《The Trouble with Truth》


 Into the Chaos

    The sun was shining from a mostly cloud-free sky, casting a bright warm light across the alpine meadow. In front of Ronan birds were flying across the meadow, searching for insects on the ground between the blooming wildflowers and in the air, one could almost believe that they were playing in the gentle breeze. Never good at identifying animals, Ronan did not know what kind of birds these were, just that he had not seen their like before. On the mountain side Daire had spotted some mountain goats when they were getting into formation, looking up, Ronan could still see them. He could not help but wonder if they had any idea about what was about to happen, as they were peacefully wandering the sunny mountain side.


    He stole a glance at Daire who was fidgeting with his musket, wondering if his friend shared the same tangle of fear and excitement that had kept Ronan awake through the night. Daire''s lean figure had always been a contrast to Ronan''s. Where he was broad shouldered, with large muscles from hammering away at his fathers smithy, with dark hair and deep brown eyes, Daire was lean and agile, his physique formed from years working with his family as tanners, his light brown hair was also in contrast to Ronan''s. Despite this, the two had spent most of their free time together, growing up in Kestrel. He let out a shaky breath trying to get a handle on the anticipation once again, and could see Daire shooting him a crooked smile. At this very moment Ronan missed home more than he ever had before. In the comfort of the smithy, life was predictable. Here, he had no idea of what was to happen in the next moments of his life.


    Ronan knew that Daire was nervous, could see it from the smile he had sent Ronan''s way, hell they all were. Ronan and the rest of the levies from his duchy had been placed on the right flank. They had all been supplied with muskets, though he doubted how much they would be worth, and it seemed that the generals agreed with that assessment as they had only been supplied with black powder and lead balls enough for two or three shots.


    The men around him were all armed with an assortment of axes, maces, and spears brought from home in addition to their muskets. Ronan was one of the lucky few who had a proper steel sword, on account of him and his father running their own smithy back home in Kestrel. On the long march here, Ronan had to guard the sword carefully, since good steel could well be the difference between life and death. Luckily the officers had been quick to enforce discipline, and after a few floggings, one hanging, and an unfortunate foot stabbing people had learned to keep their hands to themselves.


    The front row, which Ronan was fortunate not to be in, all had a square shield from solid wood with a steel rim instead of a musket. From what he had gathered, this was to be their first line of defense against their opponent. The front row were all volunteers, promised triple pay for the risk, either paid to them once they returned home or to their families should they fall. Luckily Ronan and his family had no need of extra money he would much rather keep his life.


    He knew only small fragments of what was planned to happen today. He had been drilled in the different horn signals of course. One horn meant begin the advance, two when they could start firing their muskets, and three when the front row could drop their shields and the charge could begin in proper. Only the Lightbringer would know what would happen after this. The camp gossip had been that the Kingsguard would be in the middle, flanked by the levies from the four duchies. This seemed to be true, because here he and the rest of the levies from the Reach were on the right flank.


    Ronan hoped that the rest of the gossip was true as well, and the Aetherian Knights had arrived in time for the battle as well. Led by Duke Thorne, duke of the Reach, the Knights were famous across the Kingdom of Sardia and beyond. Each knight carried the blessed blood of Aethor the Lightbringer, and had talents and abilities suited for combat and war. Ronan had seen them train many times, and had even helped his dad craft swords to some of the newer recruits, whose families could not afford swords forged by the masters in the capital. He had no doubt that were they to show up, the battle would be won.


    They had all been briefed the night before by their captains, that their enemy, the Duchy of Varn, possessed no blessed knights, the scout reports said that they did not possess any professional soldiers either, so Ronan was not particularly scared of the outcome, all he had to do was survive. Though he had to admit that the high spirit and good humor of the night before had vanished when the Varn army came into view. By his untrained eye they looked closely matched in size, each side easily filling the narrow mountain pass that marked the southern border between the Kingdom of Sardia and the Duchy of Varn, and several ranks deep at that.


    His dad had tried to prepare him for what to expect when they had received the call for levies back home in Kestrel. Though from what Ronan knew, this was several times larger than what his dad had ever experienced on his brief time in the army when he was young. Back then, it was mostly border skirmishes on the western border towards the Grass Sea, fighting the barbarians when they tried to raid the border towns. It had been many centuries since last there was a proper war between the Kingdom of Sardia and anyone, much less their neighbor to the south. All the talk of glory Daire and he had imagined during the long march east and south seemed very distant now, stood roughly one kilometer away from the enemy.


    Sensing it was about time Ronan began double checking his gear. His hands, rough from years at the forge, fumbled slightly with the musket¡ªhe still wasn¡¯t accustomed to handling it. The musket was already loaded and ready to fire the first round, his small supply of three additional rounds and three pre-measured bags of black powder hanging on his right side easy to reach. His small round wooden shield, painted the gold and blue colors of the Reach with the eagle synonymous with the region screeching defiantly in the middle, firm on his back, ready to draw at the charge. He touched the hip length leather doublet, meant to protect from sword slashes, more for his own sake than any real check he had to make, it was snug around his shoulders, felt foreign and heavier than expected, pinching uncomfortably at his sides. His sword, the one he and his father had crafted, was in its sheath just behind the bags for the musket rounds, the clasp unlocked as advised by the captains, so as not to waste time during the charge. It was his one familiar comfort, a weight he knew well, and he rested his hand on it as if drawing strength.


    A few counts later, and the horn sounded once to signal the advance. With the horn he could feel his pulse quicken, both in fear and anticipation. The first real battle in a century, and here he was in the middle of it. He heard a horn across the field, and saw the Varnmen beginning the advance as well. Apparently it had been custom for civilized battle to meet in the middle, and it seemed that custom would be carried on.


    Ronan was both glad and irritated by the leather gloves they had been supplied with. All this leather was boiling him in the sun, even at this altitude. Though he was certain that he would be sweating anyway, and was glad for the extra grip the gloves afforded him. It would not do to drop the musket now.


    To the right of him he saw someone stumble, upsetting the purposeful strides of those behind him. A lot of swearing, and some light jogging and he was back. While occupied with this, Ronan nearly stumbled himself, stepping into a slight indent in the soil. Pulling his attention back to what was in front of him, he saw that the two sides were much closer to each other, it could not be long now.


    What felt like a few heartbeats later, and the front row stopped. Orders were given up and down the line to prepare the muskets. They had practiced this drill relentlessly, yet every time felt different, like fumbling through someone else¡¯s steps in a dance. The front row bearing shields, would crouch down and keep the shields steady. Meanwhile the row behind with muskets would aim and fire, and then crouch down allowing for the row behind them to fire. This would be repeated five times, for the five rows of muskets, until time came again for the front row to stand and fire. Repeating three times, for the three rounds they each had. Ronan had his doubts about how it would go this time, seeing they had yet to do it without issue during training.


    He checked the musket once again, making sure he at least was ready. He could hear orders being shouted to prepare, and then they were all crouching to stay in cover of the shields. He heard the thunderous bang of several thousand small explosions as the first row fir, and then the rustling of one row crouching and the one in front of him standing up.


    Across the field he heard the responding volley, and at the same time several screams as people were being hit. The second row quickly fired, and then it was Ronan''s turn to stand up. A slight hesitation, and then he was up just as the thunder of the enemy''s second volley rolled across the field. He saw the smoke shrouding the Varn lines, and decided to just aim in the general direction of them. He quickly fired his round, and hurried back down. Whether or not he hit anyone, he would never know.


    The volleys were becoming more staggered as they moved behind the lines. Clearly they were not able to fire at the same speed, and Ronan knew his hesitation was mirrored across the lines. He quickly looked right to check on Daire, just to make sure he was unharmed. He saw Daire looking back at him, a slightly manic look in his eyes, one Ronan was sure was mirrored in his own.


    The firing had become almost continuous, with the neat volleys they started with dissolving into a chaotic barrage from the rows behind Ronan. Screams echoed through the air as more soldiers were hit, and the wounded lay scattered among the crouching ranks.


    A brief pause in the thunderous noise signaled the end of the first round of firing. The screams becoming louder in the absence of other sounds. Then he heard then order for the first line of muskets to fire again, and the cycle repeated once again.


    This time when Ronan went up to fire, he could see nothing except a dense and acrid smelling white cloud roving across their own ranks. He quickly fired, still hearing the Varnmen responding to their volleys, with rounds of their own, and crouched back down to reload. Beside him he heard swearing as the man to the left of him, Bramley he believed his name was, dropped his third and last round in the muck, and tried to look for it.


    Ronan decided to focus on his own reload, figuring that Bramley was lucky for not having to get up and fire for the last time.


    A few more moments spend in the cacophony of sound that was screaming and musket fire, a short break as the first musket row prepared to fire again, and then the cycle restarted for the last time. Ronan was ready, his eyes watering, and short of breath because of all the smoke. He almost looked forward to the charge, and getting away from all of this.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    He saw the men around him rise, and he did the same by reflex. He quickly pointed the musket in the right direction, took his shot, and crouched back down. Relieved to have this first part over with, he laid his musket down on the ground beside him, shot a quick smile at Daire who was still alive and unharmed by the look of things, and began preparing for the charge.


    Ronan knew what to expect by now, in a few short moments, there would be a break in the firing as the back finished up and crouched back down. Before all this though, Ronan was pushed from behind. Stumbling slightly, and looking back, ready to shout at whoever had pushed him, but instead he was met with the sight of a man lying face down in the mud, a hole in the back of his head. In the now clear space in front of him, he saw a man still holding his musket with a blank look in his face, staring at nothing. While Ronan was looking at him, the sound stopped around him, only the screaming and moaning of the injured to be heard now. Another rolling thunder from across the field, and he saw the blank faced man take a hit in the shoulder, and spin around.


    Suddenly a loud explosion and heat came to his left. Bramley was on the ground, holding a ruined hand to his right side, screaming as blood poured from him. At the same time, a much louder explosion could be heard from across the field, along with a few happening among their own ranks. Ronan knew then, that the Aetherian Knights were on the field as well. He had seen them train, and seen what they could do with their blessings. Much of it was secret, and he had never seen anything on the scale of what just happened, but there was no doubt that this was the Knights'' doing. It also explained why they had been given exactly three rounds each.


    The three horns rang, and the captains shouted for them to begin the charge. Sparing a look at Bramley, Ronan was pushed forward and into a run. He remembered the shield on his back, and struggled to get it on his left arm, the act proving much harder in a sprint towards a few thousand men armed with sharp iron and steel of their own.


    As he got his shield in hand, he heard the first smack of men meeting in battle, and the clash and ring of iron and steel. Suddenly a man was rushing towards Ronan. He struggled to free his sword from its sheath, snagging on something as he did. Staring death in its eyes Ronan accepted he was going to die. Though before the Varnman was able to swing his axe, he took a spear to the side. The spear was quickly withdrawn, and the man holding it rushed towards the front. The Varnman was left for dead, and trampled beneath the many men rushing towards the front.


    Ronan finally got his sword free and was again being pushed towards where the two armies had met. Everything was chaos, resembling more of a shouting match than the battle Ronan had imagined. Where the two armies had met shield was against shield, one side pushing against the other. Due to his brief skirmish with the Varnman, he was now a couple of ranks behind the shields. Below him the ground had been churned to mud, gone was the green alpine meadow where he had watched the birds playing before the horns had sounded.


    Looking at the ranks in front of him and the enemy shields, he sensed a ripple to his left, where the Kingsguard held the center of their army''s ranks. From that direction, he heard screaming, distinct from the shouting around him. It seemed that the Varnmen could sense the same change, and they took a few steps back from the front.


    People started rushing into the short gap between them and the Varnmen, and the shield men were no longer at the front of their ranks. The gap was quickly filled, and unencumbered by the large rectangular shields his fellow levy-men quickly created gaps in the enemy line, though at a heavy cost.


    As the two armies slowly became entangled in one another, Ronan was pushed into combat yet again. His brief experience with the lone Varnman had not yet left him, and it was with hesitation and apprehension that he was pushed towards what was quickly becoming a melee, ironically closer to what he had imagined a battle being.


    The first enemy he met had a wild look to his eyes. He was armed with a small round shield, much like Ronan, and a bloody hand axe that was most likely used to chop wood in more peaceful times. The man had a cut that was bleeding into one of his eyes, and ran towards Ronan with a slight limp. With each step the enemy took towards him, Ronan felt his stomach twist tighter. The idea of plunging his sword into flesh ¡ª the very thing he¡¯d sharpened and shaped alongside his father ¡ª left him queasy. He blocked the first chop of the axe with his shield, and then tried a thrust at the mans stomach. He felt the sword pierce flesh, and quickly withdrew it again, readying for a slash across the mans chest. Before he could finish the slash, he was tackled from the side by another Varnman.


    Ronan quickly got to his feet and parried the first swing of a mace, feeling the shock of the impact travel up his arm. He slashed back with all his strength, cutting the man across the neck. Surprise flashed across his adversary¡¯s face before life drained from his eyes, blood spilling from the gaping wound.


    As the man collapsed, something shifted within Ronan. The chaos around him seemed to fade, and suddenly, everything became unnervingly sharp and clear. Time slowed, every movement exaggerated¡ªthe swing of a blade, the arcs of weapons, the small shifts in weight before a strike. He was no longer fumbling his way through the fight, but somehow in tune with it instead, as though the rhythm of battle had aligned with his heartbeat.


    Another Varnman came at him, axe raised high. Ronan saw the tension in the man¡¯s arm, the subtle twist of his hip, and instinctively knew when and where the blow would fall. Time stretched, and Ronan easily swayed to the side, avoiding the attack. With swift precision, he slashed his sword across the man¡¯s neck, severing flesh and bone before his enemy could react.


    There was movement behind him¡ªhe felt it. Without thinking, Ronan ducked, evading another blow aimed for his head. Pivoting around, he stabbed upward, his blade piercing the man''s stomach effortlessly. It felt as if his body moved on its own, reacting faster than his mind could keep up. Everything else blurred, but his own movements were sharp, decisive. He moved like a god through the battlefield, cutting down anyone in his path with deadly efficiency. Each swing of his sword brought death, each life taken with an ease that felt both thrilling and sickening. Beneath the rush of power, a small part of him recoiled, wondering if he¡¯d ever look at his own hands the same way again.


    Each strike landed with unnerving accuracy, and as he fought, Ronan felt strangely detached from the violence. There was no fear, only a calm, focused clarity. With each kill came a faint surge of satisfaction, a sense of power welling up within him, and an unsettling feeling of invulnerability that gnawed at the edges of his awareness.


    A moment of calm settled over Ronan as he looked around, his chest heaving and sweat tracing paths through the grime on his face. His leather armor was smeared with blood¡ªnot all of it his own. His sword, his father¡¯s craftsmanship, was slick in his hand, the hilt damp with sweat. A few locks of his dark hair had escaped their binding, clinging to his brow as he took in the scene of carnage around him. He surveyed the scene, surrounded by the bodies of dead Varnmen. At the edge of the circle of fallen enemies, he saw his fellow levy-men, staring at him with a mixture of awe and fear in their eyes. Among them was Daire, blood trickling from a cut on his arm, bruises darkening his face.


    The way Daire looked at him made Ronan uneasy. His friend seemed relieved that Ronan was still alive, but behind that relief, there was something unsettling, it almost looked like fear. It lingered in Daire¡¯s eyes, a look Ronan couldn¡¯t quite shake.


    Before Ronan had anymore time to think on it, he sensed a presence moving towards him. The battle was still raging around his small pocket of calm, and striding towards him was a well armored man, what looked like a knight. He had a full set of steel armor, a sword that to Ronan''s expert eyes looked well made and sure to hold a sharp edge. The knight was also carrying a shield featuring a heraldry that Ronan did not recognize. The look in the knights eyes left no doubt in Ronan, this was a man intent on killing him.


    "Hold there, friend, we are on the same side." Ronan said as the man paused a few strides from him.


    "What makes you say that. You stand in a circle of carnage, with the blood of my countrymen on your blade. I am no friend of yours, Sardian peasant." the knight growled, emphasizing the last few words. As he finished his sentence, he stepped closer and thrust his sword toward Ronan''s stomach, and in that instant, he felt the weight of his own inexperience. The man was a warrior born, molded by battles Ronan could only imagine. And yet, something inside him surged, an unrelenting defiance that urged him to stand his ground.


    Ronan felt the thrust rather than saw it, and once again, instinct took over. He quickly stepped aside, forcing the attacker''s sword wide, only to be met by a shield slamming into his side. Ronan staggered from the impact but regained his footing just as the knight slashed at his head. Ronan''s arm moved before he had a chance to think, managing a slash at the man¡¯s arm. Though it glanced off the knight¡¯s armor, it knocked the oncoming strike off course.


    Time seemed to slow again, all of Ronan''s senses locked on this new opponent. He stepped inside the knight¡¯s reach and aimed a headbutt at his face. The hit connected, and the knight stumbled back. Looking at his face, he saw a broken nose, with blood streaming from it. Without hesitation, Ronan swung his sword at the knight''s face. For the first time, he saw fear in the knight''s eyes. Slowly, he watched the man''s sword move to block the blow. Just before Ronan''s sword would have ended the knight''s life, the blade parried, taking most of the force out of the strike. Still, Ronan managed to land a cut above the knight''s right eye, blood already flowing from the wound.


    The knight retaliated with another slash, and Ronan dodged, realizing too late it was a feint. Even with time seemingly slowed, he couldn¡¯t avoid the steel-rimmed edge of the knight''s shield slamming into his left elbow. He felt the impact all the way up to his shoulder, and his fingers went numb and his grasp on his shield failed. He saw the shield fall to the ground, moving a few steps back before it hit the ground.


    The pain was quick to fade, even though Ronan was sure something should have broken from such a hard blow. Instead, he felt his left hand moving as if nothing had happened, though he had lost his shield and was now at a severe disadvantage. He saw the knight smile in victory. "I will give you one chance to yield, peasant. There is no glory in killing you." Ronan felt something in him pushing him to ignore the knight, and before he knew it, he was stepping forward, gripping his sword with both hands.


    He ducked and swerved to the right, evading the knight''s swing. Before he could process it, he brought his blade down with all his strength, aiming for the knight''s left arm¡ªthe one holding the shield. To Ronan''s astonishment, his blade dented the steel armor, and a gasp of pain escaped the knight as his arm went limp. A flush of pleasure surged through Ronan at the sight of the knight''s pain, though the sensation disturbed him. Without giving the knight time to recover, Ronan swung his blade at the back of the man''s legs, severing his hamstrings and bringing him to the ground.


    Ronan stepped out of the knight¡¯s reach. Once again, pleasure surged through him at the sight of the incapacitated knight. "Any last words before I end your life?" he sneered. The knight looked up at Ronan, though the fear that he expected to see was not there, instead the knight was looking at him with determination, "I won''t give you the satisfaction of seeing me beg, though I must admit, I never anticipated my end to be at the hands of a simple peasant. Finish this now." With those words, the knight dropped his sword to the ground and stared into Ronan''s eyes.


    Ronan once again took his sword in both hands, and readied for a swing to the knights neck. He swung with all his might, watching the blade descend, but before it could connect, his strike was parried, and suddenly he was shoved to the ground.


    Disoriented, he looked around and saw his weapon lying just out of reach. In his peripheral vision, Ronan saw two new sets of feet, both armored. He growled and reached for his sword. Just as his hand closed around the hilt, white-hot pain exploded at the back of his head.

 The Golden Stranger

    Ronan¡¯s head throbbed, each pulse sharp enough to jolt him toward full consciousness. He was lying down, though the surface beneath him was surprisingly soft, warmer than the cold, hard ground he remembered. Faint whispers of canvas and the murmur of distant voices brushed his ears, coaxing him back into the waking world. He had yet to open his eyes, he was still feeling groggy, though the headache was slowly receding to manageable levels.


    Somehow, Ronan could sense two people nearby. It felt almost like it had during the battle, though with less clarity. The feeling brought back scattered and disjointed images of Ronan slaughtering his way through the Varn levies and of his fight with the knight. Where the knight had come from Ronan could not figure out, as they had been told that the Varn had not sent them with their army. A chill crept over him as fragmented memories of the battle returned¡ªthe shocked faces of men he¡¯d cut down, the spray of blood against his skin. His stomach twisted with a pang of disbelief and shame, but there was something else too¡ªa dark thrill coiled deep within him, a fierce, primal satisfaction at the power he¡¯d wielded, however fleeting.


    Something in his bearing or breathing must have changed, because one of those near him began talking.


    "Awake at last I see." The voice was cheerful, but sounded almost forced. It carried the pronunciations that he had often heard in his fathers smithy, when the nobles came to them for weaponry. Ronan briefly wondered if the knight he had fought had had friends and someone had sneaked up on him during their battle. But quickly realized that the accent sounded like it was from northern Sardia, and not Varn.


    Ronan tried to push himself up, but his wrists jerked to a halt, held fast by something rough and unyielding. Blinking through the haze, he realized his hands were bound to the cot.


    "Easy there. Please remain still. You took a solid hit to your head." The cheerful voice sounded once again.


    Ronan began to speak, but as he opened his mouth he realized his throat was as dry as he had ever felt it. Instead of his intended question, he croaked out a request for water instead.


    His eyes were slowly adjusting to the light, and he could see the shape of his captor, and what looked like a large tent around them. Something was moving towards his head, and he felt the sweet taste of water shortly after. He immediately felt relief in his throat.


    "Where am I? Who are you?" Ronan asked as the cup was moved away again. As his vision cleared, he took in the muted glow of lantern light filtering through canvas walls, casting everything in warm, flickering shades of red and gold. The faint scent of leather and cold steel lingered in the air¡ªa camp, not the battlefield.


    "You are back in camp. We dragged you back here after Edric here had to knock you out." as he spoke Ronan turned to the second person in the tent, who is presumably Edric. He stands behind the speaker, dressed in good quality clothes. He stands with arms crossed with an amused look directed towards Ronan. With his close cropped dark hair and short beard, and wide shoulders, made Ronan think of a soldier. The scar across the mans cheek only confirms this. Though judging by his fine clothes, he is no ordinary soldier.


    "I am afraid we had to stop you somehow, and a quick knock seemed the best in the moment." You hear Edric say with no hint of regret in his voice, though no joy either. He too speaks like a noble, though with a dialect closer resembling that of the Sardian heartlands.


    "You are Aetherian Knights." Ronan says as realization dawns.


    "That we are. I am Knight-Sergeant Sir Leoric Ashford, and my big friend behind me is Sir Edric Vance. Now that we have sated your curiosity, and you seem less likely to attack us than when we met earlier, I am hoping you can answer some of our questions." The cheerful voice responded.


    "Why? Why would you need to question me?" Ronan asked again, partly in defiance for being knocked unconscious and restrained here, and partly in fear. He again tried to sit up, so he would at least not have to lie down, and to regain a modicum of control back. Again the restraints resisted the attempt. "Can you please allow me to at least sit up?".


    Sir Leoric nodded, and with a quick motion of his hands, Ronan felt the rope loosen. He sat up, and got a better sense of the tent he was in. It was larger than the small one he had had to share with Daire on the march here. It even had a field cot, the one he was currently in. He took a look at Leoric again. The man who¡¯d spoken had a disarming kind of handsomeness, his features almost too refined to belong to a soldier. Blonde hair, cut close, framed his face, and a pair of unsettlingly bright blue eyes regarded Ronan with polite curiosity. It was the kind of face that might have drawn admiration in the villages, but here, surrounded by scars and soldiers, it only added to his aura of authority. Both Leoric and Edric wore tunics the color of their order, a deep rich burgundy.


    "Comfortable now? Very well. Now tell me¡ªhow did a peasant with no formal training and that¡­improvised gear of yours, manage to best a knight in single combat? Either you have talents you¡¯ve hidden well, or you¡¯re the luckiest fighter I¡¯ve ever seen." Leoric asked, no hints to his thoughts showing on his face.


    "Knight? You mean the Varnman i fought before you two ambushed me?" Ronan shot back, unable to keep the bite out of his tone. The phrase ¡®simple peasant¡¯ still stung, a harsh reminder of the gap between him and these men.


    "Aye, the Varn Knight that you managed to defeat in single combat. According to your comrades, you had slaughtered more than thirty Varn levies before your battle with him. I almost believe them based on the scene when we interrupted you. But yet here you lie, with nothing but a few scratches, and what appears to be a bruised arm." Leoric looks intently at Ronan. It is clear that this is why he is here.


    "I¡­ think so, yes," Ronan replied, his voice edged with frustration. "It¡¯s all a bit hazy¡ªmaybe thanks to the blow to my head."


    "It¡¯s all a blur. One second, there was nothing but chaos, and then¡­" He paused, instinctively touching his bruised arm, wincing as he remembered dropping his shield. "¡­and then I felt invincible. The knight turned up, just as I had a chance to regain my breath. I cant remember much about the battle with him, only that at the end, I had my sword moving towards his neck."


    Leoric studied him for a moment, his gaze was unblinking, his head tilted slightly as if he were studying a puzzle. "And this invincibility¡­ it just came to you?"


    "Yes, as I said. One moment everything was chaos, and then..." Ronan says, the moments before the strange feeling becoming clearer. "I was fighting someone, and then as I saw them die, and felt my sword cut through them, everything sort of made sense."


    "This happened after you killed someone? Was this your first time taking another mans life?" Leoric was becoming more intense in his questioning.


    "I think so yes, and no this was my first battle." he again felt dismay at the thought of the lives he had taken. "Why, what is so important about this?"


    "It is most likely nothing, we just find it strange that you were able to defeat a trained knight, the first time you experience combat. As I said, you are probably the luckiest man in the army," Leoric said, a wry smile playing on his lips that didn¡¯t quite reach his eyes, and Ronan still felt that there was something more to this conversation. "Oh, I completely forgot to ask what is your name? Where are you from?"


    "Ronan, sir. My name is Ronan, from Kestrel."


    Leoric¡¯s eyes flickered briefly with recognition, a look that seemed both thoughtful and guarded before he settled back into his polite, curious demeanor. He gazed towards the end of the cot, and Ronan following his gaze, saw his sword sheathed and leaning against the end of the cot.


    "Ronan," the Leoric repeated to himself. "You are Gideon Blackbridge¡¯s boy, are you not? I see you carry one of his swords. Yes, now I recognize you. You used to watch us train back in Kestrel."


    "Yes, I did," Ronan replied, his voice softening as he recalled the days spent watching the knights train. "Back then, I thought I¡¯d never hold a blade like yours."


    "I''ll say you did more than hold it like us today. Hell you probably saved the lives of a lot of your friends today with the fear you struck into them. The Varn are soundly beaten and there are already talks of peace again." Leoric said still with that wry smile, though with more warmth know that he recognized Ronan. "Go rest, and tell your friend you are okay. He was quite persistent and annoying when we first dragged you here."


    "Daire was here?" Ronan asked, feeling better now that he knew the questioning was over. "Is he okay?"


    "Yes, your friend is fine, though he and everyone else seems to have more scratches than you. We had to order him back to the Reach camp before he would leave us alone. You''ll find you doublet at the end of the cot near your sword, along with your shield."


    Ronan got up, feeling a bit unsteady. He made his way over to his gear where he buckled his sword at his waist and slung the small shield over his back. The familiar weight of the blade at his side offered a flicker of reassurance. He ran his fingers briefly over the leather-wrapped hilt, still smeared with grime. Though worn now, it felt like a lifeline¡ªa connection to his old life.


    "Can I ask one more thing? What happened to the knight, why did you stop me?"


    Leoric''s gaze settled on him. "I would advice you refrain from sticking you nose where it does not belong." he said, voice cool. Then, after a pause, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Though I do suppose we can humor you this once, you were the one to best him, after all."


    As Leoric said this Edric grunted¡ªa sound somewhere between amusement and derision¡ªbut kept his expression neutral.


    Leoric continued, clearly ignoring Edric¡¯s reaction. "The Varn knight was taken prisoner and delivered to the Kingsguard. They will probably question him, and then use him as a bargaining chip when the Varn sue for peace." His words were as casual as if he were discussing the weather, but the cold practicality of it twisted in Ronan¡¯s gut.


    "Now hurry on." Leoric waved a dismissive hand, as if shooing a child. "Depending on how things go in the coming days, we might seek you out again for further questions, so please stay near your unit. We would hate to have to seek you out at your father''s smithy, once we are back in Kestrel."


    Ronan¡¯s jaw tightened, the words landing harder than he wanted to admit. He gave a curt nod and finished securing his gear, turning sharply on his heel. As he stepped toward the tent¡¯s exit, a lingering thought gnawed at him: in the eyes of these knights, his worth would always be measured by the blade his father had forged and the blood he had spilled¡ªnot by who he was or what he might yet become.


    As he stepped out of the tent, he felt the cool evening air hit him. It helped clear his head, and he felt invigorated. He looked around and saw the sky still faintly lit, glowing orange from the sun setting behind the mountains. Looking up at the mountains either side of the valley, he could see the peaks glowing orange, from the sun hitting the snow. He stood for second, taking stock of himself, and admiring the view. There was something otherworldly about it that captured Ronan''s attention fully.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    He was brought back by the sound of cursing and laughter. Evidently someone had tripped and fallen, much to the joy of his comrades it seemed.


    Ronan began the walk towards the section of the camp where the levies of the Reach had settled. The valley the army had camped in was fully dark, the steep mountain sides blocking whatever sunlight still remained in the day. The sound of running water could be heard echoing through the valley. They had camped next to a small stream which - according to some of the older levies - eventually joined the great Ironflow River, one of the two great rivers they had crossed on the march from Kestrel to here.


    While the levies¡ªand surprisingly, the Aetherian Knights¡ªslept in tents or under the open sky, the Kingsguard had taken command of the fort that marked the border crossing into Sardia. He had to ask for directions two times, before he got his bearings and found the standard of the Reach marking his camp.


    He found Daire sitting with a few others, staring into the campfire. The smell of food had lingered throughout the camp, but it was especially strong here. Men slowly rotated one of the mountain goats he had admired earlier over the fire. The group laughed loudly at a joke he couldn¡¯t hear, passing beer around in mismatched containers. Judging by the grimaces on a few faces, stronger spirits seemed to be in the mix as well.


    Ronan walked towards the fire, so he was stood behind Daire. The laughter around the fire dwindled as heads turned, one by one, toward him. Ronan shifted uncomfortably under the weight of their stares, unable to discern the look in their eyes.


    To break the awkwardness he placed a hand on Daire''s shoulder, and took a seat beside him. "Pass me a drink please, I think I could drink the whole of Lake Stonemist." Daire jumped slightly, his face flickering from shock to relief in an instant.


    "By the Lightbringer am I glad to see you awake again!" the joy and relief was clear in Daire''s face, as he passed his tankard of beer over to Ronan. "Now what in Oblivion did the Knights want of you. I was afraid they wouldn''t let you go."


    As Ronan took a deep drink of the beer, he could feel the eyes of everyone around the fire on him. He took his time to gather his thoughts before he handed the tankard back to Daire. "To be honest, I am not fully sure. They wanted me to tell them about the battle, and my fight with the knight. I''ll tell you the same I told them." he took a deep breath and looked at his hands, still stained with the grime of battle. "I don''t remember much of it. After the shield walls both broke down everything becomes a blur to me. The only things I know for certain was you standing in a ring around me at some point, and then that I was about to kill that knight."


    He reached for the tankard again and took another drink of it. Daire and the rest were still staring at him. "Come now, why are you all staring at me like that?" He felt embarrassed, he did not like being at the center of their attention like this.


    "You really don''t remember?" Daire shook his head, disbelief etched into his face. Around the fire, others exchanged uneasy glances, as though trying to reconcile the man before them with the stories they''d already started whispering. "You slaughtered your way through the Varn. It was like you were a force of nature. All the rest of us could do was follow in your wake."


    Ronan sighed heavily. "That¡¯s also what the two Knights told me, though they found it hard to believe¡ªas do I. Come on now, Daire, you know me." His voice carried a pleading note. "You know I¡¯ve never used a sword before. How in Oblivion could I have done what you say?"


    A voice from across the fire spoke up. "We saw what we saw, lad. All of us saw you fighting your way through the Varn. You might say you¡¯ve never used a sword before, but that don¡¯t mean we all imagined the same thing."


    Ronan stared at the man in silence, his disbelief and defeat plain on his face. He took another drink, unsure how to respond. The man spoke again before he could answer. "Now, there¡¯s no use arguing over this. The battle¡¯s over, the Varn are soundly beaten by all accounts. We¡¯ve got plenty of beer, good food roasting over the fire, and I¡¯ve heard the generals will allow the camp followers to join us tonight."


    At this, the men around the fire turned to merrier topics, some already joking about bedding one of the camp women they¡¯d seen following the army. But Ronan couldn¡¯t quite shake the feeling that something had changed between him and the others. Even the way Daire looked at him was subtly different.


    Soon, the goat finished roasting, and the mood lightened further. Even Ronan found himself distracted from the strangeness of the day. The beer and warm meat worked wonders for his spirits. He realized he was starving, nearly choking on the first piece he bit into, much to the laughter and amusement of the others.


    The conversation drifted to what awaited them back home: professions, families, and everyday life. A farmer¡¯s son grumbled about the upcoming harvest and long days in the fields. A carpenter enthusiastically recounted working with a rare type of wood Ronan didn¡¯t recognize. Another man from Kestrel spoke excitedly about courting the tailor¡¯s daughter. Everything but the battle¡ªtheir one shared experience¡ªwas discussed.


    As the meal ended and drinking began in earnest, the camp followers arrived. Traders moved between fires, selling shoes, coats, trousers, and even alcohol in exchange for coin or loot scavenged from the battlefield. One trader offered eight silver crowns for Ronan¡¯s sword¡ªa fraction of its true value, closer to three gold crowns back in Kestrel. The lowball offer felt like an insult. Ronan didn¡¯t bother to answer, turning back to the fire. The trader muttered something about arrogance as he moved on to another group.


    Around the fire, many men eagerly bartered. Some displayed scavenged steel blades or bits of armor, while others sold off small treasures¡ªtrinkets taken from bodies, broken jewelry, or even gold teeth, pried free in the aftermath. Ronan shivered as he noticed one soldier examining a bloody ring before selling it. He couldn¡¯t decide if he felt disgusted or indifferent. It all felt like another world.


    The prices struck him as absurd. He watched a soldier sell a fine dagger for just one silver Crown¡ªa blade worth four times that in Kestrel. Yet the man looked pleased enough, and almost immediately spent his coin on a bottle of alcohol and a new shirt. Ronan found himself both appalled and strangely envious. For a brief moment, the man¡¯s carefree attitude seemed preferable to the heavy questions weighing on his own mind.


    Among the traders came the women. Though prostitution wasn¡¯t illegal in Sardia, it was often frowned upon. Ronan had always been cautioned against it by his father. Once, during a festive night with Daire, he¡¯d ignored that advice. The memory was hazy, clouded by drink, but he remembered finding it pleasant¡ªthough not nearly as satisfying as being with a girl who wanted to be there, unpaid. Now, watching the women move effortlessly through the camp, their practiced smiles and confident steps drawing the soldiers in, he felt a mix of unease and curiosity.


    The women moved with practiced ease, skillfully finding their targets among the men, their laughter and soft words weaving through the campfire''s glow. They settled close, sharing drinks and drawing their chosen partners into conversation with casual intimacy. One woman sat beside Daire, her presence immediately commanding his attention. She was pretty, older than both he and Ronan, but not by much. Her long, shiny hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and her chestnut-colored eyes sparkled in the firelight. Ronan saw the way Daire''s gaze lingered on her, a telltale sign of interest. Not wanting to intrude, he shifted his attention back to the fire.


    Then, he felt it again¡ªa faint sensation, like the muted pressure of someone watching him or moving toward him. His body tensed instinctively, his pulse quickening, though he couldn¡¯t say why. The faint, floral scent of lavender reached his nose, and the rustle of a skirt followed as someone settled beside him. Slowly, the tension eased from his shoulders, though the strange feeling lingered at the edge of his awareness, unbidden and unsettling.


    Before Ronan could react, the young woman beside him reached for the tankard in his hand. She moved with such nonchalance that he didn¡¯t resist, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his surroundings.


    "By the Lightbringer, I needed that," she said with a sigh, her voice light but edged with weariness. She took a deep drink before handing the tankard back, leaning closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world.


    Ronan glanced at her, noticing the way her golden hair shimmered in the firelight and the confident ease in her movements. He remained silent, unsure of what to say, as the woman smiled faintly, her gaze flickering toward the fire before settling on him.


    "I''m Lyra. Pleased to meet you." The golden-haired woman, Lyra, spoke with a hint of playfulness in her voice. It took a moment for Ronan to realize he needed to respond, still caught up in his own thoughts. "I''m Ronan," he said, the words awkward after too long a pause.


    "So, Ronan, what brings you to this corner of Sardia?" she asked, her tone playful, putting emphasis on his name.


    Ronan blinked, staring at her with a questioning expression. Was this a joke? Did she not realize that they had all just fought for their lives mere hours ago? He glanced toward the fire, searching for the right words, but none came. Instead he took another drink of his beer.


    "Sorry, I did not mean to offend. I was trying to make light of the situation. You look so serious compared to your comrades." Lyra''s tone was still friendly, though more subdued this time.


    Ronan sighed, releasing some of the tension in his chest. "It''s fine. I just have a lot on my mind tonight." He turned his head to meet Lyra''s gaze. She was undeniably pretty. Her golden hair framed blue eyes that caught the small flames of the campfire, their light flickering within. A small nose and lightly painted lips of a soft red hue completed her attractive face. His gaze involuntarily dipped lower, to where her dress displayed more cleavage than was proper. He didn¡¯t mind at all, but as his cheeks warmed, he quickly shifted his focus back to her eyes, slightly embarrassed by his wandering attention.


    Lyra¡¯s lips curved into a knowing smile. "It''s fine for you to look; we both know why I¡¯m here." Her tone was playful, tinged with amusement and a hint of satisfaction. "If it¡¯s alright with you, we can just talk for now." she added, her voice softer, inviting.


    "Where are you from, Ronan?" she asked as she handed the tankard back to him, her eyes lingering on his face as he took a drink.


    "I''m from Kestrel. My da and have a blacksmith there."


    "A blacksmith, now I know how you got these broad shoulders." She grinned, her voice carrying a teasing lilt as she reached out, slipping her arm around his shoulders and running her hand along them. She squeezed lightly, her fingers tracing the muscles of his upper arm. "All that hammering really gives you smiths some big arms, doesn¡¯t it?"


    "I guess," Ronan replied, his voice tinged with discomfort. "Though it¡¯s hard work." He quickly shifted the focus. "And you, where are you from?" he asked, eager to steer the conversation away from himself.


    "Hard indeed. Me? I''m from some little village up in Greenwood. A sleepy place where nothing happens." As she talked, her gaze grew distant, lost in memories of her childhood. "When I was old enough, I packed my things and went to Sardiskeep."


    She paused, her expression softening with nostalgia before she continued. "I know what you might think, but I don''t regret my choice one bit. I¡¯ve got a room at a good tavern back in the capital, and now I get to travel Sardia while making money." Her voice carried a hint of pride, and she smiled as though anticipating his judgment.


    She sounded happy, so Ronan decided not to argue, it also helped with any guilt he might have felt that she seemed to enjoy the work.


    Ronan decided not to argue. She seemed happy, and that eased any guilt he might have felt. Her apparent contentment silenced the voice in his head that had been questioning her circumstances.


    Their conversation carried on as the fire burned lower, with more and more of the men retreating to bed¡ªsome with women, some alone. Lyra shared stories of her life in Sardiskeep, recounting outrageous tales of the capital that made Ronan chuckle despite himself.


    In turn, he shared snippets from his own life in Kestrel¡ªtales of his father¡¯s forge, the people in town, and the simple, predictable life he had once taken for granted.


    For the first time in what felt like days, Ronan allowed himself to be in the moment. As Lyra spoke, her animated storytelling filled the silence, and he found his thoughts drifting further from the chaos of the battle. The warmth of the fire and the easy rhythm of their conversation offered him a fleeting sense of peace.


    As their talk began to slow, Lyra fixed him with an intense, knowing look. "So, my big, strong smith," she said, her tone playfully seductive, "will you take me to bed now?"


    It only took Ronan a moment to decide. Her closeness and lingering touches throughout the night had had a very clear¡ªand visible¡ªeffect on him. "Alright then," he said with a slight nod, his voice low, "let¡¯s do it."


    He pushed himself to his feet, slightly unsteady from the beer he had been drinking all evening. Lyra, however, moved with a dancer¡¯s grace, her steps fluid and unaffected, as though she hadn¡¯t had a drop of alcohol. She stepped close to him, her golden hair catching the glow of the fading firelight. Her voice softened, but it carried an edge of businesslike finality. "Not to kill the mood, but there¡¯s the small matter of my payment. Five silver Crowns, and I promise you¡ªI¡¯m worth every coin."


    Ronan hesitated, not at the idea of paying, but at the price. A gold Crown could buy many nights of entertainment back in Kestrel. He glanced at her again¡ªher confident smile, the glint in her blue eyes, and the alluring curve of her lips¡ªand felt his hesitation crumble. In his current state, and faced with the captivating sight of Lyra, the decision was easy.


    Instead of answering, he closed the gap between them and kissed her hungrily. Her lips were soft and warm, and as she leaned into him, all thoughts of silver Crowns and the day¡¯s horrors faded from his mind.

 The Reaper of the Sardian Pass

    Ronan''s sword was sheared at the tip and now had a jagged edge. The sky above was threatening, and all sound seemed to come from very far away. He had just killed a man, lying lifeless before him now.


    His sword and body seemed to almost hunger lifeblood. Thoughts of slaughter running unimpeded through his mind, filling him with joy. Ronan felt himself slipping, watching his own movements as though through a fog, a passenger in his own body. Something else had control.


    He saw his jagged sword slide into yet another faceless victim. This one bearing the colors of the Reach. One of his country men then. His body moved on, having tasted the blood the slain man. A quick parry, then a riposte and his sword tasted blood once again. Each drop seeming to energize it, each slash becoming easier.


    He slid the sword into the next mans stomach, looking at the man. He expected him to be faceless, but instead it was Daire staring back at him. Horror should have gripped him, but it slid away, lost beneath a wave of exhilaration that surged with each drop of blood spilled. The joy was alien, terrifying in its intensity. Focusing on the face again it was not Daire but his own father he now saw. Staring at him with pity, moving his mouth as if speaking but with no sound.


    Ronan withdrew the sword from his fathers stomach and saw him crumble to the ground, a joyful expectation filling him at the thought of his next kill. As his father fell Ronan saw Lyra standing behind him. Her golden hair glowed like a halo in the fading sunlight, framing eyes that shimmered with pity, their light dim against the encroaching shadows. Again she seemed to be speaking, but no sound reached him. Suddenly he looked down to see blood welling from his side, where a knife had just punctured him Lyra''s hand wrapped around the hilt.


    He slumped to the ground, trying with all his might to feel something other than anger at being defeated. Lyra was in front of him again those pitying blue eyes still there. Her lips moved, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade: "...sorry, Ronan." The words reverberated in his skull as the knife bit deep, her grip firm on the hilt. "Fight it" something whispered, before darkness took him.


    "Ronan." Distant murmurs tugged at his awareness, low and droning like the hum of bees. They pressed against his thoughts, a quiet yet persistent summons. There was something he needed to do, if only the noise could quiet down.


    "Sorry Ronan," this time accompanied by light shaking. Ronan couldn''t help but feel that were he disturbed now, he would miss something important. "Ronan! You need to wake up." A light smack on his shoulder all but forced Ronan to open his eyes. Ronan blinked, trying to align the face before him with the voice pulling him from the void. Daire¡¯s grin seemed too bright, his relief too sharp¡ªit felt as though the battle was still clinging to him, its weight pressing just beneath his skin.


    "There we go! By the Lightbringer, I thought you would never wake, you sleep heavier than a boulder." Ronan almost turned around, but seeing it was light outside, decided against it. He sat up, the events before slowly coming back to him. He looked to the side to check if Lyra was awake as well, but saw she was gone.


    "She woke when I entered the tent. You got a fine one there my friend." He shot a big grin towards Ronan, Though I¡¯d say mine was the better choice," Daire added with a mock-serious grin.


    "It is too early for me to handle you right now Daire, please get out. You can annoy me when I''ve had some breakfast to try and satiate this hangover." As the remnants of his dream faded, only the faint memory of joy lingered.


    "Better hurry. Those two knights from yesterday were already here¡ªlooking for you. They didn¡¯t seem the patient type." At this Ronan sighed, he had suspected yesterday the knights where not finished with their questions yet. With a sigh he got up, and put on his clothes, still dirty from the march and battle.


    "What''s for breakfast then? I better eat before I go to them." Ronan could feel the alcohol from yesterday. He felt a light headache and general fatigue, though how much was from the battle and how much from the alcohol he did not know.


    At the campfire, Ronan settled down with a bowl of stew and some water fresh from the stream. As he ate and drank, he could feel some strength returning to him, and with it some memories from last night. The softness and warmth of Lyra at the forefront of his mind. The taste of her as they kissed, and the smell of her when they lay down to sleep. As the last traces of warmth faded from his memory, the cold fresh mountain air prickled his skin, pulling him fully into the morning.


    For the first time since the march began, Ronan felt a sense of satisfaction¡ªhe had survived his first battle, spent the night with a beautiful woman, and shared jokes with Daire. Perhaps soldiering could be like this¡ªan adventure. But beneath the contentment lingered a question he couldn¡¯t quite shake: why did he feel excited at the prospect of battle?


    When he had finished eating and taking another cup full of water, Ronan decided to not wait any longer, and headed towards the Aetherian Knights'' camp.


    Seeing the Sardian camp in daylight gave Ronan a better perspective of the price of battle, things the darkness yesterday had hidden. Many men sat silent around the campfires, nursing injuries that ranged from shallow scratches to missing limbs, a clear indication that the camp doctors had been busy in the aftermath of the battle.


    Apparently Ronan and his comrades had fared much better than most. What struck him most, however, wasn¡¯t the injured but the missing. Campfires that should have been crowded with laughter and camaraderie were eerily quiet, their circle of men halved or worse. The absence of voices was a weight all its own,


    The stillness of the fires gnawed at him, chipping away at the fragile sense of satisfaction he''d carried moments ago. Was this the true face of the adventure he¡¯d imagined? Resolving to push past the unease gnawing at him, Ronan focused on the task ahead and made his way toward the knights¡¯ camp.


    At the camp, the scene was less grim. Their injuries were fewer, their polished armor catching the sunlight as they moved with purpose. The contrast was stark¡ªtraining and steel had spared them the worst. Yet even here, some men bore wounds, the grim reminders of a battle that had left no one entirely untouched. But still they all seemed to be in good spirits, their injuries nothing more than another story to tell in the taverns.


    Ronan quickly found Leoric and Edric near the tent where he had woken yesterday. The metallic scrape of whetstones and the gleam of polished steel caught Ronan¡¯s attention. Both knights sat outside in the sun, cleaning and polishing their gear with practiced ease.. As he walked towards them Leoric glanced up and with a faint smile he beckoned him over.


    "Good morning, Ronan. I¡¯m glad you came so promptly." Leoric¡¯s voice carried an easy warmth, though his eyes never left his blade as he continued polishing it.


    "Daire said it was important." Ronan met the knight¡¯s gaze, the easy warmth of Leoric¡¯s smile doing little to lift the unease lingering in his chest. He hadn¡¯t forgotten how they ended things yesterday¡ªthe callousness of using lives as bargaining chips still not sitting right with him. He hesitated for a moment, considering his words carefully. "So, what can I do for you? I would like to get back to my own things before we march again."


    Leoric continued the practiced motions of sharpening and polishing his blade, but his tone shifted as he shot a quick glance at Edric. "Straight to the matter at hand, then. Fine." He paused briefly before continuing. "The Knight Paramount would like a word with you."


    As he said this, Leoric finally stopped his work and focused fully on Ronan. His blue eyes held an intensity that Ronan couldn¡¯t ignore. "He was quite impressed with the tales of your actions on the battlefield¡ªparticularly your duel with the knight from Varn."


    "The Knight Paramount?" Ronan had a hard time keeping the disbelief from his voice. "Why would the Duke of the Reach be interested in talking with me, I''m just a soldier."


    "Believe me, we are as surprised as you are," Leoric took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts "I figured I would have to question you myself on the march back to Kestrel, but the Knight Paramount was quite keen on meeting the Reaper of the Sardian Pass. Tales are already spreading about you." At these last words he gave Ronan a wink.


    Ronan blinked, unable to hide his surprise. "Is that what they¡¯re calling me? The Reaper."


    Part of him swelled with pride at the recognition, a flicker of joy at the thought of his actions being recounted. But beneath it was a quiet unease, a whisper reminding him that taking lives¡ªno matter how heroic it seemed¡ªwas not something to celebrate. The weight of the name pressed on him. Was this what he wanted to be known for?


    "Of course that is what you get caught on. You need to hurry, the Duke doesn¡¯t like to be kept waiting." Leoric had gone back to polishing his gear now, apparently satisfied with his blade, he was now beginning on his breastplate. "You''ll find him near the center of our camp. Look for the biggest tent." At this, his attention was once again focused on maintaining his gear.


    With a curt nod, Ronan turned and made his way toward the center of camp. Pride carried him forward, straightening his posture and putting a pep in his step. Tales of the Reaper of the Sardian Pass filled his mind¡ªtales others were spinning about him, tales he hadn¡¯t asked for. Pride carried him, but in its shadow lurked a quiet unease. Would his reputation be forged by his deeds, or the stories others wove around him?


    It didn¡¯t take long to find the largest tent in the camp. The dark blue fabric rippled like a royal banner in the breeze, the gold accents along its edges catching the sunlight. Two pennants flanked the entrance¡ªone bearing the screeching eagle of the Reach, the other the flaming sword and shield of the Aetherian Knights.


    A man stood guard in front, his polished armor gleaming like silver. His posture was rigid, but his sharp eyes flicked over Ronan with practiced scrutiny as he approached.


    "I was told the Duke is expecting me," Ronan said, his voice steady though his chest felt tight.


    The guard tilted his head slightly, studying him. "And who might you be?" he asked, his tone measured but firm. "It¡¯s hard to verify if the Duke is expecting you without knowing your name."


    The guard¡¯s sharp tone caught Ronan off guard, and for a moment, the confidence he¡¯d built on the walk faltered. Straightening his posture, he forced the words out. "Umm... Ronan, sir. Ronan Blackbridge."


    He hesitated, then added quickly, "I was sent here by Leoric Ashford. He said the Duke wanted to speak to me."


    The guard studied him for another moment, his sharp gaze softening slightly as he gave a brief nod. "Wait here," he said curtly, turning and stepping inside the tent. The flap fell shut behind him, leaving Ronan standing alone.


    The quiet stretched, broken only by the faint murmur of voices within the tent. Ronan shifted his weight, his palms brushing against the now worn leather of his sword hilt.


    Not long after, the guard returned, stepping aside to hold the flap open. Behind him came a man whose presence filled the space before he even spoke. Broad-shouldered with piercing amber eyes, he moved with the confidence of someone who had led men into battle and brought them home. His burgundy cloak, trimmed with silver, swept lightly against his polished boots. Ronan had no doubt¡ªthis was the Duke of the Reach, Thorne of Kestrel.


    "Ronan is it?" Thorne¡¯s voice was rich, carrying the weight of authority yet touched with warmth. "It is a pleasure to meet the one they call the Reaper of the Sardian Pass."


    Ronan stiffened slightly at the title, unsure whether to feel pride or discomfort. But as Thorne¡¯s smile softened, it dispelled some of his unease. There was no arrogance in Thorne¡¯s tone, only genuine curiosity¡ªso unlike the veiled barbs he had sensed in Leoric¡¯s words.


    "The pleasure is mine, sir." Ronan stood stiffly, unsure if he was supposed to kneel, bow, or just stand there. Before he could decide, Thorne started moving, "Please, follow me."


    Ronan felt anticipation build within him, sensing that he would soon learn why the Duke of the Reach and Knight Paramount had summoned him. Straightening his posture, he quickly fell into step behind Thorne. The guard¡¯s steady footsteps echoed softly behind them, a quiet reminder of the formality of the moment.


    Thorne¡¯s stride was measured and purposeful, his cloak trailing lightly behind him. Ronan couldn¡¯t help but notice the ease with which Thorne carried himself¡ªlike a man accustomed to command, yet unburdened by its weight.


    "I must admit, the tales of your prowess in yesterday¡¯s battle are remarkable. Astonishing, even. Though I wonder if such feats can truly belong to just one man." Thorne¡¯s tone was light, conversational, yet carried an undercurrent that set Ronan on edge.


    "I heard from Leoric that you single-handedly bested one of the Varn nobles and played quite a large role in keeping our right flank relatively unharmed." Ronan could sense that while Thorne¡¯s tone was companionable, there was a subtle challenge beneath it, as though he expected Ronan to admit he had help.


    "Thank you, sir," Ronan started, sensing a reply was expected. For a brief moment, he hesitated, the weight of Thorne¡¯s gaze pressing on him.


    "I must admit that much of yesterday is a blur," he continued, his voice steadier now. "I remember flashes¡ªthe chaos, the noise¡ªbut not enough to piece it all together."


    As he spoke, a flicker of confidence returned. There was a reason Thorne had summoned him, after all, and it couldn¡¯t simply be to dismiss what Leoric had reported. "I¡¯m certain you¡¯ve heard more about the battle than I could recall, my lord," he added, his tone growing more assured.


    Thorne¡¯s amber eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze steady but unreadable, as though weighing Ronan¡¯s every word. "Indeed," he replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Yet hearing it from the man himself is far more illuminating."


    "I remember standing in a circle of dead Varn. Around me, the other levy-men from the Reach stood some distance away, just staring at me." As he was telling this story again, Ronan could still clearly recall the look in Daire''s eyes, the unease in his eyes.


    The joy of seeing blood spilled surged again, unbidden, clawing at the edges of his mind. For a moment, he felt the same terrible thrill¡ªthe same dark satisfaction¡ªthat had overtaken him during the battle. He pushed the thought away, forcing himself to focus, fighting the feeling of losing control, reminiscent of what he felt when waking this morning.


    "The next thing I remember is the Varn man, the knight, moving toward me, and then him on his knees with my sword moving toward his neck," he finished, his voice quieter now, as though speaking the words aloud brought the memory into sharper, more uncomfortable focus.


    "I see. Was this your first taste of battle? The first time you''ve had your memory be so unclear?" Thorne¡¯s tone was conversational, light even, but Ronan couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that each word was deliberate, carrying a weight far greater than Thorne let on. His amber eyes, steady and sharp, seemed to pierce through Ronan¡¯s every hesitation.


    "Yes, my lord. I''ve never seen battle before. I am a blacksmith back in Kestrel. This was my first time using a sword." The words felt heavy on his tongue, an admission that stripped away the veneer of the tales surrounding him. What could Thorne possibly want with him, a simple blacksmith?


    He heard a small, almost inaudible, "Interesting, very interesting," from Thorne. The words seemed more for himself than for Ronan, as though he were fitting another piece into a puzzle only he could see.


    "Enough with the questions. Your answers fit with Leoric''s report," Thorne said suddenly, his tone returning to a light, almost happy timbre. The piercing intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by a glimmer of something else¡ªcuriosity, perhaps, or amusement. "Would you perhaps be interested in a little sparring match with me? I would be interested in seeing the talent of the one who could best a knight, even a Varn one, without any formal training."This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    Sensing it was more an order than an offer, Ronan felt no other option than to accept. Thorne''s faint smile didn¡¯t waver, but his eyes held a quiet expectation that left no room for refusal.


    "It would be an honor," Ronan replied, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. "Though as you said, I don¡¯t have any training."


    Ronan swallowed hard, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword as though seeking reassurance from the worn leather grip. His mind raced. What was Thorne hoping to prove? To humiliate him, or to test the stories? Either way, the thought of crossing swords with a man of Thorne¡¯s skill made his stomach churn. And the humiliation that would surely follow when he inevitably lost only made the prospect worse.


    They quickly moved to an open area, filled with other Aetherian Knights practicing. The rhythmic clang of wooden swords striking filled the air, punctuated by sharp commands and the occasional grunt of exertion. It seemed to Ronan that this had been Thorne¡¯s plan all along¡ªa carefully orchestrated test.


    Thorne moved with an unhurried grace, lifting a wooden practice sword as though it were an extension of himself. He turned, his amber eyes calm but intent, and indicated for Ronan to do the same.


    Ronan hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. His fingers trembled slightly as he gripped the wooden hilt, the wooden sword heavier than anticipated. He forced himself to meet Thorne¡¯s gaze, though the anticipation coiled tight in his chest.


    Unsure of what to do, Ronan walked slowly toward Thorne. "Do we just¡­ start? Or is there something else I should know?" He felt the need to get this clarified. Ronan would not want to strike at Thorne before ready; he was a noble, after all, and Ronan just a commoner.


    "Let¡¯s skip the formalities," Thorne replied cheerfully, his tone light but brimming with confidence. "Feel free to strike at me when you¡¯re ready. I¡¯ll let you initiate."


    Thorne¡¯s movements were fluid, almost too graceful for a man his age. The silver in his short hair and neatly trimmed beard did nothing to dull the vitality radiating from him. He seemed completely at ease, standing with one foot slightly forward, the wooden practice sword resting lightly in his hand, as though it were no more than a toy. Despite his relaxed posture, Ronan could feel the barely contained energy in every subtle shift of his stance.


    The calm invitation hung in the air, a challenge that Ronan knew he had no choice but to accept.


    Using all his might and strength gained from long hours working at the forge, Ronan quickly shot forward and slashed downward toward Thorne¡¯s shoulder. Before Ronan could react, Thorne had shifted slightly to the left and was behind him. The next thing he felt was a tap on his back.


    As he turned around, Thorne was already back in the same stance, wooden practice sword resting lightly in his hand, ready for another strike. "Too predictable, I¡¯m afraid. Your movements gave away your intention. Fighting is about surprising and deceiving your opponent, not brute strength."


    Thorne¡¯s voice was calm and measured, the faint curve of a smile softening the lesson. Despite the ease with which he had spoken, Ronan sensed no mockery behind the words¡ªonly genuine instruction.


    Ronan¡¯s chest tightened with frustration as he tightened his grip on the wooden sword. He hadn¡¯t even seen Thorne move, and the ease with which he had been outmaneuvered stung more than he expected. Around him, the rhythmic clash of practice swords faded into the background, the faint creak of the wooden hilt under his tightening grip pulling him back into the moment.


    He approached Thorne again, preparing for a strike to his stomach. Before it connected, he attempted to instead hit his thigh. Again Thorne moved just enough to evade the hit. His practice sword hitting Ronan''s shoulder, harder this time. The blow sent a jolt through Ronan¡¯s arm, making him grit his teeth. He forced himself to shake it off, unwilling to show weakness.


    "You held back, and your eyes gave you away."


    Ronan decided to circle Thorne instead, studying him and his movements this time, trying patience instead of strength. He could see no obvious weaknesses, though he did not really know what to look for either. His movements were so fluid they felt impossible to predict, leaving Ronan searching for even the smallest flaw.


    Suddenly Thorne exploded into motion, and Ronan barely got his sword in front of him before he felt a sharp pain above his eye. When he looked again Thorne was back in position.


    "There is no honor in battle," Thorne said, his tone calm but firm. "Forget it¡ªit¡¯s a luxury you can¡¯t afford. Victory is all that matters. Cuts to the head bleed more than you¡¯d expect, and they¡¯re excellent for impairing your opponent. As you can see."


    The warm trickle of blood blurred Ronan¡¯s sight, each blink smearing red across his vision. The slight breeze teased his hair into the wound, stinging with every movement. The sting of the cut, and the sight of blood brought back a strange feeling of joy to Ronan.


    Time once again seemed to slow down, and the sounds of the other sparring matches faded away. Each movement of Thorne¡¯s body became sharper, more defined, as though the rest of the world had dimmed to leave only the two of them in the sparring circle. Every fiber of Ronan¡¯s being honed in on his opponent, waiting for the next move.


    As if sensing a change in him, Thorne once again exploded into motion. He moved with a practiced ease, his sword leading. Ronan saw the tensing of leg muscles, the movement of his arms as the sword moved through the air. He moved his own sword up into a parry, knowing instinctually how to position his sword to deflect the strike.


    As their swords clashed, Ronan shifted into Thorne¡¯s path, aiming to disrupt his reach. Thorne twisted at the last moment, slipping out of range with a speed that left him breathless. But this time, no counterstrike came.


    Ronan could feel an anger building at being denied the strike. He felt a loss of control as his body began responding by itself. He and Thorne clashed blades several times more. Ronan managing to evade or parry many of the strikes, but not all. Yet he had yet to score a hit on Thorne.


    Sweat dripped down Ronan¡¯s brow, mingling with the blood above his eye. Each clash of their swords reverberated up his arms. All he could think of was striking Thorne and spilling blood. He needed it. He needed to feel that same joy he had felt yesterday.


    Recollections of the slaughter flashed in his mind¡ªbright, vivid, and far too clear. The memory fueled his anger, twisting it into something primal. A part of him recoiled at the thought, horrified by how much he craved the feeling, but the anger roared louder, drowning out reason.


    "Enough." He vaguely heard Thorne say, but still Ronan moved in for his next strike. His sword moved quicker than the wind, and for a fleeting moment, Ronan felt certain it would land. But Thorne moved even quicker. He struck Ronan¡¯s hand with unrelenting precision, sending the sword clattering to the ground. Before Ronan could react, Thorne¡¯s wooden blade arced toward his head.


    Time seemed to slow as the blade descended. Ronan¡¯s breath caught, his vision narrowing to the wooden sword streaked with blood and sweat, each grain of wood standing out in sharp relief.


    Ronan was looking up at a blue sky, sprinkled with clouds. He felt himself again, though his body ached with pain from bruises, cuts, and muscles worked to exhaustion. Every movement sent sharp aches through his bruised muscles, and the sting of the cut above his eye throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Slowly, he sat up, his head spinning slightly.


    Thorne stood over him, his wooden sword steady, the tip hovering inches from Ronan¡¯s face. There was no malice in his gaze, only calm assessment.


    "Are you back to yourself again?" Thorne asked, his tone even but carrying an edge of curiosity. The question confused Ronan, and he blinked up at Thorne, unsure of how to respond.


    "I will take your lack of an attack as a yes then," Thorne said, his faint smile returning as he lowered the wooden sword. He offered Ronan his hand and helped him back to his feet. Ronan¡¯s legs felt unsteady, his thoughts sluggish and fragmented. He tried to piece together the last moments of the sparring match, but they slipped through his grasp like water.


    Thorne studied him for a moment, a strange look in his eyes. "There¡¯s something unusual about you, lad. More than I expected. Follow me¡ªI¡¯d like to discuss it further."


    Instead of waiting for a response, Thorne turned and strode toward his tent with the same unhurried confidence he¡¯d shown in the sparring circle. Ronan hesitated before following, feeling as though he had little choice. What could Thorne possibly have to discuss with him now? He had been soundly beaten, after all¡ªor at least, that was how it seemed, given that he¡¯d been the one lying on the ground.


    The walk back to Thorne¡¯s tent helped clear Ronan¡¯s mind. The fogginess that had clouded his thoughts began to lift, and with each step, his legs felt steadier beneath him. The faint clang of armor and the murmur of soldiers¡¯ voices drifted through the camp, grounding him in the moment. Even so, his body ached. His shoulders felt like lead, and every step sent a dull ache through his legs. The sting of the cut above his eye flared whenever the breeze brushed against it, and his breathing felt heavier, each inhale reminding him of his bruised ribs.


    He was exhausted, he realized. The battle yesterday, the celebration in the evening, and now a duel with the Duke of the Reach and Knight Paramount of the Aetherian Knights had definitely taken it''s toll on Ronan. He wished he could just lay down and sleep for a week, but right now rest seemed to be very far away.


    When they reached the tent again, Thorne simply strolled right in. He had not so much as glanced in Ronan''s direction during the short walk back. He was either fully confident that Ronan was following, or he could hear his steps in the grass.


    Ronan hesitated at the entrance to the grand tent, again unused to dealing with nobles and knights, and their etiquette outside of trade in the smithy. "Please, enter. The Duke will be waiting inside." The guard, their silent shadow the whole time had evidently followed them back as well.


    Ronan mumbled a quick thanks and stepped inside. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of polished leather and oiled steel. The soft rustle of the fabric walls shifted with the breeze outside. The interior was not what he had imagined, though what he had expected, he wasn¡¯t sure. There were no ostentatious displays of wealth¡ªeverything was functional, almost utilitarian.


    In one corner was a cot, in the middle was a table and three chairs, and on the side opposite the cot was a chest and an armor stand. Everything looked to be of high quality and sturdy, but there were no obvious decorations.


    Thorne was seated in the chair behind the desk, his posture relaxed yet deliberate. His hands rested lightly on the desk, and his gaze was fully focused on Ronan.


    "Please, take a seat," Thorne offered, holding out a hand to one of the two chairs facing him. As Ronan sat down in the chair, he silently admired the craftmanship. From a distance it looked like just a chair, but as he approached he saw the density of the wood grain, speaking of high quality timber. The seat as he sat down was also incredibly comfortable, especially for one as weary as he was.


    As he sat down, he heard the rustle of the tent behind him, and in stepped the guard once again, bearing two wooden tankards. They were both placed on the table, one in front of Thorne and one in front of him. Gratefully taking the tankard Ronan saw it was filled with water. He realized how thirsty he was from the sparring, and drank almost the entire tankard in one go, only realizing after that it might not be the proper thing to do. He glanced up at Thorne, expecting disapproval, but instead found an amused smile.


    "Would you like a refill? Fighting is definitely thirsty work." He was amused at Ronan, that much he could see, "Yes please, that would be great." He quickly emptied the rest of the tankard and placed it back on the table. The guard took it without a word and left the tent again.


    Thorne leaned forward slightly, his expression shifting to something more serious but no less kind. "I imagine you are wondering why I wanted to talk more with you," he said, his gaze focused fully on Ronan. His tone was calm, almost reassuring.


    Before Ronan could reply, the guard returned with the refilled tankard and placed it on the table. The interruption forestalled any immediate response, and Ronan took a grateful sip as the guard exited the tent once more.


    "You fought well in the sparring circle, and I bear no ill will towards your ''enthusiasm''. At first, you were hesitant, unsure. But then something changed, and you became the opposite¡ªfierce, relentless. Changing from the deer in the forest running from the bear, to the bear chasing it''s next dinner."


    Thorne took a quick breath before he continued, almost as if he had made a decision recounting the short fight. "A switch flipped, and suddenly you started acting instead of reacting, taking the initiative in many cases. Tell me, do you remember or short sparring match, do you remember when you changed?"


    Ronan felt as if he was missing something, a piece of the puzzle that would help him piece all the events of the past two days together. "Not fully, no... It was much like the battle yesterday." He took a quick sip of water, both to gather his thoughts and to ease his dry throat. "The first few moments are clear¡ªyou easily evading me, hitting me back. And then... I think around my second or third attempt to even get near you, everything just clicks, and I¡¯m barely aware of what¡¯s happening. What I can remember of it doesn¡¯t feel like me. Finally, I¡¯m looking up at the sky with a headache."


    Thorne leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady but intent. "It was the third strike¡ªwhen I hit your head and broke the skin¡ªthat you changed. You started to bleed."


    As he said that, Ronan remembered it clearly, Thorne rushing towards him and hitting him above the eye, and then everything changed. "I see that you can remember now. Tell me then Ronan when did things change during the battle?"


    Once again, Ronan forced himself to think back. He pictured a man moving toward him, his sword piercing the man¡¯s flesh. Before he could finish the job, another tackled him to the ground. This time, he slashed the man¡¯s neck and saw the life leave his eyes. A joyous feeling rose as the blood spilt from him, something inside Ronan stirring awake at that moment.


    His mouth was dry. He cleared his throat and took another drink before responding. "I was tackled to the ground by a Varnman. I don¡¯t really know how, but I managed to slash his neck and saw the life leave his eyes."


    "Did you get any blood on you as he died? Think carefully¡ªthis could be important." Thorne¡¯s voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of urgency now. His gaze bore into Ronan¡¯s, waiting.


    "Yes?" Ronan¡¯s response was hesitant, uncertain. He didn¡¯t know what to make of the question. Why did it matter how he had reacted during the battle, and why was blood suddenly important?


    His mind raced, trying to make sense of the connection, but it felt like grasping at shadows. The memory of the blood¡ªits warmth, the way it smeared across his hands¡ªflickered in his thoughts, but he couldn¡¯t understand what significance it could hold. "Why does it matter?" he asked finally, the frustration slipping into his voice despite his attempt to keep it steady.


    Thorne leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful but his gaze unwavering, as though he were weighing Ronan¡¯s words carefully. "Because, it is why you go from being a deer, to being the bear, from reacting to acting." Ronan was still confused, but he sensed that things would soon be cleared for him. That things would soon change.


    "Think, both times you have had this feeling now, you''ve had blood touch your skin."


    "But I''ve bled before. Why would that suddenly change me now?" Ronan remembered countless small cuts from sharpening swords, countless scraped knees from playing with Daire back in Kestrel.


    Thorne¡¯s gaze hardened slightly, his voice steady. "Because this was the first time you killed someone¡ªthe first time you watched the life drain from another man¡¯s eyes."


    Ronan fell silent. His stomach churned at the words. He wanted to argue, to dismiss the idea that taking a life could change him so fundamentally, but the memory of that moment¡ªthe rush, the joy¡ªkept him silent. All he could do now was listen.


    Thorne studied him for a moment before continuing. "I assume you know why we Aetherian Knights are as revered as we are. Sure, we are good fighters. We train from a young age and devote our lives to the Lightbringer and the Kingdom of Sardia. But what truly sets us apart from orders like the Kingsguard or the knights of the Duchy of Varn is that each and every one of us carries the blessing of Aethor the Lightbringer."


    Ronan was slowly beginning to understand. Understand why Thorne was telling him of the knights and their abilities, and why blood could bring about such a transformation.


    "This blessing is carried through the blood," Thorne continued. "Each of us, who carries the blessing, can trace our ancestry back to The Fifteen ¡ªthe first chosen by Aethor to carry his light into the world."


    Ronan¡¯s mind raced. If the blessing was part of ancestry, why would he then possess the blessing¡­ His breath caught, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure what to make of it all.


    Thorne leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze unwavering, as though he could uncover the truth just by observing Ronan. "Now, what confounds me is this¡ªhow come a commoner carries the blessed blood of Aethor?"


    Ronan felt overwhelmed. The pieces didn¡¯t fit together. What was it that Thorne wanted from him? He couldn¡¯t be one of the blessed. His father was a blacksmith, had always been so, and his mother¡¯s family were tailors in the capital, Sardiskeep. Ordinary. Normal.


    "I¡­ I don¡¯t know," Ronan said, searching for something¡ªanything¡ªthat could explain it. The idea was absurd, wasn¡¯t it? He wasn¡¯t one of the blessed. But the words kept echoing in his mind, gnawing at his sense of who he was.


    "How can you be sure this is the blessing of Aethor?" he asked finally, the desperation creeping into his voice. "What if it¡¯s just¡­ chance, or something else entirely?"


    "Believe me, I did not believe it either, but having heard the stories about you from yesterday, and seen firsthand how you change during a fight, there is no other explanation that makes sense. You, Ronan Blackbridge, carry the blessed blood of Aethor." Thorne was looking intently at him, leaving no doubt in his words.


    Thorne leaned forward, his piercing gaze holding Ronan¡¯s. "How, I do not know. Perhaps one of your ancestors was bastard born, their lineage buried in the shadows of history. Or perhaps you are something else entirely, something we¡¯ve yet to understand. But what I do know is this: the blessing you carry is potent¡ªone of the strongest for a knight to have. To leave such power wasted in a forge would be a tragedy."


    Ronan had a feeling that a profound change was about to happen. One of those times in life that defined who you where, like when he first picked up a hammer and asked his father to teach him. Or the first time he met Daire and they became friends. A moment was coming that would define his path moving forward.


    Thorne had kept his voice steady throughout the conversation, but now Ronan could detect a hint of excitement, of finality. "I believe you are meant to be one of the Aetherian Knights, Ronan. I offer this to you: join our order and do something that has never been done before, be the first commoner to join the revered Knights."


    Thorne paused, his gaze unwavering. "Or, stay a blacksmith. By all accounts, you are skilled in the craft. You could lead a regular life¡ªsafe, steady. But without the excitement, the camaraderie, the glory that comes with being a knight. As a blacksmith, you¡¯ll build tools and weapons for others to wield. As a knight, you¡¯ll wield them yourself, shaping history with your own hands."


    Ronan¡¯s chest tightened with the weight of the choice before him. A blacksmith¡¯s life was familiar, steady, something he could understand. He thought of the forge¡ªthe glow of the fire, the rhythmic ring of the hammer, the satisfaction of creating something tangible and lasting. It was safe. It was certain.


    But the idea of being a knight, of wielding the blessing of Aethor, sent a thrill through him despite his doubts. All the thoughts of adventure, the shared relief and joy around the campfire after a battle, and the stories that might grow around the name "Reaper of the Sardian Pass," were intoxicating. Yet, they clashed against the fear of losing himself¡ªthe strange joy he felt in the heat of battle¡ªand the pain he had seen that morning, the empty seats around the campfires where men should have sat.


    Could he bear the weight of lives taken, the creeping joy of battle that had begun to haunt him? Yet could he turn his back on a calling that seemed to pulse through his very blood? No commoner had ever joined the ranks of the Aetherian Knights.


    Ronan looked up at Thorne, who waited patiently, his amber eyes sharp but kind. The forge had been warm, steady¡ªa place of creation. But the battlefield was chaos, its heat forged in blood and fire, its rewards uncertain and fleeting.

 Old Friends and New

    As he walked back toward his camp, Ronan struggled to process all he¡¯d learned. The offer to join the Aetherian Knights alone would have been life-changing¡ªa chance to stand among the warriors he¡¯d admired since childhood, watching them train whenever his father¡¯s forge allowed. But this was more. Thorne believed he carried the blessed blood of Aethor¡ªa revelation that set his thoughts spinning.


    Could it be true? Could the blood of Aethor really flow in his veins? The idea thrilled and unsettled him in equal measure. No longer was he just a blacksmith¡¯s son from Kael Kestrel. Somewhere in his past, noble blood ran hidden. But why had it been kept secret? Had his father even known?


    Ronan¡¯s mind lingered on his parents. His father rarely spoke of his mother, beyond saying they had met in Kael Sardis and that her death had brought them to Kestrel. Was there something more he¡¯d never been told?


    The sun had begun its slow descent while he and Thorne spoke. Now, the camp around him came alive with new energy. Campfires glowed in clusters, their light flickering across faces that, just this morning, had been drawn with sorrow. Voices rose, laughter and mirth rippling through the air. Yet Ronan couldn¡¯t shake the sense of fragility beneath it¡ªa brittle surface over wounds not yet healed. Still, the sound stirred something within him: a sense of hope¡ªnot whole, but enough to carry him forward.


    Returning to his camp, Ronan was struck by how familiar the scene felt. Daire and some of the others from the Reach were gathered around the fire, their laughter rising with the crackle of flames. They passed drinks between them, their easy camaraderie a welcome sight after the day¡¯s weight. The sight was welcome, but he could not help but feel distanced from at, as though he were stuck between this simple life, and the life Thorne had offered him a glimpse of.


    Over the fire hung a large pot of stew, its savory, familiar aroma wafting through the air, carrying with it a small piece of home to this distant mountain pass. Though simpler than last night¡¯s roasted goat, the bubbling broth smelled just as enticing, rich with promise. For a moment, Ronan allowed himself to relax. The warmth of the fire and the gentle hum of familiar voices wrapped around him, grounding him in a fleeting sense of peace.


    He let the comfort of the moment settle before taking a seat beside Daire. ¡°So, any news on when we¡¯ll move on from here?¡± he asked, not wanting to discuss his day with the Aetherian Knights just yet.


    Daire grinned, his words slightly slurred¡ªa clear sign they¡¯d been drinking for a while. ¡°You really need to stop showing up just as dinner¡¯s ready, Ronan.¡± He chuckled, taking another swig of whatever they¡¯d been passing around. ¡°No word from the higher-ups yet, but there¡¯s talk of peace already. Seems all the hard work you put in yesterday scared the Varn."


    He passed a full tankard to Ronan, the frothy beer sloshing slightly as he did. At least they were sticking to beer tonight, holding off on the harsher spirits and liquor. Ronan accepted it with a nod, taking a slow sip as the cool bitterness settled on his tongue.


    ¡°Let¡¯s hope they find common ground soon,¡± Daire said, his tone light but edged with weariness. He gestured vaguely toward the dark mountains surrounding them, their jagged peaks catching the last rays of sunlight. Shadows stretched across the camp, and only the tallest summits still glowed with the fading light. ¡°I¡¯d like to get away from this place.¡±


    Ronan glanced at the peaks, their stark beauty a reminder of how far they were from home. ¡°Yeah. Beautiful as it is here, it¡¯ll be nice to get back to a proper room and bed,¡± he replied, his voice carrying a hint of longing. He turned back to Daire, raising an eyebrow. ¡°Anyway, what have you been up to while I was talking with the Knights?¡±


    Daire let out a short laugh, shaking his head. ¡°The Captain had us standing guard on the southern perimeter. Your heroics yesterday must¡¯ve impressed the higher-ups because we got the privilege of watching an empty field all day.¡± He took a long swig from his tankard, a grin tugging at his lips. ¡°Not a single soul in sight¡ªunless you count the crows. They were having a feast, by the way.¡±


    As they talked, the rich aroma of the stew thickened, signaling it was ready. The bubbling broth was ladled into bowls, and both Ronan and Daire eagerly accepted their portions. Ronan inhaled deeply, his stomach rumbling in response. ¡°This smells incredible. How did you manage this?¡± he asked, marveling at the savory scent that seemed to promise a feast.


    Daire grinned, blowing on his steaming bowl before taking a cautious sip. ¡°After guard duty, a couple of us went into the forest to gather firewood. Most of the wildlife¡¯s been scared off by the army, but there were plenty of herbs and mushrooms to be found. Lucky for us, a few of the guys knew which ones wouldn¡¯t kill us.¡±


    Ronan savored the stew, each spoonful rich and hearty, its earthy flavors and warmth spreading through him. It had a taste that reminded him of home¡ªthe familiar simplicity of meals shared with his father in Kestrel. For a brief moment, the weight of the past weeks seemed to lift. Here, surrounded by friends and the soft glow of the fire, this was as close to peace as he¡¯d felt since leaving Kestrel in the spring.


    Daire took a deep breath, his tone casual but deliberate. ¡°So, what did the Knights want with you again?¡± The question was posed as though in passing, but Ronan knew better. His friend had been waiting, biding his time for the right moment to ask.


    ¡°I don¡¯t truly know myself, to be honest.¡± Ronan hesitated, trying to collect his thoughts. Despite the walk back to the levy camp for the Reach, he still hadn¡¯t fully come to terms with everything he¡¯d learned today. ¡°They said the Knight Paramount wanted to speak with me. He asked a lot of questions about what happened yesterday.¡±


    ¡°You got to speak with the Duke?¡± Daire interrupted, his eyes wide with disbelief. ¡°How is that not the first thing you mention? ¡®Hey Daire, how was your day? Oh, fine, good. Mine was alright¡ªjust met the Duke of the Reach.¡¯¡± He mimed the casualness, throwing up his hands for emphasis before shaking his head. ¡°Ronan, come on. Start with that next time.¡±


    ¡°If only that was the strangest thing to happen,¡± Ronan replied, his voice quieter but no less charged with significance. He glanced around the campfire, noticing the others¡¯ attention shifting toward them, drawn by the conversation. ¡°After he finished questioning me¡­¡± He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. ¡°He asked me to spar with him.¡±


    ¡°Unsurprisingly, he beat me soundly.¡± Ronan chuckled, shaking his head at the memory. It was the only reaction that felt reasonable right now. ¡°I did manage to last a few good rounds, though,¡± he added with a faint grin, a mix of pride and self-deprecation in his tone.


    As he spoke, he decided to leave out any mention of the revelation about his heritage. It was too much to process, too strange to truly believe. For now, it was a burden he wasn¡¯t ready to share¡ªnot even with Daire.


    ¡°After the sparring match, he invited me back to his tent again.¡± Ronan paused, taking a deep breath as his gaze drifted toward the fire. To delay the inevitable, he finished the last of his stew, savoring the warmth of the meal, and took a long drink of his beer.


    ¡°Quit stalling and tell us what happened!¡± Daire demanded, his tone sharp with impatience. The men around the campfire gave gruff murmurs of agreement, their curiosity now fully piqued. All eyes were on Ronan, the crackle of the fire the only other sound in the moment.


    ¡°He asked me to join the Aetherian Knights.¡±


    The words hung in the air, heavy with significance. As Ronan spoke them aloud, the full implications settled over him. He was no longer just Ronan Blackarken, son of Gideon, blacksmith of Kael Kestrel. He was no longer just the Reaper of the Sardian Pass.


    He was Ronan¡ªthe first commoner ever invited to join the Aetherian Knights.


    The shock on the others¡¯ faces was unmistakable. Daire was the first to break the silence. ¡°You¡¯re joking, right?¡± he ventured, though the lack of conviction in his voice betrayed him. ¡°Come on, Ronan. No commoner gets invited to join the Knights. And even if they did¡­¡± He trailed off, his brow furrowing as realization dawned. ¡°They¡¯d have to be¡­ blessed.¡±


    The last word was spoken slowly, carefully, as though saying it aloud might make it more real. Daire¡¯s eyes locked on Ronan, and the murmur around the campfire faded as the others pieced it together¡ªthe feats on the battlefield, the Knights¡¯ interest, and now this.


    ¡°Yeah, apparently the Knight Paramount is convinced I have the blessed blood,¡± Ronan admitted, his voice steady but low. Saying it aloud felt like shedding a weight he hadn¡¯t realized he was carrying. Yet as relief washed over him, it revealed an even heavier burden lurking beneath.


    ¡°I accepted,¡± he continued after a moment, glancing around the fire at the wide-eyed faces of his comrades. ¡°I¡¯m supposed to go back to their camp later tonight.¡±


    The decision had been easy. In the heat of battle, he had felt something he couldn¡¯t ignore¡ªa surge of power, a clarity of purpose that dwarfed the quiet rhythm of the forge. The march to this place had awakened a hunger in him, a craving for adventure and something more.


    He would miss working alongside his father, miss the steady cadence of hammer on steel, the silent familiarity of their daily work, and the unspoken pride in his gaze. But this was his chance to step out of the shadow of being just Gideon¡¯s boy. A chance to be something more.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    More than anything, it was the joy he felt during battle¡ªa feeling he was reluctant to name, even to himself¡ªthat pulled him forward. That raw, unfiltered power had awakened something inside him. He needed to understand it, to see where it could lead.


    Silence followed, broken only by the crackle and pop of the fire. Each man sat frozen, eyes fixed on Ronan, as though trying to reconcile the man they had come to know these past weeks and months with the weight of his words.


    Ronan shifted under their gazes, his throat suddenly dry. He took a long drink of his beer, then another, draining the tankard in a few gulps. Even as the warmth of the drink settled in his stomach, his hands felt restless, the weight of the empty vessel unnerving. Without a word, he stood and made his way toward the barrel to get a refill, needing a moment to collect himself.


    As he turned back toward the fire, Daire leaned back with a wide grin, breaking the silence. ¡°My friend, Ronan, the first commoner to join the Aetherian Knights.¡± He raised his tankard in a mock toast, his grin widening. ¡°Think of all the girls I¡¯ll attract once the news spreads back in Kestrel.¡±


    The group burst into laughter, raising their tankards to join his toast. The tension evaporated, replaced by easy grins and playful jabs.


    ¡°By the Light, Ronan, think of all the girls that will flock to you now!¡± Daire added, his voice laced with exaggerated reverence. ¡°Maybe you¡¯ll finally get dear Callie¡¯s attention!¡±


    Laughter rippled around the fire as each of them found their own way to congratulate him¡ªa blend of heartfelt words and good-natured teasing. By the time Ronan reached his third tankard, the rest of the group was thoroughly drunk, their boisterous antics filling the camp with noise and cheer.


    Taking this as his cue, Ronan stood and gathered the few personal belongings he had brought with him¡ªhis sword, some spare clothes, and a handful of coins. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he turned to the group, the firelight casting flickering shadows on their faces.


    ¡°Goodnight, Daire,¡± he said with a faint smile. ¡°The tent¡¯s yours, by the way.¡±


    Daire gave a lopsided grin, raising his half-empty tankard in a sloppy salute. ¡°Don¡¯t go getting too fancy on us, Knight Ronan. We¡¯ll still expect to see you at the Roasted Pig now and then!¡±


    Laughter rippled through the group, their cheers and playful jeers following Ronan as he stepped away from the fire. The cool night air embraced him, a stark contrast to the warmth and noise he left behind. Ahead, the camp stretched in shadowy silence, the path to the Aetherian Knights¡¯ camp illuminated by the glow of the many campfires.


    As he approached their camp for the second time that day, his attention was drawn to its striking order. Unlike the chaotic sprawl of the levies¡¯ camp, this place was methodical¡ªlines of neatly pitched tents, equipment stacked with precision, and sentries moving with purpose. Even in the quiet, the professionalism of the soldiers was unmistakable.


    He was quickly challenged as he neared the outermost tents. ¡°Who goes there?¡± The voice was calm but firm, carrying no hint of threat or urgency¡ªjust quiet competence laced with impatience.


    ¡°Ronan, sir,¡± he replied, stepping forward and gesturing to the pack slung over his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m the new recruit. Just came back from collecting my things.¡±


    The sentry¡¯s eyes flicked over him, lingering on the pack and the sword strapped to his side. His expression hardened slightly, and his tone carried a sharp edge of skepticism. ¡°Have you now? You¡¯re aware that only those with the blessed blood may join our order, right? And no offense, but you don¡¯t exactly look like a noble to me.¡± He paused, his smirk widening as his gaze swept Ronan¡¯s plain clothes. ¡°Are you sure you didn¡¯t wander into the wrong camp? Maybe you¡¯re looking for the Kingsguard. They¡¯re not as¡­ particular.¡±


    ¡°Knight Paramount asked me himself,¡± Ronan replied sharply, irritation flaring. He gestured to his pack. ¡°Call him if you don¡¯t believe me. He¡¯ll clear everything up.¡±


    Fendral raised an eyebrow, his smirk curling into something colder as his hand came to rest casually on the hilt of his sword. ¡°The Knight Paramount, huh? Well, aren¡¯t you important.¡± His voice was laced with mockery. ¡°Next thing, you¡¯ll be telling us the King himself sent you. Funny, you don¡¯t look like someone he¡¯d bother with.¡±


    ¡°Fendral! Quit teasing the poor lad and let him through,¡± came a voice from behind. Leoric approached with an amused smile, his presence immediately commanding attention. He gave Fendral a pointed look before turning to Ronan. ¡°You¡¯ll have to excuse him, Ronan. Sentry duty tends to make a man creative in finding ways to entertain himself.¡±


    Fendral straightened slightly but kept his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his air of superiority unwavering. ¡°Apologies, sir,¡± he said, his tone flat. ¡°Just making sure we only let those with proper business inside.¡± He cast Ronan a sideways glance, his sneer barely hidden. ¡°No hard feelings, eh?¡±


    ¡°None at all,¡± Ronan replied evenly, eager to move on. He adjusted his pack and stepped past Fendral, glad the encounter was behind him.


    Ronan fell into step beside Leoric, trusting the knight to guide him. The cool night air was quiet around them, broken only by the faint sounds of the camp.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid that won¡¯t be the last negative encounter you¡¯ll have here,¡± Leoric said after a moment, his tone calm but edged with warning. ¡°The Aetherian Knights are very selective about who they accept, and there will be many who won¡¯t believe you belong. Even though we¡¯re all part of the same order, the politics of our families often carry more weight than they should.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± Ronan replied with a faint smile. ¡°Don¡¯t worry¡ªI¡¯m sure it¡¯s nothing I haven¡¯t seen before. Even for commoners like me, there¡¯s always infighting. And sometimes, a few good punches are all it takes to sort things out.¡±


    Leoric chuckled lightly, shaking his head. ¡°That¡¯s good to hear. Just keep in mind, punching a superior is generally frowned upon. And right now¡­¡± He gave Ronan a pointed look, his tone laced with humor. ¡°Most everyone is your superior.¡±


    ¡°Now,¡± he continued with a wry smile, ¡°you¡¯re incredibly lucky. Not only are you joining this illustrious order, but you¡¯ve also been assigned to my squad.¡±


    As they walked, their conversation carried them into a neatly arranged section of the camp. Tents stood in orderly rows, their canvas clean and taut, illuminated by the flickering glow of a nearby campfire. Outside one of the larger tents, a fire crackled brightly, and two men sat around it.


    Ronan immediately recognized one of them as Edric. His broad shoulders and scarred face were unmistakable, and his piercing gaze followed them as they approached. The other man was unfamiliar¡ªa wiry figure with sandy hair that glinted orange in the firelight. He leaned back casually, his expression relaxed but curious as his eyes flicked over Ronan.


    Edric spoke first, his tone gruff but measured. ¡°So, this is the recruit. I hope you know what you¡¯re getting into, lad.¡± His words were more observation than warning, though his gaze was steady and appraising.


    The second man grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. ¡°Welcome to the squad, recruit. Name¡¯s Garrin. Don¡¯t let the big guy scare you too much.¡± He jabbed a thumb at Edric and leaned forward, warming his hands over the fire. ¡°Just hope you¡¯ve got thick skin and a sharper sword.¡±


    Leoric smirked, folding his arms as he stood beside Ronan. ¡°Play nice, both of you. Ronan here is about to learn what it means to be part of something bigger than himself. Let¡¯s not scare him off on his first night. We¡¯ve already had a run-in with Fendral.¡±


    Garrin raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. ¡°Ah, that ray of sunshine is on sentry duty right now? That explains why he looks like he¡¯s ready to swing at the next person who sneers at him. You¡¯ve had the honor, huh?¡±


    Leoric let out a quiet chuckle, gesturing for Ronan to sit by the fire. ¡°Come on, let¡¯s get you settled. I assume you¡¯ve already eaten?¡±


    Ronan nodded, dropping his pack by the fire as he took a seat. ¡°Yes, sir. Had a meal with my old squad before I came over.¡± He glanced around at the unfamiliar faces and added, ¡°Though I imagine things are a little different here.¡±


    Edric folded his arms, his sharp gaze fixed on Ronan. ¡°Different, yes. And harder. Don¡¯t get too comfortable¡ªwe¡¯ve got guard duty at midnight.¡±


    Garrin smirked, leaning back on his hands. ¡°Edric likes to scare the recruits, but he¡¯s not wrong. Midnight shifts are no joke. Hope you¡¯re not too attached to sleep, lad.¡±


    Leoric interjected, his tone calm but firm. ¡°Guard duty is just as important as training, Ronan. It¡¯ll give you time to adjust, observe, and learn the discipline that comes with this life. We¡¯ll brief you on the details when it¡¯s time.¡±


    As Ronan settled by the fire, Garrin handed him a tankard. He accepted it cautiously, bracing himself for more beer. But when he peered inside, he was relieved to find it was filled with fresh water.


    ¡°Thanks,¡± he said, taking a sip. After the three tankards he¡¯d already had back at his old squad¡¯s camp, the water was a welcome change. The cool liquid cleared his head, helping to push away the dull haze threatening to settle in.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s all this about blessed blood and only nobles possessing it?¡± Ronan ventured, figuring he might as well try to get some answers.


    ¡°Straight to it, then.¡± Garrin leaned forward, clearly the most talkative of the group. ¡°Those who carry the blessed blood of Aethor sometimes develop special abilities. Strength, speed, reflexes¡ªthings beyond what ordinary men can manage.¡±


    He paused, warming his hands over the fire, his voice taking on a slightly reverent tone. ¡°Legend has it, the blessing is carried through the blood¡ªpassed down from parent to child. Supposedly, everyone who carries it can trace their lineage back to one of The Fifteen.¡± He glanced at Ronan with a faint smile, as though daring him to scoff.


    ¡°They were the first to receive Aethor¡¯s gift, and through it, they founded the four duchies we have today. Every noble house descends from one of them, or so the story goes.¡±


    ¡°Enough of the history lesson,¡± Edric interrupted, his tone gruff but not unkind. He shot a glance at the animated Garrin. ¡°The lad asked for answers, not a lecture.¡±


    He turned to Ronan, his expression steady. ¡°We inherit the potential for abilities through our blood¡ªhence the name. But not everyone with the blood gets abilities, and those who do don¡¯t always get the same ones. It¡¯s not as grand as Garrin likes to make it sound.¡±


    ¡°But where does that leave me, then?¡± Ronan asked. While he¡¯d gotten an answer, it only raised more questions. ¡°As far as I know, none of my parents or grandparents were of noble descent.¡±


    Garrin raised an eyebrow, leaning back with a thoughtful expression. ¡°That¡¯s the interesting part, isn¡¯t it? If you¡¯ve got the potential¡ªand the Knight Paramount seems to think you do¡ªthen somewhere in your family tree, someone was noble. Maybe someone got a bit too cozy with the local blacksmith or a farmhand.¡± He smirked, clearly enjoying the speculation.


    ¡°Enough,¡± Leoric cut in, his tone firm but not unkind. He gave Garrin a pointed look before turning to Ronan. ¡°Bloodlines are complicated, and the past often holds secrets. What matters is that you¡¯ve been recognized for what you are now. Focus on that.¡±


    He stood, brushing off his tunic as he addressed the group. ¡°Anyway, it¡¯s about time we head to our positions. We¡¯ve been posted near the edge of camp, facing the forest to the south.¡±


    He glanced at Ronan, his expression lightening slightly. ¡°The tent on the right is yours. Stow your gear there, but make sure to bring your sword. You¡¯ll need it.¡±


    Garrin groaned theatrically, dragging himself to his feet. ¡°Ah, the glamorous life of a Knight. Standing in the dark, listening to trees rustle. Truly, we¡¯re living the dream.¡±


    Edric shot him a sidelong glance, his tone dry. ¡°Better than listening to you complain all night.¡±


    Leoric smirked, adjusting his sword belt. ¡°Come on, enough chatter. Let¡¯s move out.¡± With a quick gesture, he motioned for Ronan to follow as the group began heading toward their assigned post.

 Into the Fold

    Garrin broke the silence first, his voice light but edged with curiosity. ¡°You know, it¡¯s not unheard of for bastards of noble houses to show up in odd places. Usually, though, they don¡¯t come with abilities like yours. Most nobles don¡¯t even have powers, much less anything close to yours.¡±


    Edric sighed, his sharp gaze cutting through the dim firelight. ¡°Can we focus on the task at hand, Garrin? Or is idle chatter your idea of guarding the camp?¡±


    ¡°Idle words stave off the cold, don¡¯t they?¡± Garrin shot back with a grin, then turned to Ronan. ¡°Still, it¡¯s interesting, isn¡¯t it? Makes you wonder¡ªwho in your family tree had a little fun with the wrong crowd?¡±


    Leoric¡¯s calm voice carried a quiet weight. ¡°Enough. Ronan¡¯s here now, and that¡¯s what matters. Save the bloodlines for the historians.¡±


    The group pressed beyond the camp¡¯s edge, the forest swallowing them with its dark canopy and curling mist. The faint flicker of campfires behind them seemed a world away, leaving them in an uneasy limbo between light and shadow. Every step felt heavier, the oppressive quiet pressing in.


    A sudden rustle to their left shattered the stillness. Garrin froze, his body coiled like a spring. In a flash, he darted forward, his movements unnaturally quick, and snatched something from the underbrush.


    ¡°Gotcha,¡± he muttered, holding up a squirming rodent by its tail. He inspected it with a smirk before tossing it back into the brush. ¡°Nothing to worry about. But hey, reflexes save lives¡ªand catch snacks.¡± He shot Ronan a wink, his grin undimmed by the forest¡¯s tension.


    Edric folded his arms, his tone dry. ¡°More like they save you when you¡¯ve annoyed someone into swinging at you.¡±


    ¡°Guilty as charged,¡± Garrin replied with a grin. He turned to Ronan, his voice light but sincere. ¡°Still, speed is life out here, mate. You¡¯ll learn.¡±


    Leoric sighed again, his tone tinged with exasperation. ¡°Stop showing off, Garrin. You¡¯re burning energy you might need later.¡±


    Garrin shrugged, unrepentant. ¡°Plenty to spare.¡± His grin was infectious as he strolled over to Ronan. Lowering his voice to a theatrical whisper, he added, ¡°So, I heard you got to spar with our dear leader, the Knight Paramount. Tell me¡ªdid you last one round or two? Poor Edric here barely managed three before the Duke planted him on his ass.¡± His grin widened, clearly relishing the tale.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure,¡± Ronan replied, suppressing a grin of his own. ¡°All I know is I woke up on my back with him standing over me. Thought for sure he¡¯d take offense at me trying my hardest to kill him.¡±


    Edric spoke softly, but there was a faint, impressed note to his voice. ¡°He lasted nearly ten minutes.¡±


    ¡°Ten minutes?¡± Garrin¡¯s eyebrows shot up as he turned back to Ronan, his expression exaggerated for effect. ¡°That¡¯s nearly as good as Leoric. No wonder he asked you to join us.¡± His grin turned conspiratorial as he leaned closer. ¡°And if even half the stories of the great Reaper of the Sardian Pass are true, we¡¯ll be lucky to have you.¡±


    Ronan opened his mouth to reply, but Leoric stepped forward abruptly, his sharp gaze sweeping the treeline ahead. His posture stiffened, and his hand hovered near the hilt of his sword. ¡°Quiet,¡± he said softly, but the word carried an authority that silenced the group instantly.


    Ronan strained his ears, but heard nothing unusual. The forest ahead seemed unchanged, its shadows thick and inscrutable. Still, Leoric¡¯s focused stance sent a ripple of unease through him.


    ¡°You feel that?¡± Leoric murmured, his eyes narrowing. ¡°The wind¡¯s changed. Something¡¯s wrong.¡±


    Ronan glanced toward the forest, his pulse quickening. It was just darkness¡ªbranches and mist, nothing more. But Leoric¡¯s calm intensity made him doubt his own senses.


    ¡°Relax,¡± Garrin whispered, though his own hand had shifted toward his blade. ¡°Leoric¡¯s just got a knack for spotting trouble before it finds us.¡±


    Leoric didn¡¯t respond, his gaze still fixed ahead. After a moment, he turned back to the group. ¡°Stay sharp. We¡¯re moving closer to the tree line. Spread out and keep a hundred feet between each of you¡ªif something happens, we¡¯ll need space to respond. Eyes and ears open. Ronan take position between me and Garrin.¡±


    They moved into position, the glow of the campfires fading as they spread out along the tree line. Standing just beyond the light¡¯s reach, Ronan felt the cool night air settle around him. The faint murmur of voices and the occasional rustle of movement drifted from the camp behind him, grounding him in the moment¡ªbut just barely. Beyond that, the forest pressed in, its shadows stretching long and deep. A twig snapped somewhere far off, and Ronan tensed, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword.


    "Probably one of those goats," he muttered, though his grip lingered on the sword. The words hung in the air, swallowed by the forest as if it had been waiting to listen.


    He shook his head, trying to steady his breath. It was just the night playing tricks¡ªshadows deeper than they should be, sounds sharper in the stillness. But the unease clung to him, the kind that crept under the skin and refused to let go.


    He strained his senses, standing motionless as he stared into the forest. The mountains loomed above, their jagged silhouettes blotting out the stars and the moon. They felt less like protectors and more like silent sentinels, watching and waiting.


    The slight wind whispered through the trees, carrying a low, mournful whistle that tugged at his nerves. Branches swayed in the darkness, their movements casting fleeting shadows that seemed to reach for him.


    It felt irrational, this creeping fear, but Ronan couldn¡¯t quite banish it. It gnawed at the edges of his mind, whispering of dangers he couldn¡¯t name. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, the cool leather grounding him even as his thoughts churned.


    Another twig snapped, this time closer. Ronan¡¯s pulse quickened, his heart drumming loudly in his ears. His fingers curled tighter around the hilt as he scanned the darkness, every sense straining for movement.


    To his right, Leoric¡¯s outline stood steady, barely shifting. He looked relaxed, almost bored. A faint pang of frustration bubbled within Ronan. How could Leoric seem so calm when every nerve in his own body screamed of danger?


    Ronan clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus. The forest whispered around him, alive with the faint promise of something unseen. This was nothing like the streets of Kestrel at night. Back home, the streets never truly slept. Even in the dead of night, there were voices¡ªmerchants unloading goods, drunks stumbling home, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. There was order, even in the chaos.


    Here, there was none of that. The only people were those back at camp, their faint murmurs barely reaching him through the trees. Beyond that, there was only silence, broken by the wind¡¯s low moan and the occasional snap of a branch. The forest was alive, its whispers like secrets exchanged in the dark. Shadows stretched and shifted, their shapes too fluid, too alive.


    The order of Kestrel felt like a distant memory. Back home, there were walls, lanterns, and people. Here, the only walls were the trees, their branches twisted like claws, reaching toward the pale, cold light of the stars.


    A roar of laughter erupted from the camp behind him, breaking the fragile stillness. He turned instinctively, his gaze pulled toward the light. The glow of the campfire obscured everything beyond its reach, blinding him to the world outside its circle.


    "Probably someone who got too drunk," he muttered to himself, the sound of his voice strange in the heavy silence. It wasn¡¯t like him to talk to himself¡ªit made him feel oddly exposed, as if the forest might be listening.


    Turning back, he realized his mistake immediately. His night vision was ruined, the darkness now an impenetrable void. Shapes that had been clear moments ago¡ªtrees, rocks, the faint lines of the horizon¡ªwere swallowed whole. He blinked rapidly, willing his eyes to adjust, but the shadows seemed to press closer, alive with the subtle shift of branches and the whisper of the wind.


    Another crack of a twig breaking sounded somewhere ahead. Ronan tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword but forced himself to stay calm. The Varn had been soundly beaten; their scattered remnants would hardly dare to strike back. And besides, he wasn¡¯t alone. He was flanked by three trained Knights¡ªmen whose skill and reputation were legendary. Who would dare attack them out here?


    But the shadows didn¡¯t care for logic, nor did the wind that carried faint noises too hard to place. He shook his head, exhaling slowly. He couldn¡¯t let himself be rattled. The Knights would handle anything that came their way, and he¡¯d follow their lead. That was the plan.


    And yet, the forest felt too still. No hoot of an owl, no rustle of a small animal¡ªjust the wind, carrying whispers that might have been voices. Ronan¡¯s pulse quickened despite himself, his thoughts gnawing at the edge of reason.


    ¡°Just the night,¡± he muttered under his breath, though the words offered no comfort.


    A sharp thud slammed into his right shoulder, driving him backward. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. Pain flared, hot and immediate, as he gasped for air.


    A faint whistle followed, cutting through the silence with a sinister clarity. Another pierced the air above him, close enough to ruffle his hair. Arrows, his mind supplied, though the thought felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else.


    Instinct screamed louder than the pain. Ronan scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes darted through the oppressive darkness, searching for the source, but the forest revealed nothing¡ªonly shadows and the rustling of branches. The whistles continued, sharper now, like death whispering through the trees.


    ¡°To arms, we are under attack!¡± Leoric¡¯s voice rang out, sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos. ¡°Garrin, warn the camp! Edric and Ronan, to me!¡±


    The meaning was clear, the logic sound, but it barely registered. Something else stirred within Ronan, stronger than reason. The familiar, wild joy surged through him, wrapping around his chest like fire.


    His legs moved before he could think, carrying him into the trees. The shadows seemed alive, closing in around him, but he welcomed them. Each step quickened his pulse, the thrill drowning out pain and fear. The faint whisper of caution flickered at the edges of his mind, but it was already too late¡ªhe was running, the joy consuming him, into the dark unknown.


    As he ran, his hand shot up to the arrow lodged in his shoulder. The pain flared hot and bright as he wrenched it free, the sharp tip coated in blood. He barely registered it. The weight of the wound was a distant thing, drowned in the pounding of his heart and the heady rush of movement. He flexed his fingers, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, testing. Yes. He could still swing.


    ¡°Ronan, get back here!¡± The shout cut through the air, faint, distant, like a memory trying to claw its way forward. But it was lost beneath the rush of his breath and the crack of twigs beneath his boots.


    The forest seemed alive, its shadows twisting and shifting with every step. Branches clawed at his clothes, their gnarled fingers urging him deeper into their grasp. The thrill surged higher, a reckless, consuming fire in his chest. Nothing else mattered¡ªonly the next step, the next breath, the promise of something waiting in the dark.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    The arrow hissed through the air, a sharp whisper of death. He didn¡¯t see it so much as feel its presence, dodging effortlessly as it cut through the space where he¡¯d just been. His body moved faster than thought, instincts guiding him as he closed the distance to the nearest enemy.


    Every muscle tensed, his movements fluid yet explosive, carrying him forward like a predator closing on its prey. The thrill burned brighter, each step pounding with the promise of blood. As the figure loomed closer, he let loose a roar¡ªso savage, so primal, it hardly felt like his own. The sound tore from deep within him, raw and unrestrained, echoing through the trees like the bellow of some ancient beast.


    The figure faltered, just for a moment, and Ronan felt the surge of exhilaration grow stronger. The darkness around him no longer felt oppressive¡ªit felt like home.


    His sword arced down with unrelenting force. The blade struck the bow first, splintering it with a sharp crack before driving into the enemy¡¯s chest. The resistance was fleeting, the steel slicing through muscle and bone as though the forest itself willed it forward. A gasp escaped the figure¡ªa fleeting, fragile sound¡ªbefore their body crumpled.


    The thrill surged hotter, brighter, drowning out everything else. The weight of the body sagged against his blade, warm blood slicking his hands and speckling his face. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the echoes of the clash fading into an eerie stillness.


    Ronan barely noticed. His pulse thundered in his ears, his body already shifting, already seeking the next target.


    A group of three emerged from the shadows, their weapons drawn and their steps measured. Well-armed and armored, they moved with cautious precision, their eyes scanning the darkness for threats. These weren¡¯t panicked stragglers; they were seasoned fighters, disciplined and dangerous.


    But Ronan didn¡¯t care. He gave them no chance to organize, no time to form a defense. With a feral snarl, he surged forward, his sword arcing through the air.


    The nearest man barely had time to react, raising his shield just in time to catch the blow. The impact rang out, a sharp clang that echoed through the trees. The force drove the man back a step, and in that heartbeat of hesitation, Ronan struck again. Pivoting with brutal efficiency, he angled his blade low, slicing across the unguarded gap between the man¡¯s thigh armor and greaves.


    The man let out a strangled cry, his leg buckling beneath him as blood poured from the wound. Ronan¡¯s movements were already shifting, his attention snapping to the next target as the thrill surged within him, sharper than ever.


    His blade came down in a savage arc, but the clash of steel on steel stopped it cold. The shock of the impact reverberated up his arm as his opponent blocked the strike, their swords locked for a brief, tense moment.


    Ronan had no time for hesitation. He twisted his wrist, wrenching his blade free, and stepped into the next swing. This time, his strike found its mark, slicing into the exposed joint at his opponent¡¯s left arm. The blade bit deep, and a sharp cry escaped the man as his arm dropped, his shield faltering in his grasp.


    The thrill flared hotter, the rush of dominance sharpening Ronan¡¯s focus as he prepared to press his advantage. Each movement felt instinctive, driven by the surging force within him, as though the battle itself coursed through his veins.


    Then, sharp pain exploded in his left leg, white-hot and searing. His balance faltered, the ground tilting as his footing gave way. Gritting his teeth, Ronan twisted as he fell, his blade still poised defensively.


    Turning, he caught sight of the second man¡ªa glint of blood shimmering darkly on the edge of the enemy¡¯s blade. The man stood poised, his stance solid, his movements measured. This wasn¡¯t a desperate soldier but a calculating foe who had waited for the perfect moment to strike.


    The pain radiated up Ronan¡¯s leg, sharp and relentless, but he forced himself upright, his breath coming in ragged bursts. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword as he shifted his weight to his uninjured leg. The thrill still pulsed within him, a roaring fire that pushed back the agony, sharpening his focus.


    He lunged forward, feinting toward the man¡¯s stomach. The enemy moved to intercept, his blade swinging in anticipation, but Ronan twisted at the last moment. His strike changed direction with lethal precision, slamming into the vulnerable joint of the man¡¯s sword arm. Steel met flesh, and a satisfying crunch followed as the man cried out, his weapon clattering to the forest floor.


    Ronan didn¡¯t hesitate. His instincts surged, driving him to punish the audacity of his foe¡¯s attack. He slashed at the man¡¯s other arm, his blade biting deep into unprotected flesh. The man stumbled back, blood spraying in dark arcs against the shifting shadows. His cries of pain mingled with the echo of the strike, but Ronan barely registered them.


    The thrill surged, raw and consuming. Each strike felt inevitable, as though his body moved with the rhythm of the forest itself. His breath steadied, the pain in his leg dulled beneath the roaring fire in his chest. The enemy faltered, his movements slower, weaker. And Ronan stood over him, his shadow swallowing the man whole.


    The moment of dominance was shattered in an instant. He sensed the arrow too late¡ªits deadly whistle a heartbeat away. He twisted, moving just enough to avoid a fatal blow, but the arrow struck true, burying itself deep in his right bicep. The impact sent a jolt through him, forcing his sword arm to falter. Pain lanced up his arm, joining the chorus of his battered body.


    The weight of his injuries pressed down on him now. His sword arm moved sluggishly, the shoulder¡¯s relentless bleeding sapping his strength. His left leg throbbed with every movement, threatening to buckle beneath him, and now his right arm screamed in protest with every shift.


    Grinding his teeth, Ronan forced the pain aside. His fingers fumbled briefly, slick with blood, as he transferred his sword to his left hand. It felt alien, heavier than it should, but he tightened his grip and turned toward the last remaining opponent.


    The figure loomed before him, more than a shadow but not yet fully clear in the darkness. Ronan shifted his stance, leaning heavily on his good leg as he raised the blade. The thrill was there, flickering like embers, but now it mingled with something colder¡ªdetermination. The man before him was the last barrier, and he would not stop until the fight was finished.


    His opponent stepped forward, his armor catching faint glimmers of light. The shield hung limply from his left hand, blood darkening its edge. The man¡¯s sneer twisted in the dimness, a cruel expression of disdain, as though Ronan¡¯s injuries rendered him unworthy of the fight.


    But Ronan wasn¡¯t swayed. He moved again, each step deliberate, inexorable, dragging the weight of his wounds behind him. The man¡¯s sneer deepened, but his eyes flicked briefly to Ronan¡¯s blade¡ªa crack in his confidence that only fueled Ronan further.


    The distance between them closed, every step a test of Ronan¡¯s resolve. His breaths came shallow, each one tightening the ache in his chest, but his grip on the sword never faltered. He didn¡¯t need speed anymore. He didn¡¯t need perfection. All he needed was the will to finish this.


    Then it hit.


    The arrow came from nowhere. One moment he was moving, his focus locked on the fool before him, the next he was on the ground. White-hot, searing pain spread from his chest, consuming every thought, every sensation. His breath caught, ragged and sharp, as though the air itself was refusing to enter his lungs.


    His hand loosened on the sword, fingers trembling as he tried to make sense of the moment. Blood seeped through his tunic, hot and wet against his skin, pooling beneath him. The world tilted, shadows spinning as the forest around him seemed to loom closer, suffocating.


    For a fleeting second, Ronan thought of the thrill¡ªthe fire that had carried him this far. But now, it felt distant, flickering weakly against the cold that seeped into his limbs. He tried to push himself up, his body screaming in protest, the pain radiating with every movement.


    Somewhere, faintly, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. His vision blurred, the figure of his opponent no longer sneering but steady, towering over him like a shadow made flesh.


    Blood filled his mouth, metallic and bitter, and his ragged breaths came wet and shallow, each one a fight against drowning. Anger flared within him, raw and undiminished. He would not lie here and die, bested by this nameless figure. Summoning the last of his strength, Ronan swung his sword in a final desperate arc, aiming for the groin.


    The blow never landed. His opponent swept the strike aside with contemptuous ease, the sound of clashing steel ringing out like a death knell. The man stepped closer, planting his boot firmly on Ronan¡¯s left hand, grinding it into the dirt. Pain flared, but he had no air to cry out, only a gurgling rasp escaping his throat.


    The man loomed over him, the glint of firelight reflecting in his cold eyes. His lips curled into a sneer as he drove the blade into Ronan¡¯s chest. Steel bit deep, igniting a searing pain that radiated through his body. Ronan gasped, his breath catching as his lungs refused to obey. Blood welled from the wound, soaking his tunic in a spreading, crimson stain.


    The man twisted the blade cruelly, wrenching another wave of agony from Ronan, before ripping it free with a wet, sickening sound. ¡°So this is the famous Aetherian Knights?¡± he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. ¡°I expected¡­¡±


    His words were cut short by a deafening crack. His head snapped forward violently, a grotesque spray of blood and bone erupting as his skull shattered. For an instant, his body seemed frozen, teetering as though unaware of its own death, before collapsing to the ground in a boneless heap.


    Behind him stood Edric, his broad silhouette framed by the vague moonlight. His shield, slick with blood and fragments of bone, swung in a low arc as he exhaled a grunt of satisfaction. The unnatural strength behind his strike was evident in the ruin he had wrought.


    ¡°Got him,¡± he muttered, casting a brief glance at the crumpled corpse before stepping aside to reveal Leoric, who emerged from the darkness with blade in hand. The tip of his sword dripped red, leaving a trail of droplets on the forest floor as he moved swiftly to Ronan¡¯s side.


    Dropping to one knee beside Ronan his expression was grim as his sharp gaze swept over the younger man¡¯s injuries. Blood soaked the earth beneath Ronan, pooling where his tunic clung to the gaping wound in his chest.


    ¡°Damn you, Ronan,¡± Leoric growled, his tone low but filled with frustration. He tore a strip of cloth from his tunic and pressed it firmly against the wound, ignoring the blood that slicked his fingers. ¡°Why in Oblivion did you rush in here?¡±


    Ronan coughed weakly, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. The world around him felt distant, his body heavy and unresponsive as though it no longer belonged to him. He opened his mouth to reply, but only a faint rasp escaped, lost in the chaos of his own failing senses.


    ¡°Stay with me, you idiot,¡± Leoric muttered, his tone softening, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his fear. His hands worked with practiced precision, stemming the flow of blood even as his expression hardened with determination.


    Leoric pressed a firm hand against the wound in Ronan¡¯s chest, the other gripping a torn piece of cloth. ¡°I guess we should¡¯ve taught you control before throwing you into battle, huh?¡± His words were low, more to himself than to Ronan, his tone laced with guilt.


    A faint voice broke through the tense silence. ¡°It¡¯s too late, Leoric,¡± came the low, even tone of Edric as he stepped closer, his boots crunching softly on the blood-soaked ground.


    Leoric snapped his head up, his face twisting with defiance. ¡°Shut it, Edric,¡± he barked. ¡°I¡¯m not letting him go.¡±


    Edric shook his head slowly, his gaze fixed on Ronan¡¯s pale face. ¡°Look at him,¡± he said, his voice calm but heavy with finality. ¡°He¡¯s too far gone.¡±


    Leoric¡¯s hands faltered, the pressure against Ronan¡¯s wound slackening. He looked down at the young man beneath him, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic breaths. Blood bubbled at Ronan¡¯s lips, staining his teeth crimson.


    "I''m sorry, lad," Edric said softly, his words measured and deliberate, carrying a weight Ronan had never heard before. ¡°None of us are healers.¡±


    For the first time, Ronan saw something in Edric¡¯s expression¡ªa crack in the stoic mask he wore. A hint of sadness touched his voice, an ache buried beneath the calm exterior. His dark eyes lingered on Ronan, unflinching, as though he owed him this moment of honesty.


    Ronan could feel the world slipping away, the edges of his senses fading into a cold, creeping numbness. The searing pain that had consumed him was dulling, giving way to an unsettling stillness. His body felt distant, as though it no longer belonged to him.


    His breaths came shallow and strained, each one harder to draw than the last. His vision swam, the forest around him blurring and darkening, its shapes melting into shadow. He tried to speak, to protest, to hold on, but all that escaped his lips was a faint rasp, drowned in the bitter taste of iron.


    Leoric¡¯s grip tightened on his shoulder, anchoring him, though it felt more like a tether to a world he was slipping away from. The older man¡¯s eyes stayed locked on his, unflinching, even as despair flickered in their depths. ¡°We¡¯re here, Ronan,¡± he said quietly, his voice breaking under the weight of the moment. ¡°We¡¯re not leaving you.¡±


    From the camp, distant commotion drifted through the still night air. The clamor of boots and urgent shouts reached Ronan¡¯s ears, faint but growing louder. Garrin had finally roused the camp into action. But for Ronan, it no longer mattered. He could feel the cold spreading, overtaking the fire that had once burned so fiercely within him.


    A tremor shook his chest as he coughed, blood spilling from his lips. His eyes fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, as he forced his mouth to move. Each word was a battle, his voice thin and fragile. ¡°Tell my da...¡± Another cough racked his body, a fresh surge of blood staining his teeth. ¡°Tell him I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Leoric swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he fought back the raw emotions threatening to overtake him. ¡°I will,¡± he said, his voice rough and low. ¡°I promise.¡±


    The flickering firelight of approaching torches cast long shadows over Ronan¡¯s still form, its warmth a distant echo as his breaths slowed, then stopped entirely. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the weight of silence settling over them as the night grew darker still.


    A hand rested firmly on Leoric¡¯s shoulder. ¡°He¡¯s gone, Leoric,¡± Edric said quietly, his voice steady but not unfeeling. The words cut like a blade, sharper for their finality.


    Leoric closed his eyes, his head dipping as a tremor passed through him. For a moment, he didn¡¯t speak, his bloodied fingers trembling. Then he exhaled slowly, his eyes opening to reveal a simmering fury beneath the grief. ¡°I know,¡± he said, his tone low and measured, though every word burned. ¡°And I¡¯m going to kill the bastards who did this.¡±


    He stood, the weight of his words grounding him, his gaze fixed on the shadows beyond the firelight. ¡°He might only have been a Knight Initiate for half a day,¡± Leoric continued, his voice growing steadier, harder, ¡°but he was still a member of the Aetherian Knights. And we do not let this stand.¡±

 In the Shadow of Kael Kelhit

    Leoric had his doubts.


    They were out scouting the farmland again. For the third night this week, they had been sent out in the dark, patrolling the fields south of Kael Kelhit. He had no idea what the generals expected to find.


    To the north, the mountains of Sardia rose and among them lay the Sardian Pass. To the west, the Lake Land sprawled¡ªa labyrinth of lakes and rolling hills. To the east, the sea stretched endlessly, a dark void beneath the night sky. Southward lay the farmlands they scouted, an expanse of golden fields now cast in shadow. And at the heart of it all, Kael Kelhit, perched on its tallest hill, its silhouette stark against the horizon.


    The siege camp, positioned just northeast of the city, sat atop the second-highest rise in the region. From there, they had an unobstructed view in all directions, with a particularly clear vantage over the southern plains¡ªensuring any approaching force would be spotted long before it reached them. To Leoric, this was a waste of time. Their southern flank was the only real vulnerability; the rest of the region was protected by nature itself.


    ¡°Maybe they were Grest.¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡± Leoric blinked, not immediately processing the words.


    ¡°The mercenaries,¡± Garrin repeated. ¡°Maybe they were Gresten-born.¡± He walked slowly across the bare field, his tone casual.


    Leoric exhaled sharply. ¡°Are we back to this again?¡± His patience was wearing thin¡ªthey had gone over this more times than he cared to count since the ambush.


    Garrin shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m just saying, they didn¡¯t sound like Varnmen to me.¡± His fixation on the ambush had only grown stronger in the weeks since, gnawing at him constantly.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter, Garrin.¡± Leoric had tried to push for resolution himself, but Thorne had been clear¡ªthe priority was punishing the ones who ordered the attack. ¡°You heard the Knight Paramount. They were hired by Varn. That¡¯s all that matters to them.¡±


    ¡°Sure, that¡¯s what they said.¡± Garrin had come to a halt, his gaze shifting between Leoric and Edric, his expression tense. ¡°But something doesn¡¯t sit right with me. Why would Varn hire mercenaries from Gresten? And why would Gresten risk angering us?¡±


    He gestured vaguely, frustration creeping into his voice. ¡°Maybe they weren¡¯t Gresten-born. Maybe they were hired from the Southern Kingdoms? Or from their neighbor, the Duchy of Castain?¡±


    Leoric exhaled sharply. ¡°How the hell should I know?¡± He had wondered about this himself¡ªevery night since Ronan''s death.


    He ran a hand through his hair, forcing down the exhaustion creeping in. ¡°Maybe they offered a lot. Who knows how much gold Varn has made off trade?¡±


    ¡°Have either of you considered that maybe they weren¡¯t hired by Varn?¡±


    Just like that, Edric cut to the heart of their concerns. Why would Varn risk provoking them further¡ªespecially now, with their army routed and in tatters?


    ¡°I¡¯ve thought the same myself.¡± Leoric couldn¡¯t explain why, but something about the ambush felt wrong. Why send only fifteen men against an army of thousands? Peace talks had already begun. They had all assumed the short war was over.


    They walked on in silence, each lost in their own thoughts¡ªnone of them comforting.


    ¡°Have either of you ever met anyone from Gresten?¡± Garrin finally broke the silence. ¡°I¡¯ve heard they¡¯re excellent fighters.¡±


    Leoric exhaled. ¡°Garrin, we¡¯re supposed to be scouting for enemies. With all your talking, anyone within two miles can hear us.¡±


    He just wanted this night to be over.


    Garrin walked quickly to his side, gesturing at the empty landscape. ¡°Look around, Leoric. There¡¯s no one here. Even the farmers have fled.¡± He shrugged. ¡°There¡¯s nothing else to do but talk.¡±


    Leoric sighed. He knew Garrin well enough¡ªhe wouldn¡¯t stop until he had an answer. ¡°Yes. My father once took me to visit some distant relatives there.¡±


    Garrin¡¯s eyes flicked to Edric. ¡°And you, Edric? Ever been to Gresten or Castain?¡±


    Edric shook his head. ¡°Can¡¯t say that I have. I barely left the Greenwold before joining the Knights.¡±


    Garrin smirked. ¡°Then it¡¯s on you to educate us, Leoric.¡± He nodded toward him. ¡°Did their accent sound like the ones we heard in the forest?¡±


    Leoric thought back to that night in the woods, surrounded by the Sardian Mountains. Ronan had rushed headlong into the dark, heedless of his safety, cutting down six mercenaries before he was felled. He had heard a lot of screams and curses that night, but only one voice stayed with him¡ªthe man who had struck Ronan down.


    Even now, he could hear it¡ªthe sneering disdain in his tone, the confidence of someone who didn¡¯t believe they could lose. There had been a distinct lilt to his voice, but not one Leoric could place. It didn¡¯t sound like he was from Gresten or Castain, but then again, Leoric had only ever visited the big cities, where the nobles gathered. Even in Sardia, dialects among the commoners sometimes sounded entirely foreign to him.


    ¡°I can¡¯t say with any certainty, Garrin.¡± He knew exactly what Garrin was trying to do now¡ªthe same thing he was. Figure out who had ambushed them, and why.


    He let out a slow breath, glancing at the road ahead. ¡°If I¡¯m being honest, I doubt I¡¯d recognize half the dialects spoken across our own kingdom, let alone beyond its borders. You know as well as I do that the circles we move in don¡¯t offer much in the way of variety.¡±


    His gaze hardened slightly. ¡°And I¡¯d wager that it¡¯s outside those circles where we¡¯d find our mercenaries.¡±


    Garrin let out a short huff. ¡°Well, it was worth a shot. I guess we just have to keep trying to crack this nut then.¡± He kicked a loose rock down the road. ¡°There¡¯s nothing else to do out here anyway.¡±


    His tone was casual, but Leoric could hear the frustration beneath it¡ªthe same frustration gnawing at him.


    ¡°By Oblivion, sieges are boring!¡± Garrin finally groaned. ¡°We¡¯ve been here a week, and nothing¡¯s happened. We just stand and watch a wall, and the Varn just stand and watch us. It¡¯s like some grand staring contest, and frankly, I think they¡¯re winning.¡±


    Leoric sighed. ¡°Patience, Garrin, please.¡± He wasn¡¯t sure if this topic was better or worse than their endless speculation about the mercenaries.


    ¡°We¡¯re here to force the Varn to surrender. If we storm the city, who knows what the levy-men will do in their victory rush? And many of our fellow knights still need time to recover¡ªthat explosion in the Sardian Pass took more out of them than they¡¯d ever admit.¡±


    Garrin let out a low whistle. ¡°And here I thought we knights were supposed to be unstoppable. Next, you¡¯ll be telling me we actually get tired and need sleep¡ªinstead of traipsing through empty fields in the dead of night.¡±


    ¡°Please, quiet down, you two.¡± Edric¡¯s voice was low but firm, cutting through the night. ¡°We¡¯ve got a job to do, and at this point, he¡¯s just trying to get a rise out of you, Leoric.¡±


    Leoric sighed. ¡°You¡¯re right, of course.¡± He gave Garrin a dry look. ¡°Alright, Garrin¡ªlet¡¯s focus until we¡¯re back at camp. Then I promise we¡¯ll find some beer for you to stare at instead of the walls of Kelhit.¡±


    The rest of the night passed as expected. The countryside around Kael Kelhit was truly abandoned. The surrounding farms stood empty, their chimneys dark and cold, not a single wisp of smoke rising into the night.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    There were plenty of animals, though. The hoots of owls echoed through the fields as they hunted the small rodents hiding in barns and undergrowth. Deer moved cautiously around the scattered clusters of trees¡ªthose that had yet to be felled for lumber and farmland. And in the pastures, cows and sheep lay sleeping peacefully, their grey shapes barely distinguishable in the darkness, little more than shadows against the land.


    At least they wouldn¡¯t run out of food anytime soon, Leoric mused. If the siege dragged on, the cows and sheep could always be slaughtered. Though he hoped it wouldn¡¯t come to that.


    Not only had they moved closer to civilians now¡ªand any real fighting near them would bring casualties¡ªbut prolonged war with Varn was hurting his family¡¯s wealth, along with that of many other nobles. Much of their fortune depended on trade with and through Varn.


    Leoric glanced at the horizon. ¡°Let¡¯s turn back. The sun will rise soon, and there¡¯s nothing out here.¡± This had been a waste of time, just as he¡¯d expected¡ªand right now, he wanted nothing more than to get back to his cot.


    Garrin let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. ¡°Finally, reason prevails. I can¡¯t wait to get off my feet and under a soft, warm blanket.¡± He was already a few steps ahead of Edric and Leoric, eager to leave the night behind.


    ¡°Stay in formation, Garrin.¡± Leoric¡¯s voice was firm despite his exhaustion. He was too tired for Garrin¡¯s antics. ¡°We¡¯re still behind enemy lines.¡±


    Sensing the seriousness in his tone, Garrin fell back into position without argument, settling in for the long walk back to camp.


    As they neared the camp, a sentry stepped forward from the darkness, issuing the standard challenge. The response came easily enough, and they passed through without issue. At least security was being taken seriously now¡ªone of the few good things to come from the ambush and Ronan¡¯s death.


    They moved quickly through the waking camp, where the disorder of the levy-men gradually gave way to the structured order of the Aetherian Knights. Their camp had been placed near the center, alongside that of the Kingsguard. Fortunately, the two had been separated by a mustering yard and the central command tent¡ªan arrangement that likely spared them more than a few conflicts.


    The less he had to suffer those pompous bastards, the better.


    ¡°Morning, sir,¡± came the greeting from the knight on duty.


    ¡°Good morning, Godric. Anything interesting happen while we were on our moonlight stroll?¡±


    Instead of stopping to chat, Garrin kept walking toward their tents, clearly more tired than he had let on.


    ¡°Nothing at all. Same as all the other nights. And you? Find anything other than empty farms?¡±


    ¡°The same as the other nights, I¡¯m afraid¡ªonly the occasional deer and owl. I guess the other scouting parties had as much luck as us?¡±


    ¡°Aye, though Brandt claims they saw one of the great eagles, if you can believe that. Bigger than a cow, they all said.¡± Godric had a knowing smile on his face.


    Edric let out a small snort, and Leoric couldn¡¯t quite keep the amusement from his voice. ¡°Nobody told them that the eagles only hunt in the day?¡±


    ¡°No, sir. And who am I to disagree with a Knight-Sergeant? Anyway, I figured they¡¯d find out sooner or later.¡±


    ¡°That they will. I¡¯ll let you get back to it, Godric. I think Edric and I need to join our hasty friend in getting to sleep.¡±


    Leoric and Edric nodded farewell to Godric and made their way toward their tents. As they approached, the soft snores of Garrin reached them.


    ¡°I guess we won¡¯t see him until the afternoon then.¡± Leoric moved toward their campfire. Though it was unlit, the seating was still comfortable.


    Edric sat down in his usual spot beside him. ¡°You know he¡¯s right. It doesn¡¯t make sense for the Varn to provoke us further¡ªand with so few men.¡±


    ¡°I know, Edric.¡± Leoric exhaled, troubled. Something larger was at play here, and he didn¡¯t know what. Command was insisting it was the Varn, but he had a feeling the Knight Paramount wasn¡¯t convinced by that explanation either.


    "I just don''t see how we can figure out who and why on our own. And everyone else seems to be fine with accepting the explanation."


    Edric was quiet for a moment. Then, his voice was steady. ¡°Sure, but they weren¡¯t the ones who had Ronan in their squads.¡± He let out a slow breath. ¡°We owe him that much¡ªto figure out who was responsible for his death, if nothing else.¡±


    ¡°That we do, Edric. That we do.¡±


    They sat around the cold campfire, lost in their own thoughts. Then, the sound of footsteps interrupted the silence.


    ¡°Sorry, sir. The Knight Paramount wishes to speak with you.¡±


    A young initiate stood before them, one Leoric didn¡¯t know the name of yet.


    ¡°Can it wait? I just got back from a scouting mission.¡± Leoric could feel exhaustion creeping into his bones and regretted not going straight to sleep.


    ¡°He knows, sir, but he insisted you come see him now.¡±


    ¡°Alright then.¡± Leoric got to his feet and ran a hand through his hair. ¡°The joys of command, eh, Edric?¡±


    Edric responded with a grunt, his eyes already beginning to close. Leoric shook his head slightly before turning away, following the young initiate toward the large tent at the center of the Knights'' camp.


    As he stepped inside the Knight Paramount''s tent, he was met with the rich, earthy scent of fresh tea. Two cups sat on the desk at the center, steam curling in the lamplight, and Thorne gestured toward a seat opposite him.


    ¡°Good morning, sir. You wanted to see me?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Please, sit¡ªand have some tea.¡± Thorne¡¯s tone was measured, almost inviting, yet his sharp amber gaze left no doubt that this was not just a social call. ¡°I know it¡¯s been a long night for you.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Leoric took a sip of the warm tea, feeling his body relax. The taste was sweet with berries, carrying a hint of freshness as well.


    ¡°It was a night like all the others, sir. Nothing to report.¡±


    ¡°I know. Godric came by and told me you had returned. He already briefed me.¡±


    Leoric exhaled through his nose, setting the cup down. ¡°I did find him more talkative than normal. I should have figured you were using him to debrief us.¡±


    He met Thorne''s gaze. ¡°Then why did you want to see me, sir?¡±


    ¡°During the night, we received a letter from Duke Otric and his council. They¡¯re offering terms for peace.¡± Thorne¡¯s voice was calm, his delivery measured.


    ¡°Concessions for trade, and they¡¯ll allow for greater fortification of the Sardian Pass.¡± He paused briefly, letting the words settle. ¡°We intend to accept it.¡±


    ¡°I see. And I assume you¡¯ll order me not to pursue revenge for Ronan¡¯s death?¡± Leoric could feel his anger rising, though he knew better than to let it show.


    ¡°[Ronan Blackarken]¡¯s death pains me as well,¡± Thorne said, his gaze steady. ¡°He is the only knight we have lost on this campaign, and I was the one who offered him a place among us. I know how you feel in this.¡±


    He held Leoric¡¯s gaze, his voice unwavering. ¡°But this is war, Leoric. And in war, people die. If we sought vengeance for every loss, our war would never end.¡±


    ¡°Yet, I will not order you to stop. In fact, quite the opposite.¡± Leoric caught something in Thorne''s eyes¡ªa flicker of calculation.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard the grumblings among you and your men,¡± Thorne continued. ¡°And I don¡¯t think it was the Varn either.¡±


    ¡°Duke Otric overplayed his hand when he marched against us, and he was soundly beaten. Further aggression only delayed the peace talks.¡± Leoric leaned forward now, relieved to know his commander shared his concerns.


    ¡°If there¡¯s one thing that can be said about Otric, it¡¯s that he¡¯s pragmatic. An action like this is out of character for him.¡±


    Thorne had Leoric''s full attention now. ¡°I want you and your men to keep asking questions. We¡¯ll be returning to Sardia, but once you find something worth acting on, we¡¯ll decide how to proceed.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, sir. I appreciate it¡ªreally, I do.¡± Leoric hesitated, his thoughts turning over the implications. Why would Thorne want his squad investigating this?


    ¡°But none of us know how to proceed. Surely some of the king¡¯s men would be better suited to a task like this?¡±


    Thorne¡¯s expression didn¡¯t shift. ¡°The reason I want you to investigate this is that I don¡¯t trust anyone outside of the Aetherian Knights.¡±


    Leoric felt his pulse quicken as Thorne continued.


    ¡°You told me that one of the ambushers said he expected more of the Aetherian Knights. That has led me to believe it wasn¡¯t the army that was targeted¡ªbut us.¡± Thorne¡¯s gaze remained steady.


    ¡°And for them to know we were patrolling the southern edge¡­ that implies inside knowledge.¡±


    ¡°Still, there must be someone better suited to this, even within the Knights.¡± Leoric felt out of his depth. Sure, he, Garrin, and Edric had discussed this plenty, but they had never considered a threat from within the army¡ªinside Sardia.


    Thorne studied him for a moment before speaking. ¡°I¡¯ve watched your squad in battle, Leoric. You have the right mix of skill, discipline, and¡ªmore importantly¡ªloyalty. Garrin¡¯s reflexes should serve you well, as should Edric¡¯s strength. And your awareness and tactical mind make for a well-rounded team. And, above all that¡ªyou¡¯re all very motivated.¡±


    Leoric frowned, leaning forward slightly. ¡°Motivated or not, this isn¡¯t something we¡¯re trained for. If there really is inside involvement, we¡¯ll be going up against people with power, with connections." He hesitated before continuing speaking. "Motivated or not, sir, we¡¯re knights, not spies. If we start asking the wrong questions, we¡¯ll be dealing with more than just rumors."


    ¡°I understand that it¡¯s a lot to take in, and you¡¯re tired after a long night.¡± Thorne remained calm, unshaken by Leoric¡¯s resistance. ¡°Rest, Leoric. We have a long march home to Kael Kestrel, and there¡¯s plenty of time to think on this.¡±


    Leoric exhaled sharply, sensing the conversation was at its end. He could tell he was being dismissed, but the weight of the task still sat uncomfortably on his shoulders.


    ¡°I won¡¯t make this decision alone, sir. I need to consult with Edric and Garrin.¡±


    Thorne gave a small nod, but said nothing more.


    Leoric was still confused, still unconvinced, but as he stood, exhaustion returned, a slow, creeping weight settling over him.


    His thoughts churned as he walked back to his tent. The camp was waking around him¡ªdistant voices, the clank of armor, the occasional whinny of a horse¡ªbut it all faded into the background. Edric had evidently gone to sleep as well¡ªthe campfire outside their tents was empty.


    He stepped inside, pulling off his gear with sluggish hands. Cleaning and oiling could wait. Right now, all he wanted was rest.


    He collapsed onto the cot, his mind still tangled with everything Thorne had said. The Knights had been the target. There was a traitor among them. The war was ending, but something else had already begun.


    The weight of it all pressed down on him, but so did fatigue. The thoughts came slower now, slipping away at the edges. His body ached, the cot beneath him suddenly the most comfortable thing in the world.


    He would think on it more later.


    For now, he slept.

 A Light Meant for Another

    All he knew was pain. And cold. And silence.


    It swallowed him whole, stretching into eternity. There was no ground beneath him, no sky above¡ªonly the void pressing in, vast and unfeeling. He had no weight, no breath, no shape. Just pain. A raw, searing thing that pulsed through the nothingness like a dying ember.


    The cold was worse.


    It slithered beneath the pain, slow and insidious, seeping into the marrow of what remained. It did not soothe. It did not numb. It hollowed. Peeled at something deep inside, unraveling him thread by thread. The absence it left behind was worse than agony.


    There was nothing to hold onto. No sense of time. No sense of self.


    And yet¡­ something stirred.


    A ripple in the dark, faint as the hush before a storm. It pressed against the edges of the void, distant but insistent. A whisper slipping through the cracks before silence swallowed it whole.


    He reached for it. And the darkness reached back. It clung to him, pulling, resisting, desperate to keep him. To smother him in nothing. To erase what remained.


    Beyond the dark, something waited. Faint. Familiar. A tether. A warmth. Not strong enough to save him¡ªnot yet¡ªbut enough to remind him that he had been more than this emptiness. If he could just hold on. If he could just remember. Something from before. Before the pain. Before the silence. A sound. A word. A name.


    His name.


    Ronan.


    The void recoiled. It shuddered, pulling back, recoiling from the name like a wounded thing.


    And then¡ªwarmth.


    Fleeting, fragile, but real. A spark in the dark. The name pulsed through him, anchoring deep, stronger than the emptiness, stronger than the cold. It did not bring memory, not yet. But it brought something. The hush of sound against the silence. The ember of warmth against the frost.


    He was not nothing. Not yet.


    He was Ronan.


    The more he thought the name, the more warmth fought against the cold, pushing back the void, forcing it to retreat. He was Ronan Blackarken, son of Gideon Blackarken.


    He was Ronan, from Kael Kestrel, in the Duchy of the Reach, in the Kingdom of Sardia.


    The void shuddered. Cracked.


    And then¡ªlight.


    It did not come gently. It surged, blinding, searing, carving through the dark like fire splitting ice. It filled the space around him, within him, burning away the emptiness. The cold shrieked and collapsed beneath it, splintering into nothing.


    He was Ronan, friend of Daire Tanner. They grew up together.


    He had been a levy. A blacksmith¡¯s son. A soldier. A warrior. He had the blessed blood running through his veins. He had become a Knight Initiate in the Aetherian Knights.


    And he had died. He had failed. A crack in the light. A hesitation.


    Then¡ªsound.


    Not the hush of a whisper, nor the distant hum of something far away, but a roar. Deafening. Violent. A storm crashing into him all at once.


    The thunderous crackle of flames, consuming, seething. Heat pressing in from all sides. The storm of breathing, frantic, ragged¡ªhis own, or someone else¡¯s?


    And beneath it all, a voice. No, many voices. Chanting, layered upon each other, rising and falling in a rhythm he did not recognize. It was everywhere. Inside him. Around him. Pulling at him. Binding him. Banishing the darkness, pushing away the silence. The light was gone. The void was gone.


    Only this remained.


    Feeling crept back, slow and uneven. A spark at the edges of numbness, spreading, clawing its way through him.


    The noise receded¡ªstill vast, still all-consuming, but no longer deafening. The light dimmed, no longer searing, but present.


    The chanting swelled, reaching its peak¡ªa crescendo of voices, a command of existence.


    And then, air.


    It rushed into his lungs, sharp and burning, too much and not enough. His chest seized, his body convulsed. Pain flared, sudden and absolute, tearing through him as sensation returned. It was agony. It was relief. It was being alive.


    The chanting slowed, fading into a steady hum, no longer overwhelming but ever-present. A rhythm to match his breathing, grounding him, keeping him tethered to this place, this moment.


    His senses stirred, sluggish but certain, clawing their way back from the void. He had yet to move, yet to open his eyes, but the steady rise and fall of his chest was proof that he was here, that this was real. The pain and the strange, aching sweetness of it¡ªtoo sharp, too intricate to be a dream.


    He was lying down. The surface beneath him was hard, yet warm. Not the unyielding bite of stone, nor the damp chill of earth¡ªsomething else, something solid yet oddly comforting.


    A weight draped over him. A blanket. A shroud. Rough fabric brushed against his skin, heavy but not suffocating. It trapped the warmth against him, cocooning him in something both protective and unfamiliar.


    Beyond that, the world existed again. Sounds filtered through¡ªfaint movement, distant voices, the whisper of breath not his own. The chanting, though softened, remained. A presence. A tether.


    He exhaled slowly, his first deliberate action. The breath shuddered, the simple motion sending a ripple of sensation through his body.


    Along with his senses came awareness, and with awareness came questions.


    He had died.


    The certainty of it settled over him like an undeniable truth, more solid than the ground beneath him. But it wasn¡¯t just death¡ªhe remembered his body breaking, failing, piece by piece. His right arm, wounded beyond use. His left hand, shattered and crushed. His leg, too weak to bear his weight. A sword, driven clean through his chest.


    He had felt all of it. The agony, the finality. And yet, even then, it had been distant¡ªlike it was happening to someone else, while he had simply watched, a passenger in his own ruin.


    But now, he was here.


    The pain lingered only as a memory, a shadow of what it had been. He knew it should be there¡ªshould consume him¡ªbut it remained just beyond his reach, a wound recalled rather than felt. Even the fatigue of the long march from Kael Kestrel to the Sardian Pass, the relentless exhaustion of battle, was gone.


    He was tired, yes, but not with the bone-deep weariness of a body pushed beyond its limits. This was something different. A quiet, lingering weight rather than the crushing fatigue of months on the march.


    Something had changed.


    Cautiously, he began testing himself. He flexed his fingers, curled his toes. They responded as they should¡ªsmooth, precise, without hesitation. No aches from healed wounds, no resistance. Just movement, simple and natural.


    But it shouldn¡¯t have been.


    His left hand should have been stiff with pain, crippled by the memory of bone shattering beneath a mailed boot. He had felt it break, had seen it crushed under the weight of a boot. And yet, it moved¡ªflawless, whole, as if it had never been touched.


    His right hand should have been sluggish, weak. Arrows had pierced his shoulder and upper arm, rendering it useless. He had felt the sword slip from his grip, had felt the pain feed the red-hot anger that had consumed him in his final moments. But now, his fingers curled and uncurled with ease, his arm moving without strain, as though none of it had ever happened.


    A slow unease crept over him.


    His body remembered the wounds. His mind held onto the pain. But the flesh beneath his hands, the limbs he now commanded¡ªthey bore no trace of the damage they had endured. No scars. No stiffness. No proof of what he had suffered.


    Then he noticed¡ªthe chanting had stopped. Only the crackle of flames and the steady rhythm of approaching footsteps remained.


    The realization came slowly. He had not been alone. If there had been chanting, there had been people. The rhythmic voices had surrounded him, steady and distant, but now they were gone.


    The footsteps echoed softly, the measured sound of a hard sole striking stone. Not hurried. Not cautious. Just movement, deliberate and familiar.


    "Isolde? You''ve been lying there a long time now. Are you feeling alright?" A woman¡¯s voice. Curious, but friendly.


    The words reached him first, distant but clear. The question lingered in the air, waiting. Was he alright?


    He wasn¡¯t sure how to answer. His body felt whole, but his mind was sluggish, as if waking from a dream he couldn¡¯t quite remember. There was no pain, no stiffness, yet something felt off. Disjointed.


    He swallowed, testing his throat, his voice, before responding.


    "I... I think so."


    The words left his mouth, but something was wrong.


    The voice sounded off¡ªlighter, smoother than he expected. He had braced for the rough, raw edge of exhaustion, the hoarse remnants of battle, but what came was steady, clear.


    For a moment, confusion hit him. Was it just the lingering haze in his mind? The remnants of whatever had happened to him dulling his senses?


    He dismissed the thought. There were more important things to focus on.


    "I''m just a bit disoriented, is all."


    Ronan sat up. The movement was effortless, natural, as if his body had never known injury. The ease of it barely registered, his mind still sluggish, still catching up to itself.


    As he rose, his eyes opened for the first time.


    Light flooded in¡ªblinding, searing, too much all at once. His vision swam, his breath caught. Instinctively, he raised a hand to shield his face, the brightness pressing against him like a weight.


    A voice cut through the haze.


    "Oh dear, was it difficult this time? The ritual did take longer than usual."


    The woman¡¯s tone carried a note of concern, her earlier curiosity now laced with something closer to expectation. She had anticipated something else¡ªless hesitation, less confusion.


    As Ronan turned the words over in his mind, something caught his attention. A ritual.


    Was that why he had heard chanting as he came back? Not just as he came back¡ªbefore. The voices had been there in the void. Not distant, not faint, but everywhere¡ªinside him, around him, pulling at him, binding him. Banishing the darkness, pushing away the silence.


    The memory of it returned in flashes. The roar of fire. Heat searing his skin. The storm of ragged breathing, the rising crescendo of voices, the exact moment the chant commanded him back into existence.


    Had they dragged him back? Had they forced his return? A quiet breath escaped him, though whether in realization or dread, he wasn¡¯t sure.


    "What..." he managed to say. His voice still strange in his ears.


    His vision was slowly returning. The blinding light faded into shifting blurs, hazy shapes forming at the edges of his awareness. Shadows moved against the glow, figures half-seen, their details still obscured.


    The woman¡¯s presence remained close. He could sense her watching, waiting. Expecting something. But he didn¡¯t know what.


    "Where am I? What happened?"


    Ronan''s own voice unsettled him, the unfamiliar tone adding another layer to his confusion. He was just as lost¡ªperhaps more¡ªthan when he had drifted in the nothingness. At least there, things had been constant. Empty. Silent. A void without questions.


    Here, each moment unraveled into something new, something unknown. More sensations. More voices. More questions. And still, no answers.


    His vision cleared, sharpening into details. The woman in front of him was middle-aged, around his father''s age. She had a pretty, unblemished face, her large, expressive amber eyes studying him with quiet worry. Her lips, painted a soft red, were pressed into a concerned half-smile¡ªwarm, yet measured, as if unsure how he would react.


    Her attire spoke of wealth and status. The fabric of her dress shimmered in the firelight, its deep blue hue unlike any Ronan had ever seen on clothing before. It was exquisite, too fine for a common noble¡¯s court, let alone a battlefield or temple. She looked at him as if she knew him. But he had never seen her before in his life.


    "Isolde, dear, are you alright?" Her voice was warm, gentle even, but beneath it lay an expectation¡ªone that made the question feel less like concern and more like confirmation. "You are in the Dawnspire. We just completed the Covenant." There was no explanation, no reassurance, only the certainty that he should already understand.


    "Dawnspire? I''m back in the Reach? What happened?" The confusion inside him deepened. How long had he been in the nothing?


    The Reach was months of travel from where the battle had been. To be taken all the way to Dawnspire¡ªone of the most sacred sites in the kingdom¡ªmeant that something had been very wrong with him.


    His gaze shifted around the room. As he moved his head, something caught in his peripheral vision¡ªstrands of hair, catching the firelight in shades of amber. He frowned. His hair had never been this long. For it to have grown this much, a long time must have passed.


    The chamber around him was vast and circular, bare except for the flickering braziers that lined the walls, casting long shadows against smooth stone. The air carried the scent of burning oil and something faintly floral, almost like incense.


    The only other occupants were the woman before him and a man standing slightly behind her, silent, watching. Waiting.


    The woman turned slightly, casting a glance over her shoulder.


    "Cadog, have you ever seen the others this confused before?" Her tone was measured, curious rather than concerned, as though Ronan¡¯s reaction was unexpected¡ªbut not alarming.


    "Not that I recall, no." The man¡ªCadog¡ªmoved closer.


    He was older than the woman, his hair white with age, his face lined with deep wrinkles. There was a shrewdness to him, a sharp intelligence in his piercing amber eyes¡ªthe same color as hers. Were they siblings?


    His robe was of fine make, its fabric rich and elegant, the kind worn by those of great importance. Yet, it was the color that struck Ronan most. A soft gold that shimmered in the firelight, shifting like molten metal. Emblazoned across his chest was a symbol he knew all too well¡ªthe mark of the Lightbringer, an orange eight-pointed star. A priest, perhaps? No¡ªsomething more.


    When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of wisdom, gravelly and dry with age. "Isolde, why don''t you lie down again? I''ll fetch some water for you."


    The name hung in the air, pressing against Ronan¡¯s already tangled thoughts.


    Isolde.


    They had been calling him that. It had barely registered at first, lost in the haze of waking, but now the realization struck like cold steel. They weren¡¯t expecting him. They were expecting someone else.


    Confusion surged.


    "Who... Isolde?" His voice, still unfamiliar to his own ears, wavered slightly. He looked between the two figures, searching their expressions for clarity, for denial, for anything that would explain this mistake.


    "My name is Ronan, sir."


    He wasn¡¯t sure what he expected. A correction? A brief, startled laugh at the misunderstanding? Annoyance?


    But what he saw instead sent a chill through him.


    The woman¡¯s expression faltered, her brows knitting together, confusion spreading across her face in slow realization. Cadog¡¯s* reaction was more measured, but no less unsettling. His amber eyes locked onto Ronan with sharp intensity, narrowing¡ªnot in skepticism, but in deep, unfamiliar concern.


    They were not confused because he did not remember. They were confused because he was not supposed to be here. The silence stretched between them, thick with uncertainty. The woman¡¯s lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Cadog, for all his earlier composure, had gone rigid.


    Then, the woman broke the silence. "Cadog, did we perform the Covenant correctly? You did call for Isolde Aldwych, right?"


    Her voice came hurriedly, almost stumbling over the words. The confidence she had carried before was gone, replaced by an undercurrent of disbelief and distress.


    "Yes, Alena. I am sure." But there was no reassurance in his tone. His amber eyes locked onto Ronan, filled with something unsettlingly intense¡ªas though Ronan wasn¡¯t just a mistake, but a problem neither of them knew how to fix. As though he was the most concerning thing in the world.


    "Then why are we not talking with Isolde right now?"


    Alena¡¯s voice cracked with frustration. The distress that had only flickered in her moments ago now flared into something near panic.


    She turned sharply toward Cadog, her composure slipping. "Why are we speaking to¡ª" She cut herself off, her eyes flicking to Ronan, as if saying it aloud might make it worse.


    Instead, she exhaled sharply, her breath shaking as she refocused on Cadog, her voice rising. "What did we do wrong?" She was almost screaming at him now.


    "I don''t know." Cadog¡¯s voice remained steady, though Ronan could still sense the tension beneath it. His calm was not from certainty¡ªit was the restraint of someone trying to hold things together. "This has never happened before. It has always been one of us who came back."


    One of us. The weight of those words pressed into Ronan¡¯s mind, but before he could grasp their meaning, Alena snapped back.


    "Bigger problems?"


    This time, she did shout, her frustration breaking past whatever control she had left. But the outburst was fleeting¡ªshe drew in a sharp breath, steadying herself, though the anger still simmered beneath the surface.


    "Cadog, Isolde is missing¡ªfor all we know, gone for good. And someone else just shows up." She gestured toward Ronan without looking at him, as if acknowledging him directly would make it worse.


    "How is that not our biggest problem?"


    "It is," Cadog said, his voice becoming steadier now. More measured. More certain. "But not because of Isolde."


    Alena¡¯s head snapped toward him, her expression shifting¡ªdisbelief replacing anger.


    "To be called through The Luminous Covenant requires strength. Not just anyone can answer the call." His piercing amber eyes flicked toward Ronan, scrutinizing him as if seeing him for the first time.


    "And on top of that, that body was meant for Isolde."


    The words sent a slow, creeping chill through Ronan¡¯s chest. That body. Meant for someone else.


    Alena continued the argument, her voice rising and falling, but Ronan had tuned them out. The weight of their conversation faded into the background, muffled beneath the growing awareness crawling through him.


    He finally started taking stock of himself.


    His hands. They should have been aching and slow, rough with callouses, dirtied with soot and streaks of old scars¡ªsmall cuts and burns earned in the forge, in battle, in life. But the hands he saw were not his. Slender fingers, graceful, unblemished. Nails, long and clean, almost impossibly elegant, painted a deep red. Hands that had never touched a forge. Never gripped a sword. Never known anything but care.


    Again, in his peripheral vision, he caught the sway of long hair, shifting like amber silk in the firelight. With growing dread, he reached up. One of those impossibly fine, impossibly delicate hands. He touched it. It was soft. Too soft.


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    The texture was unfamiliar¡ªlike the silk they had sometimes used for sheaths in the forge, smooth and luxurious where it shouldn¡¯t be. A stone dropped in his stomach. With a sharp breath, he pulled the strands forward, dragging them into his sight. The gentle tug sent a jolt of finality through him. It was attached to his head. It was his hair.


    Only¡­ it wasn¡¯t.


    His hair had always been short, oily, rough¡ªa deep, near-black brown. What he saw now, held in one of those delicate hands, shimmered in the firelight like polished copper and burnished chestnut. Like autumn leaves freshly fallen, rich and warm.


    It wasn¡¯t just a trick of the fire. This was its color.


    The hand dropped the hair, trembling slightly, as if releasing something foreign. But the unease didn¡¯t fade. His fingers, still alien to him, drifted to his face. The stubble¡ªor beard¡ªthat should have been there was gone. His jawline was smooth, unnaturally so, as though it had never known the scrape of a blade or the roughness of hair growing back. He traced the curve of his cheek, the shape of his chin, the slope of his nose¡ªfamiliar and unfamiliar all at once.


    A nail, long and sharp, scratched his skin. The sensation was jarring, an unnatural edge to something that should have been instinctive. His breath hitched. The movements felt wrong, precise and graceful where they should have been firm and deliberate. Even the skin beneath his touch was different¡ªsofter, finer, like that of someone who had never spent a day beneath the sun or by the heat of a forge.


    This wasn¡¯t his face.


    He finally looked down, the weight of the silken copper hair shifting as he moved. The sensation alone was foreign¡ªhis hair had never been heavy before, never brushed against his shoulders like this. It draped over him, strands catching the firelight, cascading down over fabric that was equally unfamiliar.


    He was wearing a robe or a dress, the material fine and luxurious like Alena''s, but where hers was the color of the deep ocean, his was the color of an oak forest, a rich and deep green. The fabric shimmered as he moved, catching the light like the leaves of a tree swaying in the wind, an interplay of shadow and luster that made it seem almost alive. Small flowers and delicate leaves were imprinted and embroidered into the fabric, the stitching so fine it was almost indistinguishable from the weave itself.


    His breath was shallow, barely controlled, his fingers twitching against the soft and smooth garment. He had never worn anything like this before¡ªnever needed to. His clothing had always been practical, durable, suited for labor and war. This was something else entirely. This was made for elegance, for status. For someone who had never lifted a hammer or swung a blade in their life.


    He forced himself to shift his attention, grounding himself in something tangible, something that might help him make sense of the impossible. What he had assumed to be a high dais beneath him, an altar or a raised platform, he now realized was only hip-height for Cadog. Yet his own feet did not touch the ground.


    That realization made his stomach turn.


    His legs hung above the stone floor, weightless in a way that felt unnatural. He could feel shoes encasing his feet¡ªslim, light, unfamiliar¡ªyet he dared not look at them. The robe or dress obscured his view for now, a merciful barrier between him and whatever further truth awaited below.


    Ronan swallowed, his throat tight. Every piece of new information only pushed him further from what he knew to be true, from what should have been true. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Then, finally, he gathered the courage to look straight down¡ªat what he now knew would await him.


    Framed by the draping folds of the dress, on his chest sat two breasts.


    Ronan''s breath hitched, his chest tightening as though the realization alone had stolen the air from his lungs. He froze, staring, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. There was no mistake. No illusion. No cruel trick of the firelight distorting shadows. They were real, pressing against the fabric of his dress, shifting slightly as he breathed. His fingers twitched, his hands curling into the green silk at his sides, as if anchoring himself to something familiar might steady the roiling unease within him. But it was no use.


    A breath shuddered out of him, and before Ronan could stop himself, his hand lifted. One of those impossibly fine, impossibly wrong hands. He hesitated for a moment, as though touching them would solidify the horror, would make it irreversible. But he had to know.


    His palm pressed against his chest, fingers splaying over the curve of soft flesh.


    The sensation jolted through him, alien and yet undeniable. He could feel the warmth of his own skin beneath his touch, the unfamiliar weight that shifted slightly under the pressure. His breathing grew shallower as his eyes flicked down to where his hand rested.


    The sight sent another shock through him.


    Slender, pale fingers, smooth and unblemished, topped with deep red nails, rested against equally soft, untouched skin. His breath stilled as he took in the contrast¡ªnot the rough, scarred hand of a soldier pressing against a broad chest hardened by battle, but a delicate, graceful hand against the gentle curve of an unfamiliar body. No callouses, no inked lines of old wounds, no uneven patches of skin from years of forging, fighting, surviving.


    The stone in his stomach dropped deeper, a crushing, inescapable weight.


    Ronan''s body¡ªhis real body¡ªhad been broad-shouldered, built from years of labor and war. It had scars, strength, a weight that this¡ªthis slender, delicate thing¡ªcould never hold. He had fought in the mud, had lifted steel so heavy it turned his muscles to iron, had taken wounds that left his skin scarred. That body had been his. This one was not.


    His breathing quickened. The tightness in his chest constricted further, panic rising like bile in his throat. He tore his hand away as if burned, but it was too late. The confirmation had already sunk its claws into him. He felt it. Felt the way his body moved, the way the dress shifted over his unfamiliar frame, the way every breath pushed against the undeniable truth of what had happened to him.


    He wanted to reject it, to force it away, to wake up. But there was nothing to wake from. Because this was real.


    A tremor ran through him. His hands curled into fists, the long nails pressing into his palms, unfamiliar and sharp. His breath came in quick, uneven bursts. His hair felt heavier, brushing against his shoulders like an unwelcome weight, the fabric of the dress clinging where it shouldn¡¯t, hanging loose where it should have been tight. Every part of him felt wrong, like his body had been turned inside out, and the sheer impossibility of it shattered whatever fragile control he had left. Tears burned in the corners of his eyes. His chest heaved. The pressure inside him built, higher, tighter, until it became unbearable.


    And then it burst. The scream forced its way out of Ronan, raw and panicked¡ªexcept it wasn¡¯t his scream. The sound was too high, too soft. His own voice startled him, silencing him mid-breath. The remnants of the scream hung in the air, delicate, trembling. The breathless hush that followed was worse than the sound itself. He could still feel the vibrations in his throat, could still feel the release of breath, but the voice¡ªthat voice¡ªdid not belong to him.


    The realization cut through the panic like a blade. Even that had been taken from him. The weight of it settled deep in his chest, cold and suffocating. He was trapped. In a body that wasn¡¯t his. With a voice that wasn¡¯t his. In a life that wasn¡¯t his.


    Both Cadog and Alena were looking at him now, concern evident in their eyes. But it wasn¡¯t for him¡ªnot truly. Their worry was not for Ronan, the man who had lived, fought, and died as himself. Their concern was for something else, something larger than him, something that his very presence had disrupted.


    They were not afraid for him. They were afraid of what to do with him.


    Alena¡¯s lips parted slightly as if she wanted to say something, but nothing came. Her fingers twitched at her sides, hands tightening around the fabric of her dress as she took a half-step back, as if uncertain whether she should comfort him or restrain him. Cadog, standing beside her, remained rigid, his expression carefully composed, but the way his fingers curled against his robes betrayed his unease.


    What to do with the hysterical, panicking man sitting before them in a body meant for someone else. They had never planned for this. Never accounted for this. And now, they did not know what he was supposed to be.


    Cadog exhaled through his nose, his fingers still playing at the hem of his robe. "We don¡¯t have much time. If we stay here any longer, the others will start to notice." His tone was measured, but the sharp glance he gave Alena made it clear¡ªthis could not be left unresolved.


    Alena looked at him, then at Ronan, then back again, her shoulders stiffening slightly.


    Cadog hesitated, his mouth pressing into a firm line. "Alena, could you take..." His fingers twitched, curling tighter around the fabric. A breath, slow and controlled. "Could you please take the child to their bed chamber?"


    The word child hit Ronan like a slap, like something meant to strip him of whatever fragile sense of self he still had.


    His breath hitched. His panic, which had momentarily settled into confusion, surged back to the surface, sharp and unrelenting. He wasn¡¯t a child. He wasn¡¯t whatever they thought he was. He didn¡¯t belong here. They had done something to him, something impossible, something wrong, and now they wanted to hide him away like a problem that needed containing.


    "No."


    It came out as a whisper at first, but the refusal built in his chest, pushing past the tightness in his throat. His fingers dug into the fabric of his dress, his breath uneven, heart hammering against his ribs. He shook his head, sharper this time.


    He pushed himself up, rising too quickly. The drop to the floor was longer than expected, and his footing nearly failed him. The shoes he had refused to look at felt strange, elevating his heel, throwing his balance off. He nearly stumbled, the shift unnatural¡ªyet before he could fall, his body adjusted on its own, correcting his stance with an ease that wasn¡¯t his.


    "No, I¡¯m not going anywhere with you." His voice cracked, and he didn¡¯t care. His gaze darted between them, searching for something¡ªan explanation, a sign of what they had done to him¡ªbut all he saw was Cadog¡¯s steady, unreadable expression and Alena¡¯s clear hesitation.


    "Ritual? Covenant?" He spat the words, panic creeping into his tone. "What did you do to me? Why am I here? Why am I¡ª" His breath caught, and he couldn¡¯t bring himself to say it.


    This body. This wrong body.


    Alena flinched slightly at his outburst, her hands pressing against the fabric of her gown, her fingers tightening as if she were holding herself back. She didn¡¯t move toward him, didn¡¯t speak immediately, but he saw something flicker across her face¡ªpity, reluctance, maybe even doubt.


    Cadog, in contrast, remained composed, though Ronan didn¡¯t miss the way his fingers curled just a little tighter against his robe. If he was surprised by Ronan¡¯s reaction, he didn¡¯t show it. He simply exhaled, his voice still measured, still calm in a way that made Ronan¡¯s skin crawl.


    "I understand that you¡¯re afraid," Cadog said, as though stating a simple fact. "But you are in no condition to make sense of this yet. We will give you time to rest. To think." His eyes met Alena¡¯s, something silent passing between them. "You know this is the best course of action," he added, not unkindly.


    Alena hesitated. Ronan saw the way she didn¡¯t immediately agree, the way she glanced toward him, the conflict playing behind her amber eyes. Her fingers twitched at her sides, uncertain, but then, finally, she exhaled, nodding just once.


    Ronan took a step back. His limbs felt light, foreign, but the instinct was still the same¡ªget away.


    "No," he said again, sharper this time, his voice rising. "I don¡¯t trust you." His breathing quickened, the weight of the dress dragging against his legs, the too-soft skin of his own arms foreign against his sides. "You¡ªYou did something to me. You did something, and I don¡¯t even know who you are."


    Cadog¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t waver. If anything, he looked almost patient.


    "Then let us explain," he said simply.


    Ronan didn¡¯t want an explanation. He wanted to wake up. He wanted to hear his own voice, see his own hands, feel his own body as it should be. But instead, he was here, staring at two strangers who were looking at him like he shouldn¡¯t exist.


    Alena took a step closer, hesitant, but deliberate. "We brought you back from Oblivion." Her voice was steady, but there was something raw beneath it. "We do not wish to cause you further distress, or any harm. If you trust nothing else, then please trust that."


    She was looking at him with pleading eyes, her earlier hesitation replaced with something almost desperate.


    A part of him¡ªsome small, lost part¡ªwanted to believe her. Wanted to cling to the idea that they had saved him, not broken him. That whatever had happened to him had been done with kindness, not cruelty. But kindness would not have done this to him.


    Everything was wrong. The body, the voice, the way they looked at him¡ªnot with familiarity, not with reassurance, but with uncertainty, calculation. Had they not already harmed him, pulled him into this wrongness? The thought alone sent a wave of nausea rolling through him. He didn¡¯t know these people, didn¡¯t know this place, and yet they were speaking as though they had done something merciful. As though he should be grateful. But all he could feel was the crushing weight of it¡ªthe strangeness of his own limbs, the foreign silk pooling around him, the lightness of a body that wasn¡¯t his. It was wrong. All of it. They had taken something from him.


    But the nothingness¡ªOblivion¡ªhad been worse. Hadn¡¯t it?


    The thought slithered into his mind unbidden, poisoning his certainty. There, he had drifted away. Thought had faded. Memory had unraveled. He had felt himself thinning, dissolving, slipping into something vast and nameless, until there was almost nothing left of him at all. No pain. No self. No past. He had been unraveling piece by piece, the edges of his mind fraying like a rope worn too thin. Even the things that had defined him¡ªhis father¡¯s voice, the heat of the forge, the weight of his hammer in his hands¡ªhad started to slip from his grasp. Everything he was, everything he cared for and loved, fading.


    They had taken his body. His voice. His very sense of self. But they had also pulled him back.


    Doubt replaced certainty.


    Ronan had to face what was before him, no matter how much he wanted to reject it. He had died once already¡ªsurely the worst they could do was kill him again. And yet, the certainty that had once comforted him in battle, the knowledge that death was final, unavoidable, absolute, had been shattered. He had been gone, but now he was here, alive in ways he did not understand. And that meant something.


    For all that was wrong, for all that had been taken, this body still breathed. His heart still beat. He still existed. And existing was better than being nothing. If nothing else, he would hold onto that. Because if he still existed, then maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªhe could make sense of what had happened to him.


    "I don¡¯t trust you." The words scraped out of him, wrong in tone, wrong in weight. His voice was foreign to his ears¡ªlighter, smoother¡ªbut the words were still Ronan''s.


    "What do you plan on doing with me if I go with you?"


    The words were spoken to Alena, but it was Cadog who answered first.


    "As Alena said, no harm will come to you." His voice remained steady, detached, as if he were simply stating a fact. "But further than that... I don¡¯t know."


    Alena shot him a glance, her lips pressing together as though displeased with his cold response. Unlike Cadog, she did not maintain the same distance. She took a step forward, her hands unclenching from where they had been gripping her gown, the rigid set of her shoulders softening just slightly.


    "Ronan..." she spoke his name carefully, as though testing the sound of it. Her voice was gentler than Cadog¡¯s, but still carrying the weight of expectation. "I know you¡¯re afraid. I can¡¯t imagine what this must feel like for you." She hesitated, then slowly lowered herself to his level, no longer towering over him. "But you are alive." Her amber eyes searched his, trying to convey something beyond mere words. "Whatever else has happened, whatever has changed... you are here, and I swear to you, I will not let harm come to you."


    Her words were measured, deliberate, as though trying to reassure him¡ªbut something in them felt too polished, too well-placed. As if she was used to convincing others, to guiding people toward accepting something they did not want to. Ronan didn¡¯t know if she truly meant what she said, or if she simply wanted him to believe it.


    His fingers curled into the heavy folds of his dress, a reminder of everything that was wrong.


    "That¡¯s easy for you to say," he muttered, his voice quieter, but still laced with defiance. "You¡¯re not the one trapped in a body that isn¡¯t yours."


    Alena flinched, just barely, but it was there. A flicker of emotion, something almost like guilt, before she composed herself again.


    Cadog, meanwhile, remained unmoved. "The alternative is Oblivion." The words were blunt, final, spoken as though that should be reason enough.


    Ronan¡¯s breath hitched, his chest tightening at the memory of that vast nothingness, of himself unraveling into the void. He forced himself to meet Cadog¡¯s gaze, but the man¡¯s expression gave nothing away¡ªno sympathy, no reassurance, just calculated certainty.


    He was not asking for Ronan¡¯s trust. He was simply stating the alternative.


    Alena exhaled softly and reached out, almost as if to touch his arm, but she stopped short, hesitant. "Please, just come with us. You don¡¯t have to trust us, not yet. But we can help you. You don¡¯t have to go through this alone."


    Ronan stared at her hand, hovering in the space between them. He did not move to take it.


    "If I go with you, I want an explanation." His voice was firm, though his pulse was still unsteady.


    He still did not trust them. He believed that they intended no harm, but that did not mean they had no other motives. Power was never simple. Nobles did not act without purpose. And if these people had the power to pull him back from Oblivion, they had the power to use him for something else, too.


    Back in Kael Kestrel, he had seen how people like this moved. He and Daire had often stood at the edges of the training grounds, watching the Knights spar. He had seen how they moved, how their loyalties were not just to their swords but to the politics that surrounded them. And when he and his father sold blades to the knights, to visiting nobles and merchants, he had heard even more¡ªwords spoken carefully, but always with purpose. A favor exchanged here, a debt built there. The servants in the tavern had been even more entertaining, whispering of the shifting alliances and quiet betrayals in Duke Thorne¡¯s court.


    These were the kinds of people who understood the weight of power and the necessity of control. They were not careless, nor were they kind without reason. They had not meant to pull him from Oblivion, but now that he was here, they were trying to keep him calm, trying to keep him contained. That meant something. And Ronan needed to know what.


    "Of course, Ronan. I will answer your questions, but not here."


    The relief was visible on Alena''s face, her shoulders easing as though she had feared he would refuse. But she did not press him further. Instead, she glanced toward Cadog, her expression shifting, her voice quieter but firm. "But Cadog is right. We can¡¯t tarry much longer. If we stay, people will start asking questions¡ªquestions we may not be able to answer."


    Ronan hesitated, his fingers tightening in the smooth fabric of his unfamiliar dress. He still didn¡¯t trust them. He still didn¡¯t understand why they cared now, why they were bothering to help him at all when he had not been the one they meant to bring back. But they had answers, and if he wanted them, he would have to play along. At least for now.


    Ronan exhaled slowly, steadying himself. The weight of the dress, the strangeness of his body, the foreign sound of his own breath¡ªit all grated at him, but he forced himself to push past it. Existing was better than being nothing. And if this was what it meant to still be alive, he had to hold on.


    He exhaled, steadying himself. If he wanted answers, he would have to play along. But that didn¡¯t mean he had to trust them. And it didn¡¯t mean he would forget. "Fine," he muttered, though the word felt like ash on his tongue. He looked between them, searching for some hidden cruelty, some sign that this was all a trick. He found only expectation. But that didn¡¯t mean it wasn¡¯t there. "I¡¯ll go with you."


    The words felt heavy, wrong. Doubt clawed its way back, cold and insistent, and his lips parted as if to take them back. But what else was there to say? What else could he do? His options had already been stripped away, just like everything else.


    Cadog did not acknowledge his words beyond a small nod, already turning his focus elsewhere. "Take him to the guest quarters, Alena. The room next to yours was prepared for Isolde, use that." There was no hesitation in his command, no regard for whether Alena would approve of being ordered around like a servant. Ronan could almost feel him hurrying them out of the chamber, as though their presence here was an inconvenience that needed to be dealt with before it became anyone else''s problem.


    Alena stiffened at his tone, her fingers twitching slightly against the folds of her dress. Though she said nothing at first, the tension in her shoulders made it clear that she did not appreciate being given orders so directly. She was no lesser noble, no attendant to carry out his will without question. A slow breath passed through her lips before she replied, measured but firm. "I will, but don¡¯t assume you will find all your answers in the library, Cadog. The ritual is always held here in Dawnspire. If there were precedent for this, we would have known of it."


    Ronan caught the slight edge in her voice. It was not outright defiance, but neither was it full compliance. She would do as he asked, but only because she agreed. Whatever the nature of their relationship, it was clear that Alena was not someone who simply bent to Cadog¡¯s will.


    Cadog, for his part, barely reacted beyond a small incline of his head, as if acknowledging her words but dismissing them just the same. "Nevertheless, I will look," he said, his tone unchanged. Without further discussion, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, already considering the matter settled.


    Alena exhaled sharply through her nose, shifting her attention back to Ronan. "Come," she said, less commanding than Cadog but leaving little room for argument. She turned toward the arched doorway that led out of the chamber, waiting only a moment to see if Ronan would follow before stepping forward. He didn¡¯t move.


    His feet refused, his body refusing to acknowledge the decision his mouth had made. He wasn¡¯t supposed to follow. He wasn¡¯t supposed to be here. And yet, he had no choice. No matter how much he wanted to fight, to demand answers here and now, to tear away from this nightmare, he had nothing but uncertainty. And uncertainty left only one path forward.


    He forced his feet to move, each step a betrayal. His steps unsteady at first as he adjusted to the unnatural way his body moved. The moment he stepped forward, the unfamiliar elevation of his heels sent a jolt of instability through him, forcing his body to compensate. He had never worn shoes like these before, had never had to walk on something that deliberately unbalanced him. And yet¡ªhis body adjusted.


    His steps faltered, but his body corrected itself. He tried to hesitate, to slow, to force himself to move differently, but his own muscles betrayed him, adjusting with practiced grace. His ankles adjusted, his posture straightened, and he found himself walking without thinking. His stomach twisted. This was wrong. It wasn¡¯t just the heels or the weight of the dress¡ªit was the way his own body betrayed him, moving as though it had done this a thousand times. As though he had done this a thousand times. His hands curled, though stopping just shy of his long nails biting flesh. What else did this body remember that he did not?


    They left the chamber together, exiting through the arched doorway that led into the grand halls of the Dawnspire, the heart of worship in the Kingdom of Sardia. The shift from the stark ritual chamber to the opulence of the corridors outside was almost overwhelming. The hallways were lined with high, vaulted ceilings adorned with gold-leaf patterns, the walls intricately carved with depictions of dawns and sunsets, of radiant light breaking over rolling landscapes. Pillars of white marble stretched high above, each one inlaid with veins of gold that shimmered in the light of the hanging lanterns¡ªlanterns made of finely wrought brass and glass, their flickering flames casting shifting patterns onto the polished floors. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of incense and melted wax. The silk of his dress clung unnaturally to his skin, and beneath the shifting firelight, it felt as if the walls were watching.


    The symbol of Aethor, an eight-pointed star, was everywhere. It was carved into towering pillars of white marble, etched into stained glass windows that burned with golden and crimson hues, stitched into the rich banners of pristine white and gold that draped along the walls. Light filled every corner, ever-present¡ªglowing braziers lined the walkways, flickering candles adorned alcoves, and great beams of the evening sun poured through the arched windows, illuminating the sacred space in a way that felt both reverent and overpowering. Alongside the stars were the ever-present depictions of sunrises and sunsets, each one bathed in deep oranges and reds, the transition between light and dark symbolizing the eternal cycle of Aethor¡¯s grace.


    Ronan felt suffocated by it.


    This place, this temple, was the center of faith for an entire kingdom. He had heard of the Dawnspire before, had seen the banners of the faithful, had watched the warriors who knelt before its altars. He had prayed in temples dedicated to Aethor, had stood in the golden light of dawn and murmured his devotions alongside his father. And more than that, he had been accepted into his knightly order¡ªthe Aetherian Knights.


    Faith had never been something he thought about deeply. It was tradition, expectation. His father had prayed, so he had prayed. His mentors had spoken of Aethor¡¯s light, so he had listened. The words had been easy enough to say, the rituals easy enough to follow. He had knelt when required, but it had never been more than that. He had never looked for meaning beyond duty.


    But here¡ªstanding beneath the golden glow of Aethor¡¯s light, with the weight of devotion pressing down from every carved stone and painted wall¡ªhe felt like an imposter.


    The Dawnspeakers, robed in flowing white and gold, moved with quiet purpose along the hallways. Some bore tall staves tipped with orange crystals, shimmering as they caught the glow of the lanterns, while others carried ornate lamps, their flickering flames casting halos against the walls. The highest among them were adorned in deep burgundy and rich orange, their robes heavy with embroidered sigils of the rising sun¡ªsymbols of Aethor¡¯s eternal flame, of enlightenment, of divine purpose.


    It should have been comforting. But instead, it only made the wrongness of his existence sharper.


    He walked with stiff steps behind Alena, adjusting to the unnatural sway of his body, to the way his heels forced his stance into something more refined than he had ever been taught. He did not stumble, but only because something in him¡ªor in this body¡ªseemed to know how to move. It disturbed him more than if he had fallen outright.


    He forced his gaze forward, unwilling to meet the gazes of those they passed. Would they see it? Would they look at him and know that he did not belong? The thought made his skin crawl. Every step he took felt heavier beneath the weight of the symbols that surrounded him, the ever-present reminders of Aethor¡¯s light pressing down on him from all sides. He had walked in temples before, stood beneath banners bearing the eight-pointed star, but never had it felt like this¡ªlike something watching, something judging.


    They soon arrived in a wing that felt different, warmer. The symbols of Aethor were still present, but they no longer dominated every surface. Here, the devotion was quieter, less overwhelming. A fine rug covered the floor, soft beneath his steps, muting the sound of his unfamiliar heels against stone. The imagery of light and sun remained, but it was joined by something else¡ªpaintings of everyday life. Rolling green hills stretching toward the horizon, golden fields basking beneath a painted sky, bustling cities standing tall and proud against the setting sun.


    Then, as they walked further, his breath caught. There, among the depictions of grand landscapes and sacred sites, was a painting of his home. Kestrel.


    The great cliff where the city stood on top, overlooking the vast stretch of the plains below. The river winding through the farmland, glimmering in the painted light, the waterfall frozen in mid-descent. He had seen this view a thousand times¡ªfrom the high walls of the keep, from the roads leading into the city, from the hills where he, Daire, and their friends had played as children. The details were perfect, down to the narrow bridges arching over the river, the scattered homes along the valley, the distant mountains fading into the horizon. And yet, seeing it here, surrounded by symbols of devotion and places of reverence, made his stomach twist.


    He was so far from home. He had not seen it in many months, had not walked those roads, had not stood before the castle gates. And yet, here it was, staring back at him from a gilded frame, immortalized in paint and gold leaf.


    His fingers twitched against the fabric of his dress, and for the first time since waking, the weight of what had happened pressed into him¡ªnot as confusion, not as panic, but as loss.


    He had stopped walking, staring at the painting, willing himself into it. Wishing himself back. Back to the high walls of Kestrel, back to the roads he had walked all his life, back to the hills where he, Daire, and their friends had played as children. He traced the familiar lines of the cliffs, the river, the frozen waterfall¡ªeach detail perfectly preserved in paint, unchanged, untouched by time. But he was not there. He was here, in a place that was not his, in a body that was not his, surrounded by symbols of faith that should have brought him comfort but only made him feel like an imposter.


    Beside him, Alena had stopped as well, silent. She did not press him, did not interrupt. She only watched, her gaze flicking briefly between him and the painting, unreadable.


    After a moment, she cleared her throat lightly. "Come, Ronan, the room is just down here."


    Her voice was softer than before, lacking the authority it usually carried. It came from somewhere behind him, distant, as if she were speaking through water. He barely heard her. Because this was all he had left of home. A picture. A memory, framed in gold.


    He should have moved. Should have followed. But his feet refused, holding him there a moment longer. A moment too long. As if staying would change anything. As if staring hard enough could pull him back into the past. But the past was gone. And so he exhaled, forcing himself to turn away, leaving it behind once more.


    Then, without a word, Ronan followed.