# Prologue – The Thunder Phantom
My family may now be great. Wealthy. Respected throughout the Empire of Bragan?a. But it was not always so.
There was a time when the name **Kyros José Fernandes II** was nothing but an insult. A ragged plebeian, son of no one. Trash that nobody wanted nearby. A man who owned nothing—except his own shame. Back then, if anyone had said he would become a legend… they would have spat in his face.
But destiny has the strange habit of spitting back.
It all began during the **War of the Realms**, which lasted ten long years. Ten years of violence that no book could ever fully describe. Ten years of women dragged by their hair and violated in scorched fields. Ten years of men hanged simply for being born with the wrong blood.
Demi-humans hunted like animals. Elves reduced to slaves. Fairies locked in iron cages, sold as relics.
And my father saw it all. With eyes that would never forget.
When the last commander fell, and the Empire of Bragan?a was on the verge of collapse, the army had become a mosaic of hatred, fear, and despair. It was then that **Kyros**, the despised plebeian, raised his voice:
— If we are nothing,* — he said, his body trembling but his gaze forged of iron — *then we have nothing to lose.* — *If they hate us for what we are…* — he lifted a simple sword, unmarked by any crest — *then let us die together.* — *But if we still dream of a place where no one is treated as garbage… then let us fight until the last man.*
No one believed him. At first, only a handful of broken soldiers followed. But they were the ones who won the first skirmish on the burned plains. And then the second. And then… an entire city.
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And then came the others.
— Elizabeth Bragan?a, Countess and Archmage of the Empire, daughter of the Emperor, raised among golden tapestries — but she chose the front lines. They said she commanded three thousand mages, wielding fire and storms. During the siege of Caltrum, she conjured a wall of black flames that devoured an entire army. Enemy generals swore never again to face her golden gaze.
— Marcos Pigeon, the Master of Shadows. Founder of the Guild of Doves. Not just a strategist — he was a mind that saw through war itself. It was he who uncovered the treason of Duke Lorian. No one knew how Marcos moved… but all feared his whispers.
— Amelia Blacksmith, the Hammer of One Hundred Thousand Forges.** When the war threatened to halt for lack of weapons, she lit forges in every loyal city. And she herself marched with a hammer so heavy that no man dared lift it. Each strike of hers carved a path on the battlefield. Though her name was remembered in fire and steel… those who were there knew: she fought as a warrior. She died as a legend.
But no one united them like Kyros. He was the one who reached out to the elves of the East, who had lost their Yggdrasil. Who welcomed the four seasonal tribes—tired of running. Who raised the banners of the last human legions. Who said:
— If we must die, let it be together. But if we live… let it be as brothers.
On the tenth winter, the final siege began. The armies of the North, arrogant kings, descended from the Roraima Mountains like a black tide.
One hundred thousand men. Ten thousand mages. A thousand beast-men. Hundreds of chained monsters, thirsty for blood.
Kyros gathered all that the Empire still had. Elves. Fairies. Men and women who could no longer bear to see children crying in the dust.
On the eve of battle, someone asked: — What are we, against all this?*
And Kyros replied, with a voice full of something no one could name: — *We are all that remains. And that is enough.*
The next morning, to the sound of the first trumpets, he marched at the front. Thunder seemed to follow him. And thus his name was born: **The Thunder Phantom.**
The battle lasted three days and three nights. Elizabeth turned the battlefield into black embers. Marcos poisoned supplies and destroyed every enemy communication. Amelia shattered walls with her hammer that no man dared face. And Kyros…
Kyros killed two kings with his bare hands. Crushed a third until his armor broke like clay. Made the last two flee, their eyes wide with terror.
When the last spear fell to the ground, the silence was so heavy that no one dared speak. Kyros stood there, blood up to his knees, breathing as if he carried the world on his shoulders. And then, he said something that would be forever engraved:
— *One day… I will build a city where no one will bow because of the blood in their veins.* *Not for the color of their skin.* *Not for the God they worship.* *Not for who they choose to love.* *One city where all will be free… to dream.*
In that moment, even the enemies wept.
And when the snow covered the dead… the Empire of Bragan?a survived. The War of the Realms was over. But the legends… had only just begun.
The Emperor knelt before Kyros — a plebeian — and granted him a title no noble dared contest: — *Kyros José Fernandes II… The Thunder Phantom.*
For forty-five years, his name echoed like thunder in the hearts of those who dared forget the price of freedom.
Elizabeth, the Archmage. Marcos, the Master of Shadows. Amelia, the Hammer of One Hundred Thousand Forges. And Kyros… the plebeian who became a pillar of the Empire.
Four friends who were born from nothing. And died as everything.
