The sun bathed the royal court of Veridale in golden warmth, yet inside the marble chamber where the King held his audience, a chill hung in the air—a silence that no jest, no report of conquest or trade, could quite thaw.
King Alden Elvarion III sat upon the emerald-stitched throne, a man draped in silks and wisdom, but visibly dissatisfied.
He leaned his cheek against his gloved hand, eyes unfocused, scanning the empty distance between himself and his courtiers. A book lay abandoned at the foot of his throne—its leather binding pristine, its pages barely disturbed.
The nobles stood in cautious formation. No one dared speak unless spoken to.
The King, after all, was not angry in the usual way. His frustration was subtler, weightier. The Reading Monarch, as he had come to be known, was a man who ruled not only by decree but by depth—his judgments shaped by philosophy, poetry, and the voices of long-dead writers.
But for weeks now… no words had moved him.
"The ink grows thinner," he muttered one day during council. "Stories have lost their teeth."
Today was no different.
Another volume—this one a military chronicle—had failed to ignite even a flicker in his gaze.
He sighed, deeply, his voice echoing across the ornate chamber. "Where are the stories that shake the soul? That awaken awe? Must I wait another decade for a tale worth remembering?"
His court remained still. Ministers exchanged glances. Most had learned not to offer books anymore.
But one man stepped forward—quietly, confidently.
It was Lord Halric Caervell, a seasoned nobleman with a keen eye for trade and taste. Unlike the others, he held no grand novel, no ancient scroll. Instead, he held a thin blue-bound manuscript, plain and unassuming.
"If I may, Your Majesty," he said, bowing low, "there is a story circulating in the merchant towns and noble parlors. Unofficial, and yet... undeniable in its effect."
King Alden raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
"It is titled The Sky Beneath the Water, written by a boy from the provincial town of Rosebarrow. Just seven years old."
A scoff echoed from one corner of the hall. "A child's scribble?"
But Halric ignored it, stepping closer.
"It is the story of a fish—a blue fish—that dreams of becoming a dragon. It is no epic in scale, no saga of gods or kings. And yet, it holds something... different."
The King leaned forward. "A fish… that becomes a dragon?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. Through currents and storms, betrayal and loss, solitude and perseverance. The journey is long, and the transformation uncertain. But in the final moments, when the fish breaks through the surface of the sea, wings of water and wind emerge from its form... and it ascends."
The hall fell utterly silent.
The King said nothing at first. But those closest to him noticed the faintest shimmer in his gaze—like a man remembering something he'd forgotten.
He extended his hand.
"Bring it here."
Moments later, the story was in his lap. The King read in silence.
Not a page turned too fast.
Not a word skimmed.
As the court held its breath, the monarch of Veridale dove deep into the words of a child—into the fears, hopes, and tides that guided a small fish toward something greater.
When at last he reached the final lines, where the dragonfish soared toward the moon, a breath escaped his lips. Not a sigh—but a release. A quiet, vulnerable thing.
He closed the manuscript gently.
Then he stood.
"Who is this boy?" he asked, voice steady.
"Ethan Verne, sire," said Lord Halric. "Son of a bookshop owner. No noble blood, no magical lineage. Only ink, paper, and... heart."
The King nodded.
Then a smile, slow and genuine, touched his lips.
"It has been years since a story made me feel small in the face of wonder. Years since I longed to meet its author in person."
He turned to his scribe. "Write to the Writers' Guild. Have them summon the boy to the capital. If the fish became a dragon... then perhaps the dragon should visit the skies where kings dwell."
And so, the story that once stirred in the hand of a boy in a quiet village now stirred the throne itself.
And the Kingdom of Veridale would never be the same.
The morning the letter arrived, the air in Rosebarrow felt different.
Sunlight spilled through the windows of the Aldric home in golden shafts, catching dust motes in midair like tiny stars. Ethan sat by the table, chewing the end of a quill, his fingers stained with ink and imagination.
His father, Darian, opened the door, bells chiming lightly—and there, standing with posture stiff as a sword, was a representative of the Writers' Guild.
Dressed in dark velvet and silver-trimmed cuffs, the man bowed, then extended a scroll sealed with the crimson crest of the royal family: a dragon wrapped around a quill.
Darian's hand trembled slightly as he broke the seal. His eyes scanned the words—once, then twice.
"Ethan," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "You… have been summoned. By the King himself."
Ethan blinked, unsure whether this was another story his mind had crafted. "The King?" he echoed.
"Yes," the Guild representative said. "His Majesty Alden Elvarion III has requested your presence at the capital's royal court. You are to present yourself and your story to him personally."
The words felt like thunder in Ethan's chest.
The King.
The Reading Monarch—the man whose love for books was whispered about in every village and bookstore. And now he wanted to meet him?
Ethan's mother wept softly with pride. His little sister, Lina, clung to his sleeve, asking if he'd become a prince now.
But Ethan? He could only stare at the letter again and again, the wax seal still warm in his fingers.
Two days later, a royal black-and-gold carriage arrived in Rosebarrow, bearing the Writers' Guild's insignia.
Ethan, dressed in a clean but modest coat his mother had spent all night sewing, climbed aboard with his father. The seat cushions were softer than his bed at home. There was fruit, pastries, and even a blanket stitched with roses. Everything smelled of lemon, cedarwood, and old books.
As the wheels rolled forward and the village slipped away, Ethan pressed his face to the window, wide-eyed.
He had written about grand cities, towering bridges, and griffons soaring above mountain passes. But now, he was seeing them.
Crystalline lakes that shimmered with unnatural colors.
Fields of golden wheat that bowed in patterns like runes in the wind.
A caravan of nomads performing fire dances on the roadside.
At one point, they passed beneath a floating stone arch—hovering in the air by magic alone—etched with ancient language that pulsed faintly as they rolled under it. His breath caught in his throat.
"Everything I imagined…" he whispered. "It's real."
His father smiled, watching the awe in his son's eyes. "And soon, the world will see what you made real, Ethan."
By the fourth day, the spires of Valecross, the capital, broke the horizon like spears of light.
The city was alive with motion: glowing crystal lanterns that floated above merchant streets, musicians playing instruments shaped like coiling ivy, scribes and bards at every square shouting ballads and stories for passing nobles.
But nothing prepared Ethan for the royal court.
The gates alone were taller than any building he'd ever seen, wrought from gold-laced blackwood and guarded by soldiers in silver armor. Beyond them stretched a garden of illusions—flowers that sang when touched, butterflies made of stardust, and stone statues that blinked when no one was looking.
And at the heart of it all stood the palace.
Tall as the sky, carved from alabaster and obsidian, it looked less like a building and more like a dream someone had captured and frozen in place.
As they stepped through the grand halls, Ethan's eyes darted across murals of past monarchs, enchanted chandeliers that drifted lazily in the air, and walls lined with books that reached higher than ladders could climb.
Finally, the massive doors of the royal court creaked open.
Ethan clutched his father's hand as they stepped onto the polished marble floor, every footstep echoing like a drumbeat in his chest.
There, upon a dais layered with velvet and light, sat the King.
A man of silver-streaked hair, sharp eyes, and calm command.
King Alden Elvarion III. The monarch who read more than he ruled—and ruled better because of it.
He stood as Ethan approached, his cloak trailing like a waterfall.
"So," he said, voice gentle but resonant, "this is the boy who taught a fish to fly."
Ethan bowed so deeply his nose nearly touched the floor. His voice trembled.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The King smiled.
"I have read your story, Ethan Aldric. And in your pages, I found something I have long searched for."
"What… what was that, Your Majesty?"
The King stepped down from his throne, stopping only a breath away.
"A spark."
And with that, the world Ethan once only imagined began to bloom before him—not as fiction, but as his future.