"Shortly after, a spy was found
snooping around the kingdom.
He was arrested and jailed, after interrogation."

・ ・ ・

A grumble.

Xenor slammed his book shut, and leaned back against his chair with a groan.

"Fuck this, I'm done," he swore, pushing the history book he had been reading as far as possible away from him. He'd only read two chapters of it, but it was so absurdly boring he got fed up.

This is why I hate history. And books. Basically history books, bloody hell.

Across him, Storm blinked, an eyebrow raised in bewilderment. "What's 'fuck'?" he asked, and Xenor wanted to smack himself in the face for so carelessly swearing in front of his little brother.

What was that called? A facepalm?

Yes, he wanted to facepalm himself.

"It's a word with a meaning you do not need to know of, and one you should never use, my dear little brother. I would hate to corrupt your innocence," he sighed, checking his nails as he propped his feet up on the table. He slowly picked out the little bits of dirt underneath his nails as Storm stared at him, brows furrowed in absolute puzzlement.

"... I can't tell if you're being sarcastic, or if you really meant it," his little brother stated after a moment, running his hand through his hair.

Xenor rolled his eyes. "I really meant it, Brother. Do not ever use that word, if you know what's good for you." He wagged a finger at Storm.

"Why can you use it, then?" Storm asked, disbelief in his voice.

"It's because I'm older than you," Xenor grumbled, putting his feet down. "You're still a kid."

"You're only older than me by two years, Brother," Storm exclaimed. "You're technically still a kid too."

"I am a mature child," Xenor argued, feeling himself bristle at being called a 'kid'. "There is a difference." He glowered unhappily at his brother.

Storm huffed, dropping his gaze back to the book he had been reading. "Whatever you say, Brother. I won't use that... 'fuck' word."

"You just used it," Xenor pointed out.

"Fine, from now on, I won't use it again," Storm fumed, grumpily flipping through the pages of his book.

Xenor gazed at his brother, slightly surprised. Storm was rarely grumpy. Heck, just a few days ago, he fell asleep while Silix had been teaching them about the origins of Ultra Titanium.

Not to mention, two weeks ago, he'd started taking naps during their study sessions.

And from what Xenor knew about his little brother, he was pretty much a goody-two-shoes. Storm wouldn't dare do such things.

It was quite startling, honestly.

He observed his brother's face, and noticed faint bags under his sky blue eyes.

Was Storm not getting enough sleep?

A suspicious frown, and Storm glanced up at him. "What?" he snapped.

"Oh, nothing, little brother. I've just been wondering... have you been staying up late for the past few days?" Xenor questioned, propping his elbow on the table and cupping his chin with his hand.

Storm stiffened, gaze flicking away nervously. "... N-No."

"You are a terrible liar, Brother," Xenor stated flatly, elegantly arching his back as he stretched, trying to loosen his muscles. "Spit it."

"I-I haven't been staying up late," Storm insisted, a sulky pout on his lips. "Why do you keep doubting me?"

"Because you've been uncharacteristically grumpy and have been falling asleep all over the place lately. How can I not doubt you?" Xenor yawned, picking at his nails again. Storm hunched, guilt momentarily flashing across his face, before being replaced by defiance.

"It's none of your business, Brother," he muttered, returning back to his book.

Rolling his eyes once more, Xenor decided not to push it. Storm was acting a lot like Liss whenever she got grumpy.

Angry.

Childish.

Ridiculously judging.

Yes, he was very much like their mother.

Xenor picked up another book— thankfully thinner than the one he read earlier— and realised that it was about the histories of the clans living in Argon. Slouching, he flipped through the pages, quickly skimming through the contents of each chapter.

Boring, boring, boring— wow, that's a remarkably stupid history— boring, boring...

Then he paused, eyebrow raised.

The Eltros Clan.

That sounded promisingly interesting— like the fairytale of the Kingdom of Gladiators, Zephiir, which he had read some time ago.

He quietly scanned the contents of the chapter, and felt his lips curl into a smile.

Interesting... Far more interesting than that fairytale, in fact.

The Eltros Clan was the embodiment of fire.

Flipping to the next page, Xenor found an image of the clan's crest.

A flame, with two blades crossing each other over it.

The embodiment of fire.

Xenor tapped his chin thoughtfully, scrutinising the words on the pages. He frowned, and muttered quietly to himself, "How intriguing. This clan is..."

He continued reading, and his brows furrowed in confusion, before a gleeful smirk appeared on his face.

"This clan is truly unique. One-of-a-kind," he murmured. He could feel the flames of ambition within him burn even stronger, as did his desire to become king. It was almost suffocating, having to suppress all of it down.

Stirring inside him, a waking calamity.

He couldn't wait.

I need it now.

Xenor caressed the crest of the Eltros Clan on the page, releasing a breath. If I could find one of this clan's descendants, just one...

Then my ambitions would be much easier to fulfill.

Storm watched drowsily as Xenor piled up some of the books he had read, shoved them to one side of the table, and stood. His chair moved back noisily.

The librarian at the counter, Geraldine Jeifer, looked up, her sharp eyes narrowed accusingly.

"I'll be off now, little brother," Xenor said, adjusting his collar. "Help me put these books back."

Storm blinked, and rubbed his eyes, gazing at the large pile of books before him. Then he turned to Xenor, and realised that there was a book tucked under his arm. "You're... taking that book along with you, Brother?" he asked, stunned, as he glanced at the book in his brother's arms.

Xenor paused. "Yes, I am," he said slowly. "Is that a problem?"

Storm couldn't help but frown. "This is the first time you're taking a book out from the library," he answered, closing his own book. "What's it about?"

"What else?" Xenor grumbled, looking away. "History."

Storm's frown grew deeper at how his brother seemed to be trying to dodge the question. "I thought you didn't like history."

An eye roll. "It just so happens that this book is interesting to me. Now stop bombarding me with questions, I have work to do," Xenor snapped, and marched away, scowling irritably.

Storm managed to catch a glimpse of the title of the book his brother was holding, and was astonished to see that it was about the clans in Argon.

Why would Xenor be interested in Argon's clans?

Befuddling.

He sighed, slumping in his seat. A yawn escaped his lips, and he stretched his arms, flexing his fingers.

Perhaps Xenor was only interested in one particular clan, possibly a few, and wanted to read up more. That was the only logical explanation Storm could think of behind his brother's strange behaviour.

But which?

There were many clans in Argon, and considering that the book Xenor took was a history book, he might've been interested in clans which no longer existed.

Storm stood, making sure to push his chair back as quietly and gently as possible, and picked up the books left on the table.

Under Geraldine's watchful gaze, he quickly put the some of the books back to where he found them, and the rest on the counter, because he didn't know which shelves to return them to.

Then he left the library, and strolled back to his chambers.

Xenor's sudden interest in the clans piqued Storm's own interest. He wanted to know which clan— or clans— had managed to grab his history-hating brother's attention.

Storm pursed his lips, pondering.

How secretive.

Then he felt guilt flood his mind at the thought, and grimaced.

He'd been meeting with Tesarah every night for a few months, ever since they chanced upon each other in the Royal Gardens the first time, that fateful twilight. It was fun, seeing her, but it caused him to have a lack of some very essential sleep.

And a very guilty conscience.

He had been trying to cover it up, but his body was too tired. His conduct had been declining slowly, steadily.

Resulting in Xenor being suspicious of him for misbehaviour.

Storm sighed, scratching the back of his neck, shoulders sagging in exhaustion.

It was tiresome, hiding a secret. But he couldn't let anyone find out.

He was meeting Tesarah, a street girl. Someone he only just recently knew.

Someone who was on his mind every single day when he was supposed to be thinking of more important things. Like his studies. Training. Growing.

Trying to figure out how to be worthy.

His parents would probably punish him for not following the rules. He might not be able to leave the Palace ever again.

And Xenor would most definitely laugh at him, mock him, if he found out. His brother would never let him live it down. Unlike him, Xenor had never broken the rules. He followed them strictly, smartly, like a lifeline.

Like a proper prince should.

He'd call him unworthy, because he broke the rules.

He'd call him unworthy, because of his desire to be free rather than to serve the kingdom as its prince.

Unworthy.

Unworthy.

You are unworthy.

Storm shook the unnerving thoughts out of his head.

Snap out of it, Storm. Father said so himself, I can be worthy if I have the heart... whatever that means.

He heaved another sigh, turning around the corner.

And bumped into Ash.

"Ah, perfect timing, Your Highness," the general said, smiling apologetically at him as he wobbled, dazed by the collision. "You've been summoned by your father."

"Father wants to see me?" Storm asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Indeed. A... special case has been brought in, and His Majesty would like you to be there to witness the judgement," Ash explained. Storm gaped at her, stunned.

A special case.

That was rare.

"Where do I meet him?" he inquired, and Ash directed him down the hallway.

"You are to report just outside the throne room. Your mother is there waiting for you," she added, then gave him a wink. "You wouldn't want to test her patience, would you?"

Right, Liss had an unreasonably short temper, and close to no patience, despite her kind exterior. He had to go immediately.

"Thanks Ash!" Storm called behind his shoulder, as he started dashing towards the throne room. He didn't want his mother to scream at him for being slow. A shudder.

That was far too frightening to even think of.

Stumbling in his steps, Storm skidded to a halt when the doors of the throne room came into view. He wheezed, bending double to catch his breath, and glimpsed Xenor at the corner of his eye, sauntering in majestically.

Xenor looked down at him, nose scrunched up. "Did you just run a bloody marathon? You're going to create a Spirit-damned pool at your feet, perspiring like that," he sneered, before striding forward.

Storm grimaced at the rudeness of his brother's tone, then grumbled, trudging after his brother wearily.

Liss stood at the throne room's doors, looking at her watch. The Queen's Tiara was on her head, which was a strange sight. It wasn't everyday he saw his mother with her crown on. "Good, the two of you are finally here," she said, putting her hands on her hips. Then she frowned, and looked Storm up and down.

"My dear child, what in tarnation happened to you? You look like you just ran a bloody marathon," she cried, a tone of horror in her voice.

Xenor scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest and giving another of his signature eye rolls. Storm pressed his lips together, a crooked, awkward smile on his flushed face. "I'm sorry for my unkemptness, Mother. I... did run. But it was only to reach here on time," he explained with a stutter, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Liss nodded in understanding, a grateful smile on her face. "It's alright, sweetheart. Although, do fix up your shirt and hair. They're rather disheveled," she said, running a hand through his hair for him.

Storm did as he was told, and after he was done, Liss brought them into the throne room, pushing open the double doors.

There were a few guards, Storm noticed, posted around the room. Dressed in their armour, hands on the hilts of their swords. Heads held proudly, postures straight and tensed.

And then there was his father.

Bayne sat imperiously on the throne, which was on a raised platform, draped in his royal robes. Like Liss, on his head nestled the King's Crown, shimmering gold in the light, the precious gemstones decorated on it glinting. His chin was tilted up, blue eyes steely.

Storm felt a chill run up his spine at the severity of his father's gaze. It demanded obedience. It demanded respect.

It demanded submission.

He was acting so differently, it was almost terrifying. Emanating a powerful aura. The sudden change sent goosebumps across Storm's skin, and he gulped.

This was not Bayne, his light-hearted father.

This was Bayne, the king of Argon.

The power of a true king.

Xenor was staring admiringly at the King's Crown, and Storm saw a hungry ambition creep up from the lime green depths of his eyes.

Liss went over to the smaller throne next to Bayne's— the throne of the queen. She settled down, and Xenor followed her, moving to her side, standing with an authoritative stance.

Storm slid towards Bayne nervously, and his father cocked his head at him. A brief smile flashed across his face, returning him to the amicable man Storm knew. Then it disappeared just as quickly as it appeared, becoming a stoic, austere mask.

Mustering as much pride and dignity as he could, Storm puffed out his chest. He heard Xenor scoff, and faltered.

"Bring him in," Bayne suddenly ordered, flicking a hand at the guard standing near the throne room's doors. The guard saluted, and quickly left the room.

An unsettlingly thick silence hung heavily in the air as they waited for the guard to return. Storm wondered what the special case was about.

And what had caused it to be reported in.

There came the sound of shouts, and a few colourful words. The doors opened again, revealing the guard from before. Behind him were two more guards, roughly dragging someone in.

That particular someone was struggling and yelling, wrists bound behind his back, preventing him from lashing out.

Storm squinted at the figure, wondering who he was.

And he saw a fire.

It was a young boy, dressed in ragged clothes similar to Tesarah's, only of a much better quality. His cheek was bruised, and blood dribbled down his chin from his lips. There was a cut on his forehead, also bleeding, and he had a black eye.

His hair looked aflame.

A dark, fiery red.

The guards hauled the boy before them, and he sat on his knees, coughing. Raising his head, he glowered at them, defiance and rage burning in his eyes.

Crimson.

Storm shuddered, involuntarily taking a step back. The boy was... creepy. He sensed murderous bloodlust, and a desire for vengeance. A rebellious spirit, one even worse than Xenor's.

The boy was dangerous.

"State your name," Bayne demanded, eyes narrowed. Storm glanced at his father, and thought he saw a flicker of dread in his blue irises.

The boy pursed his lips, keeping silent, and averted his eyes down, glaring at the floor.

One of the guards beside him smacked the back of his head. "His Majesty has spoken," the guard growled, his fury evident in his tone. "Speak up."

The redhead scowled disdainfully at him. "... Slayen," he muttered gruffly after a moment, before pointedly looking away. Storm narrowed his eyes.

Slayen.

It was a rather odd name.

Slayen.

Slayen...

He grimaced.

A slayer.

"Slayen what?" Xenor suddenly spoke, and Storm glanced at his brother in surprise. There was a curiosity in his green eyes which he had never seen before, as well as a gleeful desire and... awe, hidden so well he almost missed it.

A frown.

Why would Xenor be awed by the boy? It wasn't like him to admire someone.

"What?" The boy frowned, looked irked. The other guard beside him slapped him across the face, hissing at him for speaking in such a disrespectful tone.

But Xenor did not seem irritated. In fact, he seemed... amused.

Amused, yet calculating. Cunning.

Sly.

"Your surname," Xenor breathed out, his tone lax. He checked his nails. "What is your surname?"

Slayen seemed confused by the question, an eyebrow raised incredulously. Storm saw hesitation, and fear flashed through his eyes for a split second, vanishing almost instantly.

"I..." he began, "I don't have a surname."

"Highly improbable," Liss snapped. She pointed at the redhead, as though accusing him. "Everyone has a surname, even those coming from the poorest of areas in the kingdom. Do not lie to us."

Bayne shifted on the throne, gazing at Slayen disconcertingly. Storm wondered what it was that was bothering his father.

"I really don't have a surname," Slayen insisted, snarling.

Liss opened her mouth to argue, until Bayne shook his head at her. "Never mind about surnames for now, Liss," he murmured to the queen.

She paused, eyes narrowed, then relented with a sigh. Bayne turned back to Slayen.

"According to the report we received, you, Slayen, started a fight outside Argia Alley at around ten this morning with a young boy, and a young girl. The boy was terribly injured, while the girl, presumably your little sister, was left unscathed. Is that correct?" he questioned, arching a brow.

"Indeed, Your Majesty." Silix suddenly strode into the throne room, with Ash marching behind him. The advisor bowed before them. "If you would allow me to continue the report," he offered. Bayne nodded in acknowledgment.

Silix turned to Slayen, his indigo eyes gleaming.

And Storm had never seen the advisor look so enraged.

"The boy this hooligan had fought with, a Jewelsmith, had told us that he," Silix spat, pointing at Slayen, "had attacked him for reasons unknown. Not even the girl who was with them knew why he became aggressive." The advisor scowled. "Unless he had no motives behind the assault, and merely started the fight for the fun of it."

Storm blinked, bewildered. Why would Silix suddenly say such things?

"What are you implying, Silix?" Bayne inquired, tensing.

"This criminal has shaken our kingdom, Your Majesty," Ash pitched in, an inculpating tone in her voice. "Word of the fight has spread throughout Argon like a wildfire. My soldiers have heard rumours from the people, some saying that there might be rebels. The peace that you and your predecessors have worked so hard to build is starting to crumble, all because of a single boy."

Silix nodded, his features grim.

"Look at his hair and his eyes, Your Majesty," he said, glaring at Slayen. "Do the colours not remind you of anything? Anyone?"

Bayne stiffened.

"When was the last time we saw a person with such fiery red hair?" Silix murmured, fists clenching. "You know what he is, Your Majesty.

"Slayen is an Eltros."

Storm pressed his lips together, trying to hold back his gasp.

Eltros.

Was that not the clan of...?

Slayen had tensed, his gaze dark, teeth biting down on his lower lip. His body was quivering.

"It is possible that he dyed his hair to that colour," Bayne spoke softly.

"Pardon me, Father, but actually, his hair was originally flame red," Xenor said matter-of-factly. Storm glanced at his brother, confused, and saw a bored neutrality.

But also a hidden triumph.

"Look at his eyebrows. They are flame red, are they not? One is able to tell the natural colour of a person's hair by looking at their eyebrows, as they cannot be dyed, after all." Xenor flicked a finger at Slayen.

Storm almost snickered. It was actually true, when he thought about it. Ridiculous, but true.

Flame red.

The redhead kneeling before them looked extremely weirded out by the conversation they were having.

Bayne slumped, and a weariness Storm had never seen before appeared on his face, making him seem... old. His father looked haunted. Liss squeezed his arm soothingly, an understanding worry etched on her face.

Perhaps it was just his imagination, but his father seemed to be somewhat ambivalent about what to do with Slayen.

"Just... like His Highness Xenor said. Slayen is no doubt an Eltros. Him wanting to disrupt the peace of our kingdom makes sense, given his clan's history and... relationship with the royal family," Silix urged. "Please consider this factor, Your Majesty. Do you want to keep such a dangerous person, even though a boy... alive?"

Storm winced. It sounded as though Silix wanted Slayen to be executed.

And all he did was start a fight, not... murder anyone.

"... I would like you to cease with the accusations, Silix," Bayne finally sighed, rubbing his temple.

"But, Your Majesty—" Silix sputtered.

"There are no more Eltros!" Bayne barked harshly, and the advisor flinched. The king gripped the armrests of his throne tightly, his knuckles turning bone white. "There are no more Eltros," he repeated, in a much softer tone. "The entire clan went extinct a long time ago."

Silix stayed silent, dipping his head, and Ash put a hand on his shoulder, as though comforting him.

"How old are you, Slayen?" Storm decided to ask, in a quiet voice, gazing at the boy.

"... Fifteen," Slayen responded reluctantly, his expression discomfited.

"You are young," Bayne mused. He closed his eyes for a moment, enervated, then opened them again. "Yet, despite your age, you have already caused trouble in our beloved kingdom with your foolish actions. I cannot forgive that. As such, I sentence you to six years in the Palace's dungeons." He nodded to the guards standing beside Slayen. "Take him away."

Slayen was dragged to his feet, and Storm saw him scowl. "Fucking Avalons," he muttered, a little too loudly.

There was that swear word again. Storm found himself wondering, once more, about what it meant.

Bayne narrowed his eyes.

"Correction, eight years in the Palace's dungeons," the king declared. Slayen glowered at all of them, his crimson eyes piercing and deathly.

The guards shoved him, and he was forced out of the throne room.

Eltros.

The case was dismissed, and Storm ambled out. He saw Xenor, striding away, apparently deep in thought.

Eltros.

The word bothered him. The clan bothered him. He knew about the Eltros, having read about them in a book before.

They were notorious.

They were demented.

They were dangerous.

Every single member of the clan was dangerous.

Storm shuddered.

He knew the history of the Eltros, and about what they did to Argon. About what they did to the kingdom's people. About what they did to his ancestors.

Especially to a certain king centuries ago.

If Slayen was an Eltros... Storm could only imagine the horrors that could happen in the future.

Never fight a fire, especially a rabid one, with another fire.

The grey-green forest swayed in the ferocious winds, unsteadily, unhappily. It cracked slowly, bitterly, painfully, as the storm darkening the heavens grew thicker.

Heavier.

Rain pelted down, and thunder roared, a ferocious echo, resounding far, far away.

Lightning descended, again and again, and the forest screamed in anguish, in vengeance, as one by one, its trees toppled down.

Once more, and a deafening splinter. In the wounded forest, a vibrant red appeared, devouring everything.

Fire.

The flames licked the leaves and trees, razing the trees down and making its way to the heart of the forest. The storm rumbled on.

And with a hollow cry, the broken grey-green forest began to fade to black.