The corridor stretched before Leonard, a labyrinth of shadows and damp stone. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and decay, a fitting testament to the state of his fallen kingdom. He moved cautiously, his senses heightened, the dragon core within him thrumming with a primal awareness.
He encountered no guards. It was as if he had been forgotten, left to languish in the depths of the castle. A grim smile touched his lips. They underestimated him, and that was their first mistake.
He navigated the maze of corridors, his footsteps echoing softly in the silence. The castle, once a symbol of Ebonvale power, was now a shell of its former glory. Cobwebs hung like macabre tapestries, and the once-grand tapestries that adorned the walls were faded and torn.
He passed through a once-opulent hall, the remnants of a feast still clinging to the air – the faint scent of stale wine and rotting food. It was a stark reminder of the kingdom he had lost, the kingdom that was rightfully his.
Aethelgard… it will be mine again.
His hand brushed against a cold, smooth surface. He paused, turning to see a shattered mirror, its fragments reflecting the dim moonlight in a thousand distorted images. He saw his reflection – the face of a youth, pale and gaunt, but with eyes that burned with an ancient fire.
He reached out, his fingers tracing the outline of a shard. It was a reminder of his broken past, but also a symbol of his shattered kingdom. He would piece them both back together, stronger than before.
As he continued his exploration, he heard whispers, faint and elusive, carried on the drafts that snaked through the castle. They spoke of fear, of oppression, of the usurper king, Valerius, and his iron-fisted rule.
"He taxes us into poverty," one voice murmured, barely audible.
"The old ways are forgotten," another lamented. "The Ebonvale line was just, but Valerius... he only cares for his own power."
Leonard's heart clenched. The people suffered, and their suffering fueled his resolve. He was not just reclaiming a throne; he was reclaiming their lives, their hope.
He reached a staircase, its stone steps worn and uneven. He ascended, his senses tingling, the dragon core guiding him. The air grew lighter, the shadows less oppressive.
He emerged into a small chamber, bathed in the pale glow of the moon. A window, overlooking the castle courtyard, offered a breathtaking view. But it was not the beauty of the scene that caught his attention.
In the courtyard below, a small group of figures huddled together, their voices hushed. He could not make out their words, but their body language spoke volumes – fear, desperation, and a flicker of defiance.
He recognized one of them – a young woman, her face hidden in the shadows of her cloak, but her posture radiating a quiet strength. He remembered her from his fragmented memories of this life – Elara, a servant in the castle, known for her kindness and unwavering loyalty to the Ebonvale family.
Elara…
A spark of hope ignited within him. He was not alone. There were still those who remembered the true king, those who yearned for a better future.
He turned away from the window, his gaze sweeping across the chamber. It was a small, unassuming room, but it held a secret. Behind a loose stone in the wall, he found a hidden compartment. Inside, a small, leather-bound book, its pages filled with faded writing.
He opened it carefully, his fingers tracing the ancient script. It was a journal, written by his father, the former king. It spoke of the history of Aethelgard, of the ancient pact with the dragons, and of the prophecy – a prophecy that foretold the return of the true king, a king with the blood of the dragon in his veins.
Leonard's breath caught in his throat. The prophecy… it spoke of him.
He closed the journal, his heart pounding with a newfound sense of purpose. He was not just a prince seeking revenge. He was a chosen one, destined to restore Aethelgard to its former glory.
He looked out at the moonlit courtyard, his gaze lingering on the group of figures huddled below. He knew what he had to do.
He had to gather his allies, ignite the spark of rebellion, and reclaim his rightful place on the throne.
The shadows of the past would not hold him back. The whispers of the oppressed w
ould be his battle cry.