The throne was cold beneath his thighs, as if the stone itself refused to hold the warmth of a king who no longer had use for it. The tapestries, once embroidered with victories and alliances, had lost their luster; the banners hung heavy with dust and forgotten promises. Around the throne room, the torches cast long, wavering shadows, drawing on the walls silhouettes that seemed to await an order no one dared to speak.

He sat there, motionless, more a spectator of his own life than the master of a kingdom. The years had polished and gnawed at him all at once: the crown weighed like a memory, and the king's gaze, once sharp, had withdrawn behind a weary eyelid. The counselors spoke in hushed voices, as if not to wake something slumbering beneath the stone.

The mage entered without a sound, as though he had learned to move to the breathing of the palace. His steps were measured; his hands carried parchments and a glimmer of dread that even his robes could not conceal. He knelt before the king, and the hall held its breath.

The king raised his head. There was neither anger nor joy in his eyes, only a tired curiosity. The mage set before him a casket of black wood, ringed with silver engraved with ancient runes. When he opened it, a pale light escaped, as if dawn itself had been locked away between the blades of a secret.

— My lord, said the mage in a trembling voice, we have found what we were seeking.

The king smiled without amusement. The words "what we were seeking" had the taste of a lie repeated too often. Yet when the mage spoke the name, something older than fear passed through the king's chest.

— Nerecleiss, the mage murmured. The sword of Nerecleiss.

The name echoed through the hall like a death knell. Nerecleiss, the crystal goddess of whom the legends spoke in fragments and warnings; Nerecleiss, whose disappearance had left scars in the land and in the hearts of men. The sword was more than an artifact: it was a promise, a key, a verdict.

The king rose slowly. His fingers brushed the hilt of the sword, and for an instant he thought he felt beneath his skin the memory of another body, another breath. The memories flooded in — broken images of a son laughing in a garden, of a banquet interrupted by screams, of a forest where the light twisted into claws.

Rastacan. The name of the son, of the prince, of the serpent king. The king felt his throat tighten; the crown became a ring of lead.

— We can free him, said the mage. We can break the curse.

The hall fell silent. The counselors exchanged glances that said everything and nothing: hope, doubt, calculation. To free Rastacan meant returning a lost son to the world, but it also meant awakening a power no one understood anymore. The curse that had made Rastacan the serpent king was not merely a metamorphosis of the body; it had woven its web through the lands, the guilds, and the dreams of men.

The king laid his hand upon the casket. His voice, when it came, was fainter than a breath, but it carried the decision of a reign.

— Summon the eight sacred warriors, he ordered. Have them come and take charge of the quest to free the serpent king.

In the night that followed, messengers set out like shadows, bearers of a call that would cross guilds and borders. Each of them carried a share of the king's hope, and each of them knew that hope had a price.

Then he exhaled, and the flame of a torch wavered as if in answer. Fate, he thought, did not wait for the consent of men. It moved forward, inexorable, and it demanded a price.