PROLOGUE

I n the dim recesses of a secluded chamber, a solitary figure sat ensconced before a roaring fire. Shadows draped the room, the flames casting eerie flickers of light and dark across the stone walls. A weathered hand rested on the arm of a high-backed chair, adorned with a ring bearing the insignia of a falcon. Sparse, guttering candles struggled against the darkness, their feeble glow barely illuminating the chamber’s farthest corners.

A tentative rapping on the heavy door pierced the silence. The door creaked open, and a voice, quivering with apprehension, addressed the lone figure. “Sire, he has returned.”

The seated figure slowly raised a gnarled hand, beckoning the newcomer forward. The door swung open, and a tall, cloaked man strode inside, tracking wet footprints behind him. The fire’s glow danced across his handsome features, highlighting sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline, and glinted off his unruly black hair.

The man knelt before the dark-robed figure, a warrior acknowledging his commander.

“Father,” he began, his deep voice resonating in the chamber, “the Medjai believe the prophecy will soon come to pass. In Alzahra.”

A flicker of interest sparked in the old man’s eyes. “Are you certain?” His voice, a low rumble, echoed through the room.

“Undoubtedly,” the younger man affirmed. “They are sending him there.”

The withered figure leaned forward, the light casting sinister shadows across his face. “Alzahra…” he mused, a slow, chilling smile spreading across his lips. “How fitting. The irony is delicious.”

“And, Father,” the man continued, eyes shining with triumph. “I finally found it.” From within his cloak, he produced a small, shrouded object, cradled carefully in his hands.

The robed figure’s eyes glowed with greed, tracking every movement with rapt attention. “Show me,” he commanded urgently, tightly clutching the arms of his chair.

The younger man carefully unwrapped the object to reveal a gleaming orb. Its surface, a mesmerizing silver, sparkled in the sparse moonlight seeping through the chamber’s windows.

The robed figure reverently grasped the orb. “With this, we will sculpt a new world!” The air seemed to grow colder, thrumming with the promise of impending upheaval. “Summon the council. We have the orb. Now, we must prepare. Let Alzahra and its unsuspecting princess be blindsided by their fate.”

The young man nodded and rose quickly, his cloak swirling behind him as he left the chamber.

Alone once more, the old man’s gaze returned to the flames, the orb clutched tightly in his grasp. He saw not just the fire, but the future—a future where Alzahra bent to his will. In the heart of the flames, he saw his victory, a world reshaped beneath the shadow of his throne.