THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

Beyond the world of Ternion, where life still clung to the promise of balance and abundance, there existed a realm plunged into eternal desolation.

The horizon stretched endlessly, an ocean of scorched sand shimmering beneath a relentless, unforgiving sun. No green graced this land—no trees, no grass, not even the faintest refuge from the oppressive heat. The air hung heavy with despair, and the wind carried only the hollow sighs of a dying world.

In the far distance, beyond dunes sculpted by merciless gales, a palace stood—a solitary monument of splendor buried in a sea of ruin. Its spires pierced the blood-red sky, jagged and yearning, like desperate prayers cast toward an absent god. Once vibrant with color, its walls were now dulled and weathered, worn by time and endless sandstorms. It was a relic of a bygone era, a defiant symbol of survival that had begun to fade.

Inside, the palace's throne room lay steeped in an air of suffocating hopelessness. The cavernous hall, once bustling with the voices of a proud court, now echoed with emptiness. Tattered banners drooped from stone walls, their emblems long faded. Golden braziers sputtered weakly, their flames barely alive, as if reflecting the final breaths of the kingdom itself.

At the center of the hall sat the King, slumped on a throne of obsidian carved with intricate symbols and studded with dull gemstones. His golden hair, once a crown of light and majesty, now clung to his sweat-dampened brow. Though his posture remained regal, his crimson eyes—once piercing and unrelenting—seemed shadowed with weariness.

Before him knelt an advisor, his head bowed low, robes stained with dust and grime. His voice trembled as he spoke, cracking with desperation.

"Your Majesty, I beg you! Abandon the people, abandon this palace—abandon everything. If we remain here, we will all perish. The food is gone, the hope is gone… and soon, we shall follow."

The King pressed his fingers to his temple, the weight of the plea heavy in his chest. In other times, he might have hurled a sword at the man or crushed him where he stood for such words. Yet now, the truth gnawed at him. Their world was dying, and there was no hiding from it.

It had begun when the rain ceased, a silence so absolute it had been mistaken for an omen. The fields had turned to dust, the forests crumbled into ash, and the rivers, once lifeblood to the kingdom, had withered away. Then, the animals disappeared—the herds vanishing beyond the sands, leaving the people with nothing but hollow prayers and empty granaries.

"Your Majesty!" another advisor cried, his voice rising in pitch. "We have no choice! You gave the storerooms to the people without limit, hoping for salvation, but—"

"But salvation never came," another finished grimly, murmurs of agreement rippling through the court.

The King's hand dropped to the armrest of his throne. He had given the food freely, not out of foolishness, but out of duty. His prayers had been fervent, desperate, but now he could only wonder if hope had been a vanity—something they could no longer afford.

The massive doors to the throne room groaned open, shattering the fragile tension. All heads turned sharply, and the weak flames of the braziers flickered as a tall figure in white robes strode into the hall. The unknown moved with unsettling poise, her steps calm and unhurried, her flowing garment untouched by the dust that clung to the rest of the palace.

The head of the palace guard stepped forward, his voice a bark of authority. "Who are you? Guards! Apprehend the intruder!"

Silence followed. No guards answered the call. The man turned, scanning the empty corners of the hall, confusion breaking through his stern expression. "Where are the guards?" he demanded, his voice cracking.

No reply came. The court grew tense, their collective fear palpable as their gazes darted to the intruder. The figure's presence was unnatural—alien, yet undeniably powerful.

And still, the King did not stir. While his advisors cowered and whispered, he remained seated, crimson eyes locked on the robed stranger. Despite the mounting unease in the hall, a strange calm settled over him, as though he alone could see through the veil of uncertainty.

"Who are you?" the King finally asked, his voice low but firm. It was neither a question nor a challenge, but a command. His gaze bore into the intruder, unblinking and resolute.

The figure in white stopped at the base of the dais, her silhouette framed by the failing light of the braziers. He offered no bow, no courtesy, only silence and presence, as though his very existence demanded reverence.

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The court waited, hearts pounding, as the stranger stood unmoving. The King's fingers curled slightly around the armrests of his throne, crimson eyes unyielding. The silence stretched on, and though none dared move, they all felt it—the heavy weight of something about to begin.

"Gilgamesh." A voice from the mask uttered.

The court held its collective breath as the robed intruder raised her hands slowly, deliberately. From the billowing white fabric, delicate fingers emerged, glinting under the dim light. They weren't ordinary hands—sleek metallic claws tipped each finger, the intricate design both mesmerizing and menacing. The room tensed, the advisors retreating further into the shadows, murmuring prayers under their breath.

The King of Steel, known once as Gilgamesh, narrowed his crimson eyes. His name, ancient and weighty, fell from her lips like a proclamation, reverberating through the hall. Few dared speak it aloud anymore, for it was less a name and more a symbol of unattainable grandeur—one that had long been tarnished by time and despair.

"You dare to speak that name?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, though it carried the faintest tremor of curiosity. His grip on the throne's armrest tightened, but he did not move. Something about the woman's presence rooted him in place.

The masked stranger lowered her head slightly, not in submission, but in an almost mocking semblance of respect. "Gilgamesh," she repeated, her tone reverent yet commanding. "King of Steel, your people may call you a relic, a shadow of greatness, but I have come with salvation."

Her metallic claws glimmered as she raised them, palms open in an offering. "The sands have devoured your world, your people teeter on the edge, but I bring a way forward. A choice. Embrace what I offer, and rebuild your kingdom in the image of eternity."

The hall fell silent. Even the air seemed to still, as if the realm itself waited for the King's reply.

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A/N: Great news, everyone! I've been in talks with the artist, and we've reached an agreement that I'm really happy with. Very soon, I'll be unveiling the novel's original book cover and character sheets for you all to enjoy! However, there's a small catch—I need your support to make it happen. Please consider joining my Patreon, and together, we can bring this project to life! Link in the comments, happy reading.

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