The cold wind whipped up sand and gravel, lashing against the heavy, gold-trimmed curtains of the royal carriage with a dull crackling sound. Inside the carriage, the Empire's Seventh Prince, Kelson Arista, sat silently, his back as straight as the hard, uncomfortable bench beneath him. The opulent ceremonial robe he wore—embroidered with the golden lion crest symbolizing his royal lineage—now seemed like a prop of irony, shrouding a soul rejected by the entire court. Outside the window lay the boundless wasteland along the empire's border, known as the "Scar of Oblivion," its gray-yellow horizon stretching endlessly into the distance.
Just three days ago, he had been in the resplendent Hall of Saint Anus. Not as the prince in the spotlight, but as the defendant in a meticulously orchestrated political trial. The icy stares of his brothers—especially the ambitious Second Prince—cut like poisoned daggers. The High Priest held aloft the "Crystal of Enlightenment," reputed to detect all magical aptitude. In his palm, the crystal lay as still as a stone, not a single glimmer of light emanating from it. Instantly, the hall erupted with stifled snickers—a mixture of contempt and schadenfreude.
"A magic-resistant…" The High Priest's voice, laced with feigned pity, echoed through the deathly silent hall. "A soul ungraced by the gods is unworthy of defiling the sacred imperial bloodline. Your Majesty, for the glory and purity of the Empire…"
The Emperor sat high upon his throne, his face hidden in shadow, yet his cold, weary voice cut through the commotion: "Exile. To be carried out immediately. Captain Leo, you will personally 'escort' the Seventh Prince to the border and ensure he… remains far from the heart of the Empire."
The word "escort" was enunciated with particular clarity by the Emperor, carrying an unquestionable command and a tacit cruelty. Kelson raised his head to meet the eyes emerging from the throne's shadow—no anger, no pleading, only a bottomless calm. He had long grown accustomed to that gaze. Ever since he was old enough to understand, ever since he first discovered he could not ignite even the faintest spark of magic like his brothers and sisters, that look—a mixture of disappointment, disgust, and even fear—had followed him like a shadow. He silently removed the insignia symbolizing his status as a prince, allowing the court guards to roughly tear the golden lion emblem from his outer robe without the slightest resistance.
Now, he sat inside this crude, jolting carriage, flanked by two royal guards with stern, unyielding faces. Their eyes were watchful and distant, as if he were some dangerous plague. Outside the carriage window, Leo Ironlion, captain of the royal guards, rode a towering black warhorse, his silver griffin-embossed shoulder guards reflecting a cold, hard sheen in the dim sunlight. Leo was a legendary figure, renowned for his loyalty and iron will, having earned glorious military merits for the empire. Now, he led this small convoy of exiles in silence, the sword at his waist swaying gently with the horse's stride. Kelson's gaze would occasionally drift to Leo's hand resting on the hilt—those knuckled fingers, tightening unconsciously with each passing moment, seemed to mark a silent countdown.
The journey across the wasteland was monotonous and oppressive. By day, they faced the scorching sun and ceaseless winds of sand; by night, the bone-chilling cold and the faint, heart-stopping howls of beasts in the distance. Their rations consisted of coarse black bread and salted jerky, and water was strictly rationed. The guards kept their distance, speaking to Kelson only when necessary. The way they looked at him was no different from how those at court had regarded him—a worthless outcast forsaken by the gods, a stain on the empire, a nuisance that needed to be "disposed of."
Kelson remained silent most of the time, peering through the slits in the carriage curtains at the unchanging, desolate landscape outside. His thoughts were calm; there was no anger, no resentment, only a near-numb acceptance. He recalled his mother's withered hands as she lay dying, and the faint glimmer in her eyes at the very end—a glimmer devoid of any reluctance to part with her son, filled only with deep despair over his inability to inherit her magical gifts. He had long understood that in this world where magic reigned supreme, a prince incapable of sensing magic was worth less even than a servant who could cast a simple light spell. His very existence was a threat to his brilliant brothers and a mockery of the royal family's "divine sanctity." Exile was the inevitable outcome. He just hadn't expected it to come so quickly, so completely, so… without mercy.
"Captain, the wind and sand seem to be getting worse," a guard's voice interrupted Kelson's thoughts, tinged with a barely perceptible tension.
Leo pulled on the reins and looked up at the sky. What had been a mere gray haze was now turning a murky yellow at a pace visible to the naked eye. On the distant horizon, a massive gray-yellow wall connecting heaven and earth was rolling toward them, accompanied by a dull roar like a stampede of beasts.
"A sandstorm!" Leo's expression darkened as he barked, "Everyone! Dismount! Find cover! Form a circle around the wagons! Quickly!"
The order was carried out immediately. The guards, well-trained, swung themselves from their horses and attempted to form a makeshift barrier around the wagons, tying the horses to the wheels. But the wind came too fast, too fiercely. Almost the moment Leo's words fell, the gale swept up sand and gravel, lashing out like countless whips against both men and horses. Visibility was instantly stripped away; all that remained in the world was the howling wind and the shrill clatter of sand striking metal and leather.
"Hold on tight! Don't let go!" Leo's roar came in fits and starts amid the gale.
Kelson was sandwiched tightly between two guards, the immense force nearly pressing him into the floor of the carriage. The carriage shook violently in the gale, groaning under the strain. The sand seeped into every crevice, getting into his eyes, nose, and mouth, causing a burning sting and a suffocating sensation. He could only cling desperately to the protrusions on the carriage wall, curling his body into a tight ball.
Amid the chaos, he heard a piercing horse's whinny, followed by the sharp crack of splintering wood! A massive force slammed into the side of the carriage, sending the entire vehicle flying into the air! Kelson felt the world spinning as his body was violently hurled outward, the restraining force vanishing in an instant.
He crashed heavily onto the hard ground, rolling several times before coming to a stop. Sand and gravel rained down on him, nearly burying him. He struggled to lift his head, but all he saw was a hazy yellow blur; the howling wind drowned out everything else. He tried to shout, but the moment he opened his mouth, sand and dust flooded in, causing him to cough violently.
He groped around, trying to find any trace of the carriage or his companions, but there was nothing but wind and sand all around him. He felt like an insignificant speck of dust, completely swallowed up by the might of the heavens and earth. After an unknown amount of time, the wind seemed to die down slightly, and visibility improved a little. Kelson struggled to crawl out of the sand pile, his body throbbing with pain and his vision blurred. He looked around, and his heart sank.
The wasteland remained, but the carriage, the guards, Captain Leo… all had vanished. Only the wind and sand, still growling after their rampage, and a few scattered, shattered planks from the royal carriage's body lying on the sand served as proof that the disaster he'd just endured was no illusion. He stood alone in the heart of the boundless "Scar of Oblivion," clad only in a thin, dust-covered old tunic.
Kelson wiped the sand from his face, revealing his still-serene blue eyes. He gauged his bearings—or rather, simply chose a direction that didn't seem quite so hopeless—and set off. With every step, he sank deep into the soft sand, leaving behind a solitary footprint that was immediately erased by the shifting winds and sand.
He had no idea how long he'd been walking; hunger and thirst gnawed at his insides like two venomous snakes. His legs felt as though they were filled with lead, making every step an agonizing struggle. Just as he felt his last ounce of strength slipping away and darkness closing in, the ground suddenly gave way beneath him!
Caught off guard, he plummeted downward, crashing into a dim, half-buried entrance. Icy stone walls scraped against his body as he tumbled several times, finally coming to rest on a hard, cold surface. Dust swirled around him, choking him into another fit of coughing.
He struggled to raise his upper body and, by the faintest glimmer of daylight filtering through the opening above, barely made out his surroundings. This appeared to be the interior of a massive structure; the air was thick with dust and an indescribable, ancient aura that seemed to have settled over the course of millennia. Massive stone pillars supported a soaring dome, while the walls were covered with blurred murals and strange symbols he had never seen before. Not far ahead on the ground, a huge circular pattern composed of intricate lines and runes was emitting an extremely faint, almost imperceptible glow.
Kelson gasped for breath, leaning against the cold stone wall; the icy touch brought a measure of clarity to his muddled mind. He surveyed the deathly silent ruins, seemingly forgotten by time, feeling no joy at having survived, only deeper bewilderment and exhaustion. He had no idea where he was, nor what lay ahead. He simply sensed instinctively that something about this place… was wrong. The patterns on the ground—those twisted runes—seemed to be silently watching him, the uninvited guest.