CHAPTER 1
The Kingdom of Althoria
Rurik stood alone upon the vast, silent grassland, where even the wind seemed reluctant to stir. His horse grazed idly a few paces away, its quiet movements only sharpening the sense of stillness that pressed upon him. A prickle of unease crawled along his spine. Then, from the far horizon, a lone figure broke into view—running with unnatural speed, a staff raised high as though to strike down the heavens themselves.
Behind him, the ground trembled. A thunder of hooves rolled across the plain, and from the twilight haze surged a host of centaurs, their muscular forms pounding ever closer, eyes burning with the fury of a hunt.
Rurik’s breath caught. The man racing toward him bore the face of Arihan—yet it was not Arihan as he remembered. This figure was raw, feral, carved in sinew and violence. A lion’s pelt hung across his shoulders, its mane tossing wild in the wind. Around his neck clattered a chain strung with tiger claws, each one glinting with a savage promise in the fading light.
The stranger’s eyes locked upon him. With a sudden, jarring motion, he raised his staff and unleashed a surge of crackling energy. The wave tore through the air, racing toward Rurik with merciless force. He had no time to flee. But in that desperate instant, a blur cut across the darkness. Arihan himself appeared, sword flashing like a shard of fallen starlight.
Steel met sorcery. The sword caught the torrent of power, and at once the world erupted in a blinding explosion. The sky dissolved into searing white; the earth itself seemed to shatter beneath the blast. Then, without warning, the brilliance collapsed, plunging all into a suffocating void. Silence followed—so heavy, so absolute, it felt as if the breath of life itself had been stolen away.
Rurik startled awake, breath ragged, his body damp with a cold sheen of sweat. The dream clung to him like iron shackles, its weight refusing to lift even as his eyes opened to the silence of his chamber. He stumbled to the window, pressing his palm against the chill of the stone frame, seeking steadiness. Beyond, the night stretched vast and unbroken. Stars blazed with crystalline clarity, scattered across the heavens like fragments of shattered glass, and far below, the kingdom of Althoria shimmered faintly against the darkness, its towers and streets glinting like a treasure spilled at the foot of sleeping hills. Yet the stillness brought him no peace. The echo of the nightmare lingered, a shadow coiled deep within his chest.
And Althoria itself—how deceptively serene it appeared. For this was no ordinary land, but a realm steeped in wonder, where golden light seemed to live in the soil, and the breath of ancient magic pulsed through stone, water, and tree alike. Silver-bright rivers wound across the earth like molten moonlight, threading through vast forests that whispered with the memory of forgotten ages. Over mossy cliffs they fell, their tumbling voices carrying secrets older than kings. The air was heavy with the scent of wild blossoms, each petal touched by sorcery, as though the land itself inhaled and exhaled in rhythm with enchantment. Yet beneath that radiance, mysteries stirred unseen, and Rurik could not silence the foreboding that gripped him, as though his nightmare was not merely a dream—but a warning.
Althoria was a jewel of beauty and marvels, yet beneath its splendour stirred mysteries too deep to name.
Upon its throne sat King Erthedar, sovereign both wise and gentle, whose reign had ushered peace and abundance. His people adored him, for he ruled not with the iron fist of power but with the steady grace of compassion. Yet his heart bore a wound no crown could heal. Long ago, his queen, Balaris, had faded away under the shadow of a strange and unyielding sickness, leaving him to raise their infant sons alone. Though urged by counsellors to take another bride, Erthedar refused. His love for Balaris was too enduring, her memory too sacred. Her presence lingered in the palace still—her portrait watching over the marble halls, a silent guardian of the love that once filled those chambers with light.
Their sons were bound by blood yet shaped like day and night. Arihan, the elder, shone with a quiet nobility, his tall and striking form admired by all. Yet it was not his grace of stature but his gentleness of spirit that made hearts turn toward him. Brave, just, and humble, he seemed every inch a king to come—though his soul secretly yearned not for the throne, but for the wide, untrodden paths of the world beyond. He dreamed of forests where ancient creatures roamed, of seas that guarded secrets in their depths, of mountains that scraped the very stars. In the quiet recesses of his heart, he wished it might be Rurik who wore the crown, so that he might follow the call of adventure.
Each evening, when the banquet flames dwindled low, Arihan would slip from the palace and ride into the night. His steed carried him through the lantern-lit streets of Elysoria, where cobbled roads gleamed beneath the soft golden glow, and townsfolk greeted him with warmth as though he were already their sovereign. Yet he did not linger in the city. His path led beyond—to the whispering forests, where leaves rustled with stories of old, or to the clear streams that sang beneath the mountains, where he would sit in solitude as the last rays of the sun dissolved into violet dusk. At times, he sought the company of the tribal villages, sitting at the fire with grey-haired elders, listening to tales of ancestors and the half-forgotten legends that shaped Althoria’s soul.
It was there, in those quiet wanderings, that Arihan felt most alive—caught between the destiny laid before him and the call of a world yet unseen.
When not bent over his studies, he turned to the brush. His paintings, though exquisite, carried a strangeness to them—abstract visions of colour and form that stirred admiration yet left onlookers unsettled, as though they glimpsed something profound they could not wholly grasp.
Beyond the palace, Elysoria rose in splendour, the beating heart of Althoria. Built high upon the mountain’s crown, the city was a marvel of artistry and ambition. Roads spiralled down through sheets of tumbling waterfalls, wound through cavernous tunnels hewn from the rock, and climbed again toward the royal palace. The palace itself gleamed in white stone, its towers stretching skyward as if in dialogue with the heavens. Each arch and courtyard bore carvings and patterns so intricate they told the kingdom’s story in silent script—its triumphs, its glories, and its sorrows etched forever in stone.
The hand behind such marvels was Murin, the kingdom’s chief architect, a man of ninety-two whose spirit remained unwearied by age. To Althoria he was not merely a craftsman but a sage, his wisdom as treasured as his vision. King Erthedar held him in deep affection, granting him a place of honour in the palace as though he were kin. Under Murin’s watch, not only the palace but every street and home in Elysoria had been shaped, each stone laid with a mind for harmony between nature and human dwelling. The city, radiant and ordered, stood as his masterpiece—a living legacy.
On one winter’s afternoon, Arihan found the palace stiflingly still. The air outside was crisp, clear, touched with the coolness of snow though the sky remained untroubled. Restless, he saddled his horse and rode from the gates, eager for the solitude the open land promised. The mountain road unfurled beneath him, leading down into the wide meadows. The earth stretched before him in sweeping greens, an endless carpet dotted with oak trees whose branches stirred gently in the winter breeze. Shepherds moved slowly across the fields, guiding their flocks with patience, while sheep grazed lazily or settled by shallow pools cut for their drinking.
Arihan pressed on, his horse’s hooves striking a rhythm that echoed in the stillness. Soon, the vastness of the sea greeted him, spreading into the horizon, its waters burnished gold under the softened winter sun. The sight drew a breath of wonder from him.
Then—movement. At first, he thought it no more than cattle grazing by the shore. But as he drew nearer, the truth revealed itself. It was a stag—yet unlike any creature he had ever beheld. Towering and magnificent, its coat gleamed white as new-fallen snow. From its brow rose antlers of astonishing form, twisted and sweeping in patterns so intricate they seemed less wrought of bone than of art. And to Arihan’s astonishment, upon those antlers bloomed silvery flowers and leaves, shimmering like constellations even in the daylight, as though the stag carried a fragment of the heavens upon its crown.
Arihan felt a shiver ripple through him, a strange pull as though the stag’s presence reached into the marrow of his bones. No words passed its lips, yet its voice resounded within his mind—deep, resonant, commanding. Follow. The call was not spoken, but undeniable, and without hesitation he obeyed, drawn by a current stronger than his own will.
The stag moved with a slow, deliberate grace, leading him towards the cliffs where jagged rocks hid a narrow opening, little more than a shadow in the stone. It was less a cave than a tunnel, tight and winding, the air cool and damp. Arihan pressed forward, his steps echoing along the walls that seemed to press closer with each stride. The world outside slipped away; time itself became unmeasurable as the darkness stretched on, broken only by the faint gleam of the stag’s antlers.
At last, the passage widened and gave way to a cavern so vast and perfect it stole his breath. The chamber was nearly spherical, its walls polished smooth as though wrought by hands far older than history. Torches burned in even intervals, their flames casting amber light across the stone, yet it was the centre of the cavern that held him fast. There lay a pool of water, its surface alive with an unearthly glow, shimmering as though it contained the light of another world. Strange frogs, their skin luminous in hues of green and blue, drifted across its surface, pulsing softly like living stars in the gloom.
Before the pool stood a low throne, plain yet weighted with presence. Upon it sat a maiden whose beauty was not merely striking but perilous, as if the very air bent to her. Her hair fell in long silver cascades, a torrent of moonlight spilling over her shoulders, and her eyes glimmered like frozen starlight. The stag took its place beside her, antlers radiant in the torchlight.
The maiden rose, and Arihan’s breath caught in his throat. Her presence overwhelmed him, as though she were both dream and storm. He could not move, nor summon words; he could only stand beneath her gaze. When she spoke, her voice was no louder than a whisper, yet it reverberated within his mind with the weight of prophecy.
“I am Osha-mira,” she intoned, her voice resonant and steady, carrying the weight of centuries. “Sorceress, guardian, and keeper of truths long hidden from mortal eyes. A great calamity stirs on the horizon, unseen yet inevitable. Those you cherish most… those you trust without question… will, in time, betray you. It is a path already inscribed, a destiny etched into the fabric of your life. No matter your defiance, your hesitation, or your hope to turn aside, you will walk it.”
Her gaze bore into them, sharp and unwavering, yet threaded with a strange, solemn compassion. “Before you, the stories of your days will unfold—some sweet, like the gentle dawn on untouched fields; others bitter, biting and unrelenting, like a storm across barren land. Old bonds will wither and die, severed by circumstance and fate. Yet, as shadows fall, new connections will form, fragile but potent, reshaping the heart and the world around you. Nothing remains static, and every choice will echo far beyond the moment.”
She paused, letting the words settle, the silence stretching like a held breath. Then she whispered, almost reverently, “Prepare yourself, for this journey will test every fibre of your being. The road is neither kind nor cruel—it simply is. And through it, you will discover who you truly are, and who you must become.”
Her words struck him like blows. His heart hammered, his breath came sharp and shallow. He longed to cry out, to demand meaning, to fight against the fate she laid before him. But before a single word left his lips, the cavern began to tremble and spin. Colours bled into darkness, his vision clouded, and a crushing dizziness stole his strength. He fell to the stone, the sound of Osha-mira’s voice receding into a hollow silence.
When next he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the cavern. The familiar walls of his chamber enclosed him, washed pale by the silver light of the moon spilling through the window. His head throbbed, his limbs heavy, as though he had been dragged back from the edge of some abyss. A clock marked the hour—it was past midnight.
Yet as he lay there, staring into the shadows, he knew with a dreadful certainty that what he had witnessed had not been dream alone. Osha-mira’s words lingered, sharp as a blade: those whom you trust the most will betray you.
Arihan’s stomach growled, pulling him from his troubled thoughts and reminding him how long it had been since he had last eaten. Restless, he rose from his bed and slipped into the corridor, intent on finding his way to the kitchens. The palace lay in eerie silence, save for the heavy snores of guards slumped against the walls, their spears resting loosely at their sides. Their unguarded sleep only deepened his unease, as if some spell of weariness had stolen over the halls.
Arihan moved softly through the corridors, his steps swallowed by the hush of night. Moonlight streamed in through tall windows, laying pale ribbons across the polished stone at his feet. When he reached the kitchen door, he paused, for an unusual glow flickered beneath it, accompanied by the low murmur of voices. They were hushed, pressed close together, their tone urgent—secretive. A shiver rippled through him, and for a heartbeat he considered turning away. But curiosity—and something sharper—rooted him in place. With the faintest push, he eased the door ajar.
The sight within struck him still.
Rurik stood near the hearth, his features caught half in firelight, speaking in muted tones to two figures cloaked in shadow. Their garments, dark as midnight, veiled their faces, yet their presence stirred a faint recognition in Arihan’s mind—shapes, postures, some familiarity he could not name. He frowned, unsettled, his breath caught in his throat.
For an instant, his heart lurched with suspicion. Osha-mira’s prophecy came rushing back to him like a blade to the ribs: Those whom you trust the most will betray you. The words pounded through him, cruel and insistent. Could it mean—Rurik? His brother, the one he had laughed with, trained with, trusted more than any soul in Althoria? The thought cut so deep it seemed absurd.
Arihan forced a quiet laugh within himself, shaking his head as he lingered in the shadows. “Perhaps,” he told himself silently, “this is nothing more than some late gathering, a meeting over wine and jest. Why of all people would Rurik turn against me?” He wanted to believe it was harmless, that he had stumbled upon some secret revelry, some council of friends too private for open halls. His brother could not be an enemy. Not Rurik. Never.
Yet, as he pressed his back to the cold stone wall, the unease did not leave him. The cloaked men shifted, their movements guarded, and Rurik’s voice lowered further, its cadence sharpened with secrecy. Arihan could not make out the words, but their very concealment weighed heavy upon him. It was not laughter he heard, nor the warmth of brotherly camaraderie. It was something else—something hidden, deliberate, and dangerous. His chest tightened as the fire crackled, shadows danced, and the whispers continued. He told himself again and again that Rurik was beyond betrayal, that the bond of blood could not be broken. Yet the prophecy lingered close, too close, curling around his thoughts like smoke. It was no longer distant words spoken by a seer—it was a doubt now seeded in his heart, waiting, watching, biding its time.
© 2025 Titus Kujur. All rights reserved.
From Arihan — The Shattered Crown.
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