ECHOES OF TREASON

**Chapter 1: Echoes of Treason**

The world was shrouded in a cloak of predawn blue, the horizon teetering on the brink of day and night. In the twilight of his family's legacy, Eryk Lucian Thorne stood defiantly in the shadowed courtyard of Castle Thornfield. The ancient stones beneath his feet were cold and unyielding, much like the fate decreed upon his house. The once vibrant gardens were now silent witnesses to the final act of a tragedy that had unfolded with merciless swiftness.

The air was heavy with the scent of impending rain, and the distant rumble of thunder spoke of a storm that mirrored the turmoil in Eryk's heart. He was the last of the Thornes, a noble family whose roots ran as deep as the kingdom itself, now accused of conspiring against the very crown they had sworn to protect.

The executioner was not a mere man but a construct of iron and shadow, summoned from the depths of the Arcanum by the High Chancellor's incantations. Its form was both terrifying and awe-inspiring, a golem of justice bound to the Emperor's will.

Eryk, standing resolute amidst the throng of onlookers, watched as his parents, Lucian and Elara, were led to the centre of the rune circle. Their hands were not bound by chains but held in place by tendrils of light, woven from the very essence of the Arcanum.

The High Chancellor began the rite, his voice echoing with the power of the old language, each syllable a note in the symphony of fate. As he spoke, the runes around the courtyard glowed brighter, their light a stark contrast to the darkness that had befallen the Thorne family.

Above, the skies churned, a maelstrom of colours as the barrier between worlds thinned, the Arcanum itself bearing witness to the execution. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and magic, a tangible reminder of the forces at play.

Lucian and Elara stood with dignity, their eyes locked on their son, imparting silent messages of love and strength. As the final words of the rite were uttered, the golem raised its arm, not an axe but a blade formed of pure Arcane energy, shimmering with a light that was both beautiful and deadly.

With a swift motion, the blade descended, and the light from the runes surged upward, enveloping Lucian and Elara in a cocoon of brilliance. There was no sound of impact, no cry of pain—only the breathtaking spectacle of their forms dissolving into motes of light that ascended towards the heavens, their essence returning to the Arcanum from whence all magic came.

Eryk felt the void rods within him pulse, a cruel reminder of his own severed connection to the Arcanum that had once been his birthright. Yet, as he witnessed the ethereal departure of his parents, a spark of something new ignited within him—a determination that transcended the need for magic, a resolve to honor his family's name and defy the fate that had been unjustly thrust upon them.

The courtyard began to fill with the murmurs of the gathered crowd, their whispers like the rustling of leaves in a foreboding wind. Among them were faces Eryk recognized—servants who had once smiled at him, nobles who had feasted at his family's table, and soldiers who had trained alongside him. Now, they watched him with a mixture of pity and disdain, their gazes averted, as if the mere sight of him could taint their souls with his supposed treachery.

Eryk's gaze drifted to the skies, where the first rays of sunlight pierced the veil of clouds, casting a golden light that seemed at odds with the darkness of the occasion. It was then that he noticed the figure standing apart from the rest, cloaked in a mantle that shimmered with an otherworldly hue. The stranger's eyes met his, and in their depths, Eryk saw a flicker of something he couldn't quite place—was it recognition? Sympathy? Or perhaps a silent promise?

The onlookers' reactions were a tapestry of emotions. Some gasped at the sight of the void rods, while others shed silent tears for the fall of a once-great house. A few looked on with morbid curiosity, speculating on the rumors of treason. There were those who admired Eryk's composure, even in defeat, and a select few who watched with silent support, cloaked figures whose loyalty to the Thornes remained unspoken.

Eryk's physical presence was a stark reminder of the noble blood that ran through his veins. His hair, dark as the raven's wing, framed a face marked by sleepless nights and the shadow of the gallows. Yet, his posture was not one of surrender but of defiance, a clear challenge to the fate that had been written for him.

As the ceremony concluded, Eryk was led away, the void rods preventing him from collapsing under the weight of his grief. The last thing he saw before the darkness of the dungeon swallowed him was the stranger in the cloak, their eyes now filled with a promise that was both a balm and a curse