grandeur, Valoria was a city of quiet unrest. The streets were lined with the echoes of those who had come before, and as much as the people celebrated the Tournament, there was an unspoken tension in the air, as though the city itself held its breath in anticipation of something far greater than the usual contest.

  Long ago, when the Seven Kingdoms were nothing more than scattered lands ruled by warring tribes, a prophecy had emerged. A vision, one that foretold the coming of a time when a king would rise, not from birthright or bloodline, but from the depths of nothingness itself. A king whose power would transcend the limits of the universe.

  This prophecy had been passed down through generations, each kingdom believing it to be a mere myth, a whispered legend meant to keep the people hopeful. Yet as the centuries passed, the world changed. The kingdoms were united under the banner of King Aurelius, the first of the Seven Kings, a ruler who had wielded not only the sword but the power to command time itself. His reign brought an era of peace—but peace is a fickle thing. And now, with the Tournament approaching once more, the same whispers of old had begun to surface again, spreading across the kingdom like wildfire.

  The great Chronos Temple that sat at the heart of Valoria was a silent witness to all of this—a towering monument to the passing of time, where the Aurelius Scrolls were kept. It was here that Neyon Valoria, the crown prince of Valoria, had spent much of his life.

  At the age of sixteen, Neyon was still an enigma to many. A prince, yes, but also a scholar, a dreamer who spent more time in the library than in the training fields. His father, King Voltaire Valoria, had raised him to inherit the throne, but it wasn’t strength that Voltaire saw in his son—it was the power of intellect, of understanding the nature of time itself.

  But time was never enough for Neyon.

  For all the lessons his father had instilled in him, for all the power he could command, Neyon Valoria had come to understand one truth: time could not control everything. It could slow, it could stretch, it could rewind—but it could not stop. Not the storm that was brewing, not the darkness that seemed to gather at the edge of the known world.

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  And so, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the ancient streets of Valoria, Neyon found himself standing alone at the edge of the Royal Courtyard, his eyes fixed on the distant peaks. The air felt different tonight—charged, like the calm before the storm.

  Behind him, the heavy doors of the castle opened, and Erianna, the royal advisor, stepped out. Her expression was grave, her eyes betraying the weight of the kingdom’s expectations.

  “Your Highness,” she began, her voice steady, “The people are beginning to gather. The Tournament begins at dawn. Are you prepared?”

  Neyon didn’t turn to face her. His fingers brushed against the cold stone of the courtyard, feeling the history of the place beneath his touch. “Prepared?” he asked quietly. “How can one prepare for something that has been written in the stars? Something that’s been waiting for centuries?”

  Erianna stepped closer, her footsteps light. “It is not about the past, Prince Neyon. It is about what you will make of it. What you will become. The Tournament of Kings is a test of more than strength—it is a test of who is worthy to wield the crown. You must understand this.”

  Neyon finally turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “I understand more than you think, Erianna. But even the strongest king cannot control what is coming.”

  She raised an eyebrow, but before she could speak, a low rumble echoed across the castle grounds. The ground trembled, and a soft, unearthly glow appeared on the horizon—like a distant fire rising from the earth itself.

  Erianna’s eyes widened, and for a moment, Neyon saw the same fear in her that he had seen in the eyes of the people, the same fear that had haunted him for weeks. Something was coming. And it had nothing to do with the Tournament.

  Far away, in the icy north of the Kingdom of Astralis, a lone figure stood in the ruins of a once-glorious citadel. The air was colder here, biting, and the silence was absolute. The figure was tall, cloaked in black, the only movement the slow rise and fall of his breath.

  This was Nelo Astralis—an enigma, a name that was whispered in the shadows of the other kingdoms. He had come from nothing, a child of no lineage, but his power was undeniable. Power unlike any the world had seen.

  The frozen winds of Astralis were his to command, and in the depths of the ruins, his thoughts turned inward. He had trained for years, honing his abilities, learning to bend space itself to his will. But there was one thing he could not control—his fate.

  As the Tournament of Kings loomed closer, Nelo knew that he was not just a player in this game—he was a wildcard. A pawn in a game that was much larger than any of them realized.

  From the shadows of the crumbling citadel, a voice called out—a voice that sounded more like a command than a greeting.

  “It’s time, Nelo.”

  Nelo turned, his expression impassive. Before him stood a figure wrapped in dark robes, their face obscured by shadows.

  “I know,” Nelo replied, his voice cold, like the winds that howled through the desolate land. “I’ve waited long enough.”

  The figure nodded. “Then go. The Tournament calls.”

  The world was changing. The Seven Kingdoms were on the brink of something catastrophic, and the Tournament of Kings would be the spark that ignited it. But no one knew this yet—not the kings, not the princes, not the soldiers who fought in the arena. All they knew was the call of destiny, the pull of a power greater than anything they could imagine.

  And as the dawn of the Tournament broke, the fires of the past began to stir.

  End of Chapter 1