At the edge of the great forest, the earth began to hum. It was a low, rhythmic thumping that travelled through the soil, vibrating the boots of the sentries standing atop the city walls. One soldier, a young man who had only seen peace, squinted into the mist. His heart skipped a beat.

Out of the grey haze emerged two figures on horseback.

Leading them was a man who seemed to be carved from the mountain itself. He did not wear the flowing, peaceful robes of a holy man. Instead, the Dark Prophet was clad in ancient battle armour. The metal was dark and dull, covered in scratches and runes that seemed to glow with a faint, angry light. Every movement he made produced the sound of grinding stone. In his hand, he gripped his gnarled wooden cane, and with every strike against the ground, the air around it rippled like water.

Behind him rode Liam. The boy’s face was pale, his eyes wide as he looked at the massive stone walls of the palace. He was wearing the special garments the Prophet had given him strange, heavy fabrics that felt as though they were woven from starlight and shadow. Liam felt like a small boat caught in the wake of a great ship. He knew that the man riding beside him was no longer just a teacher; he was a storm wrapped in human skin.

Inside the palace, the news of their arrival hit King Edward like a physical blow.

He was standing in the war room, surrounded by maps and advisors, when General Henry burst in. The General’s face was grey with sweat. "Your Majesty," Henry gasped, "the Prophet is here. He is not coming for a harvest festival. He is coming for war. He wears the armour of the Old Gods."

The King’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded his veins. "Summon the witches!" he roared. "Line the halls with every soldier we have. If he takes one step toward my throne with a weapon in his hand, I want him turned to ash!"

But in the quiet corners of his mind, the King was terrified. He remembered the legends of the Dalius Power Book. He remembered the stories of how a true Prophet could command the very stones of the earth to rise up and swallow a kingdom. He had thrown Luca into the Dragon’s Cave to hide the boy, but now it felt as though he had only succeeded in inviting the end of the world to his doorstep.

The palace gates groaned as they swung open. The Prophet did not wait for an invitation. He rode through the city streets, and the people fell back in silence. There were no cheers. There was only awe. The Prophet’s presence was so heavy that the horses of the royal guard began to rear and whinny in fear.

When they reached the inner courtyard, the Prophet dismounted. He stood before the massive oak doors of the Great Hall. A line of Sun-Guards stood in his way, their spears crossed. Their hands were shaking so violently that the metal tips of their weapons clattered against one another.

The Prophet lifted his head. His eyes were not human; they were twin pools of ancient light that seemed to see through the stone walls and into the very souls of those inside.

"Will you truly deny me entry?" the Prophet asked. His voice was not loud, yet it carried like thunder across a valley. It echoed through the hallways, rattling the chandeliers and making the wine in the King's cup ripple. "Then tell me, why did you summon me?"

High above, seated on his throne, the King felt the vibration in his bones. He knew he could not hide. "Let him enter," the King commanded, his voice cracking.

The doors swung open.

The Great Hall was a forest of steel and magic. Dozens of witches stood along the walls, their fingers glowing with green and purple flames. Advisors whispered in shadows. The King sat at the end of the long hall, trying to look like a mountain that could not be moved. Beside him sat the Queen, her face like a mask of white marble, and his other children, Isaac and Diana, who looked like frightened fawns.

The Prophet walked down the centre of the hall. He did not look at the witches. He did not look at the soldiers. His eyes were fixed on the throne. Behind him, Liam followed, his head bowed in respect, though his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

When the Prophet reached the centre of the room, he did something that shocked everyone.

He did not bow to the King. He did not acknowledge the General. Instead, his gaze moved to the side, to where the Queen Mother sat in her high-backed chair.

The Prophet moved toward her. The soldiers tensed, their swords halfway out of their scabbards. But the Prophet simply knelt. It was a slow, graceful movement of deep, supernatural respect. He bowed his head low to the elder woman, honouring her not as a royal, but as a soul who had carried a great weight for many years.

A hush fell over the room. The King’s face turned a dark, ugly red. Jealousy, hot and stinging, flared in his chest. "I never imagined," the King said, his voice dripping with false politeness, "that the envoy of God would show such honour to my mother. I am grateful. But tell me, have you finished with your fields? Or is there another reason you wear the armour of a dead age?"

The Prophet rose slowly. He looked at the King, and for a moment, the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"I am a man who repays his debts," the Prophet replied calmly. "Your son, Prince Luca, aided me in my work. He showed me a kindness that is rare in this world. In return, he gave me this servant, Liam." He gestured to the boy. "But I have realized that a gift given in such a way is a burden I cannot keep. I have come to return the boy and to speak with the Prince."

The King tightened his grip on the arm of his throne. He knew it was a lie, but he could not call a Prophet a liar in front of his court.

"My grandson is back?" the Queen Mother asked, her voice trembling with hope. She stood up, her eyes bright. "I knew he was kind. I knew he would help a man of God. Please, sit with us. We must celebrate his return."

The Prophet sat, but he did not eat. He watched the King with a steady, unblinking gaze. The air in the room grew thicker, filled with the smell of ozone and old magic.

"Where is the younger Prince?" the Prophet asked quietly. "I wish to thank him face to face."

The silence that followed was deafening. Isaac and Diana looked at the floor. The Queen looked at her husband.

The King stood up, his robes swishing against the floor. "Prince Luca is undergoing punishment," he said, his voice cold and final. "He has been reckless. He has disobeyed the laws of this palace. He is in isolation for two weeks. He will see no one."

The Queen Mother gasped, her hand flying to her heart. "Punishment? For what? He has done nothing but be a child of this house!"

"I did it to protect him!" the King shouted, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "The world is dangerous! He does not understand the enemies we face!"

The Prophet did not move. He sat like a statue of iron. "A father’s fear is a powerful thing," he said softly. "But fear can often look exactly like cruelty."

He stood up, his cane striking the marble floor with a sound that felt like a heartbeat.

"I came here to see the Prince," the Prophet declared. His voice was no longer gentle. It was the voice of a judge. "I will not leave this palace until I have looked into his eyes and known that he is safe."

The King trembled. He knew where Luca was. He knew that at this very moment, his son was standing in the dark, waiting for the jaws of a beast to close around him. He looked at the Prophet, then at his mother, and finally at the shadows of the hall.

"You cannot see him," the King whispered.

The Prophet leaned forward, his shadow stretching long and dark across the throne. "Then you have chosen your path, King Edward. But remember, the earth does not forget a lie, and the mountain does not forgive a thief.”