When Khalid opened his eyes, the sensory overload of the graveyard was gone, replaced by the hushed, climate-controlled luxury of his private chambers. The air was cool and smelled of expensive sandalwood. He lay on a bed of silken sheets that felt like water against his skin.

  Sitting in a high-backed chair near the bed was his mother, Amirah. Her head was bowed in a fitful sleep. She was still adorned in the heavy gold jewelry and the dark silks she had worn to Zayna’s funeral, but her face was finally uncovered. Despite being in her fifties, her skin was as smooth as polished marble, devoid of the wrinkles that usually accompany age—the benefit of superior Human genetics and a life of absolute privilege.

  Khalid reached out, his hand steady, and softly brushed her left cheek.

  Amirah’s eyes snapped open. For a moment, she looked lost, her crimson eyes darting around the room until they settled on her son. Before she could find her voice, Khalid spoke. His voice was no longer the wavering, emotional tone of the grieving prince; it was low, resonant, and calm.

  "How are you, Mother?"

  Fresh tears welled in her eyes. "I am the one who should be asking that, Khalid," she whispered, her voice cracking.

  Khalid offered her a small, practiced smile—the kind of smile he used to give to voters back in Seoul. "It is alright. I am here now."

  Amirah took his hand, her grip trembling. "We never thought a day would come like this. Your father, Bilal, Zayna... all of them gone. Every burden of this house has fallen upon your shoulders, my child." She looked at him with a mixture of love and pity. "But Khalid... you haven't awakened. How can you carry this weight without the Vakra?"

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Khalid sat up, the movement fluid and decisive. "You don't have to worry about anything anymore. I will take care of everything from here." He looked toward the door. "Tell Mir to come here. I need to send a message to Uncle Usman on Hieros."

  Amirah blinked in surprise. Usman was a Supreme Priest, a man of immense religious influence. "Did you... did you have a vision? Is that why you seek the First Temple?"

  Khalid’s expression didn't flicker. "No. Not in the way you think."

  The sadness returned to Amirah’s face, but she nodded and called for the head butler. Mir, a man who had served the Ghazzawi family with iron-clad loyalty for thirty years, entered and bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the floor.

  "Yes, Your Highness," Mir murmured.

  "Mir," Khalid commanded, his tone sharp and authoritative. "Send a message to Uncle Usman. Tell him to begin the preparations for an awakening ritual. I am giving him exactly six months to prepare the priests and the sanctuary. Furthermore, tell the court to continue purchasing water and food from our current suppliers at any price. We must maintain stability until I return."

  Mir paused, his eyes widening slightly at the sheer confidence in the Prince's voice. "Yes, Your Highness. It shall be done immediately."

  As Mir hurried away, the next six months of Khalid’s life became a calculated campaign of self-improvement. He did not spend his time mourning. Instead, he locked himself in the palace archives, devouring every text on the current political landscape and studying the tactical applications of Vakra in combat. He analyzed the physics of gravity manipulation, treating it like a political science—a tool to be mastered and exploited.

  Beyond the mental rigors, he pushed his physical form to its limits. He engaged in a regressive, brutal strength-training regimen, hardening the muscles of the "soft" prince until his body felt like a coiled spring. His pitch-black hair, no longer shaved, grew to his shoulders, framing a face that had lost its gentle roundness. He decided to keep the thick, dark beard; it added a layer of maturity and shadow to his features that he found suited his new identity.