PART 1 — THE BOY THE KING WANTED DEAD

The boy was not supposed to survive the arena.

Everyone in the kingdom knew that.

His name was Elias Varrin, though most people called him “Rat.” Twelve years old, barefoot, thin as a winter branch, dressed in a torn linen tunic that still smelled of stable hay and rainwater. He stood in the center of the Royal Arena while fifty thousand voices laughed above him.

Across the cracked stone floor, the giant gladiator Brakus lifted his massive stone gauntlet.

King Aldric leaned forward from the golden balcony, his iron crown catching the last light of dusk.

“Let this be a lesson,” the king announced. “No servant child steals from the royal vault and lives.”

Elias shook his head, tears cutting through the dust on his cheeks. “I didn’t steal anything.”

Queen Marenna did not look at him.

The prince smiled.

Brakus stepped closer, each footfall shaking sand from the ancient walls.

“Small thing,” the giant rumbled, lowering his fist

Elias did not.

He looked down instead.

Because beneath his bare feet, the stone was glowing.

A circle of golden-blue light spread outward, not like fire, not like magic, but like something waking from a long, angry sleep.

The arena went silent.

Then the oldest priest dropped to his knees.

And whispered, “That is not a thief.”

The floor split open.

A colossal stone finger rose from the darkness beneath Elias.

And the giant stepped back in fear.