High above the city, where the golden domes of Lumisgrave's palace kissed the morning haze, King Farhan stood silently on the Skyward Balcony, eyes fixed upon the changing world below.
He had watched fire leap from a child's palm.
He had seen veins glow like constellations beneath flesh.
He had heard the cries of people who no longer understood themselves—some weeping, some floating, some burning, some shining.
The world beneath him, once so predictable in its rhythm, had become a symphony of chaos and marvel.
Yet now…
The sky… seemed too bright.
The wind… suddenly too loud.
And the earth… too far away.
---
> "What is this…?"
"Why is everything… fading?"
King Farhan blinked hard.
He was still standing. Still breathing. But his vision began to swim, the colors of the city blurring like melting paint.
> "The flames… the flowers… the wings…"
"Is this... the cost of watching too closely?"
He gripped the cold stone edge of the balcony with both hands, trying to steady himself. But even the marble—normally smooth and firm—now felt liquid, as if the world beneath his fingertips was slipping away.
The streets below began to tilt. No—he was tilting.
> "Why am I… dizzy?"
"What is this weight behind my eyes… this pull… like something's calling from within me?"
He heard his own heartbeat echoing, not within his chest—but around him. As if the very air was pulsing with it.
Then—a deep pressure swelled in his skull, not pain… but a strange resonance, like his thoughts were no longer his own.
He stumbled back two steps, one hand reaching toward nothing.
"Julious…" he whispered hoarsely, though no one stood beside him now.
His vision pulsed again.
Light. Shadow. Light. Shadow.
And then, as the world turned to grey—
> "What if I am… changing too?"
"What if this isn't sickness… but calling?"
Moments Later – Inside the Royal Chamber
The heavy thud echoed through the balcony halls. Guards rushed in first, alarmed, their eyes widening at the sight of the King collapsed upon the floor, his royal cloak tangled around his legs, his crown tipped to the side.
"Call the healers! NOW!"
Within minutes, the royal physicians arrived—robes fluttering, medical scrolls in hand, their faces a mixture of fear and duty. Two guards carried the King to his private chamber, laying him upon the velvet-lined resting bed as a dozen hands moved at once—checking pulse, breath, pressure points, eye dilation.
"His heartbeat is strong but… unnatural," whispered the chief healer, placing a crystal orb above the King's chest. The orb flickered, pulsed—then stilled.
"Is he under an enchantment?" asked one of the generals.
"No… worse," another healer replied. "It's coming from inside him. It's not poison. It's not disease. It's—something else. Something that doesn't belong in our books."
---
Inside the King's Mind
Within the haze of unconsciousness, Farhan was still awake—drifting through memories that weren't his.
He saw red skies.
He saw a circular gate surrounded by chains.
He heard a voice—not dark, not kind—just ancient.
> "You watched them change… but forgot yourself."
"You too… were always chosen."
He floated through visions of flames, vines, feathers, rivers of light—all surging through the bodies of men and women across Lumisgrave.
And then… he saw his own reflection.
Not regal. Not adorned in crown or cloak.
But marked—with lines of glowing script running down his arms, as if his skin had become a scroll written by the world itself.
---
Back in the Palace
"He is stable… but unresponsive," said the lead physician, stepping away from the bed, his expression pale.
Julious arrived then, breathless and cold. He took one look at the unconscious King and whispered, "No…"
The Queen stood at the doorway, silent tears streaking her face.
"Will he wake?" Julious asked.
The healer hesitated. "I don't know. He is not sick. But he is… somewhere else."
Darkness cradled him like a cocoon.
There was no pain. No memory. Only a hum—low, ancient, like a forgotten melody echoing through the bones of the world.
King Farhan drifted through it, neither dreaming nor dead. In that formless space, he heard metal ringing softly, as though chains moved through the air—not to bind, but to awaken.
Then suddenly—
Breath.
He gasped.
Eyes opened wide to the soft glow of lanterns and the blurred faces of his physicians frozen in disbelief. His chest heaved. Sweat clung to his skin like frost, and the royal bedding stuck to his back as he tried to sit up.
"Y—Your Majesty," stammered one of the healers, dropping his scroll.
Julious stood at the end of the chamber, his face pale and tight with worry. "He's awake…"
"Water," the King whispered.
A cup was placed quickly in his unsteady hands. He drank, coughing, each breath tasting of iron and ash.
He raised his right hand to wipe his lips.
Metal clinked.
Everyone fell silent.
King Farhan stopped.
Slowly, he lowered the cup and stared at his left hand.
And then—he froze.
---
It was no longer flesh.
His left hand—once warm, human, adorned with rings of sapphire and tradition—was now entirely forged from interlocking black chains. The fingers were jointed links, elegant yet unnerving. The palm was a dense weave of moving metal, alive with a faint red glow that pulsed in rhythm with his heart.
Julious approached slowly, cautiously, as if speaking to a sleeping god.
> "Your Majesty… this change… it happened while you were unconscious. The moment you collapsed—energy surged through you. This... formed within minutes."
> "Am I cursed?" the King asked quietly, unable to tear his eyes from the moving chains that now flexed as if aware of his gaze.
> "No," Julious said after a long silence. "Not cursed. Marked."
Farhan clenched the metal fingers into a fist.
A memory surged suddenly.
The Bound Threshold.
Two carved eyes.
The chains holding it shut.
His own hand… now mirrored that chain.
He stood from the bed, against the doctors' warnings.
"No," he growled softly, "I must see it myself."
"See what?" Julious asked, hurrying beside him.
"The Gate," Farhan said, his voice steadier now. "The Bound Threshold. It's calling."