Night fell heavy over Zarethrone, the sky swollen with dark clouds and no stars. The torches along the palace walls flickered like trembling hearts, casting restless shadows over stone and steel. In the courtyard below, armor gleamed and swords were drawn, but no one spoke unless they had to. This was not a night for words.
Kaelith stood still at the edge of the stone terrace, overlooking the camp below. His armor was darker than silver, trimmed in the royal crimson, its weight pressing his shoulders like a second crown. Beneath it, his heartbeat roared like war drums.
Hale stood a step behind him, his armor fitted and silent. He had said nothing since they left the palace halls, and Kaelith had not turned to look. But he felt him there. Solid. Constant. Unnamed.
"The scouts returned," a soldier whispered to one of the captains nearby. "The Orvanians have made camp at the eastern ridge. They're setting siege lines."
Kaelith closed his eyes briefly. In two days, they had said.
They lied.
Across the plains, faint lights flickered where the enemy had settled. Campfires burning like stars fallen to the ground. The banners of Orvania snapped in the wind red, black, and jagged like open wounds.
They were close.
Behind him, the generals moved through final orders. Arrows were counted. Horses saddled. Commanders checked formation lines and whispered blessings. But Kaelith's focus narrowed to the silence in his chest the ache that refused to quiet.
A memory. A breath. Hale's mouth on his skin.
He pushed it away.
Duty first.
Footsteps approached. It was General Garrick, grim and hulking, with his scarred face like cracked stone. Your Highness. The vanguard is positioned. The archers await your signal. If we delay, they'll breach our southern gate before the second bell.
Kaelith nodded once. "Let the gate archers prepare. Flame arrows only."
Sir Garrick bowed and strode off, barking orders.
Still, Kaelith didn't move.
Until Hale spoke.
"Do you want me at your side tonight?" His voice was low, steady.
Kaelith turned slightly, his jaw tense. You will take command of the left flank. Watch the southern slope. If they breach it, the palace falls.
For a moment, something flickered in Hale's eyes. Pain, maybe. But it passed.
"As you command."
Kaelith nodded once. Then turned away again.
The horns sounded.
Low and long like the growl of some beast rising from the earth.
Every soldier in the courtyard froze.
From across the plains, the sound was answered.
Another horn. Deeper. Closer.
And then the first fire arrow flew.
It arced high through the night sky, leaving a trail like blood on velvet, and struck the gate post of Zarethrone with a hiss and a burst of flame.
The war had begun.
Kaelith descended the stairs like thunder, his sword already unsheathed. Guards moved in rhythm with him, a tide of armor and will.
At the southern wall, chaos broke like waves. The Orvanian archers sent wave after wave of fire arrows, trying to set the defenses alight. Zarethrone's archers answered quickly, returning flame and steel with perfect precision.
Hale's command held the left flank. His voice, sharp and cold, directed every motion. Shields up. Push forward don't break the line.
Kaelith fought like fire.
His blade met the first Orvanian intruder by the gate. Steel clashed. The man lunged, snarling something in a tongue Kaelith barely remembered. Kaelith ducked the swing, turned, and drove his blade clean through the man's chest. No hesitation. No fear.
Just the sound of the body falling.
He turned to the next.
Then another.
Blood on his boots. Screams in his ears. He did not stop.
Across the field, Hale moved like a shadow silent, brutal, precise. Every enemy that crossed his blade met the same end. Yet through it all, his eyes kept flicking back. Toward Kaelith.
As if making sure he was still standing.
As if afraid he wouldn't be.
Kaelith saw it, once.
Their eyes met across the carnage. A single moment.
And then the gates shook.
A battering ram. Huge. Heavy. Slammed against the main gate, again and again.
Kaelith shouted over the clash. "Reinforce the western post. Get the oil ready.
A captain rushed to obey.
The gate groaned.
Then—
CRACK.
Wood split. Steel bent.
They were breaking through.
Kaelith's sword lifted again. He faced the shattering gate.
And when it burst open, the full force of Orvania poured through.
Screaming. Slashing. Set on blood.
Kaelith roared.
He met them head-on.
Behind him, Hale broke ranks and ran to his side.
Their blades moved in rhythm. Back to back.
Like something deeper than war had bound them.
Blood spilled. Steel flashed.
And then the drums of Zarethrone changed their rhythm.
From defense...
To survive.
The war had come.
And so had the storm.
From the highest tower of the palace, King Aldric stood still, eyes fixed on the gate below as it cracked and moaned beneath the Orvanian ram. The wind tugged at his heavy cloak, but the king did not shiver. His hands were clasped behind his back, his jaw tight.
Beside him, Chancellor Veylor trembled, scrolls forgotten in his hands. "Your Majesty, we must move to the safe chamber beneath the chapel."
But the king didn't move. Not yet. My son fights below. I will not hide behind a stone while he bleeds.
Below, the chaos spread like fire licking at dry grass.
The main courtyard was now a warpath Orvanian soldiers spilled through the broken gate, hacking at the Zarethrone guard. The banners of the realm were burning, tattered crimson and silver curling in smoke.
Lysaro, the captain of the royal guard, was already on the upper wall, barking commands.
Crossbowmen, to the western turrets. They're trying to circle us and cut their flank off now.
His armor was dented, blood on one cheek, his expression sharp as a blade.
He turned just in time to catch a blade swinging for his side. He parried, then plunged his dagger into the attacker's neck with brutal speed. His chest heaved once. Then he was moving again.
Just below him, Elion and the knight known more for poetry than war were down in the main courtyard. But tonight, there was no art in them, just fire. He held a double-edged sword in each hand, whirling like a storm through the enemy ranks.
"Protect the prince," Elion shouted over the chaos. Guard the center line.
He drove his sword into an Orvanian shoulder and kicked the man back.
Beside him, Hale and Kaelith still fought like a single force.
But the prince was tiring. The weight of duty, of armor, of guilt clung to his limbs like chains.
The gates had shattered.
The formation had thinned.
And though his sword still found flesh, Kaelith's breathing had turned ragged.
How long can I last like this? he thought, blood dripping down his gauntlet. How many can I kill before I fall?
He nearly stumbled.
But a hand caught him.
Hale.
"Stand straight," Hale said through gritted teeth. They're watching you.
Kaelith blinked away the blur in his eyes, sword lifting again.
Then let them see a crown that bleeds.
Another roar from the right. The Orvanian captain, a towering man with black-streaked armor, had breached the chapel's archway. His men poured through behind him.
A scream rang out from the inner halls.
It wasn't a soldier.
It was someone inside the royal wing.
Shut the gates to the eastern corridor.
Lysaro yelled from above.
"We can't," came the reply. "They're already inside."
Panic struck like lightning.
Civilians had not yet all been evacuated. Children. Elders. Servants.
Kaelith's blood went cold.
He looked at Hale.
And for the first time in hours, not as a soldier.
But as the man who had touched his soul.
"Go," Kaelith said hoarsely. Protect them. The people and the children.
"I stay with you."
"That's an order."
Hale hesitated then his jaw clenched. He turned and ran toward the eastern wing.
Kaelith pivoted back to the gate, rage burning beneath his ribs like fire.
The prince of Zarethrone let out a raw cry and plunged forward into the thick of the enemy.
Above, King Aldric had finally descended from the tower.
He walked through the blood-stained halls like a man returning to battle after years of stillness. His sword, long-forgotten but never dulled, was in his hand again.
And he wielded it like the warrior he once was.
He moved through the northern hallway, slicing down the enemy soldiers that had made it into the palace walls. Behind him, palace guards followed, emboldened.
Back outside, the bells rang.
It was not the morning bell.
It was the mourning bell.
A signal to the city to stay inside. Lock your doors. No one enters the streets. The kingdom is bleeding.
Families wept behind shuttered windows.
Children clung to their mothers in basements.
Priests whispered prayers by torchlight.
In the palace, the storm raged.
Kaelith was forced back toward the main steps, breath coming in ragged bursts. For every Orvanian he cut down, another took his place. His shoulder screamed from a blade that had grazed him. His arm trembled.
Then suddenly Elion was beside him again.
"You fall, we fall," Elion said simply, driving his sword into a soldier at Kaelith's back.
Kaelith almost collapsed.
But he stood.
Because if he fell now, the walls would not hold.
Above, the torches flickered wildly as wind swept through the palace.
Smoke curled from the west wing.
Screams echoed from the chapel.
And somewhere near the old stairs…
A shadow moved.
Not Orvanian. Not Zarethrone.
Not yet seen.
Something else had entered the battlefield.
And the prince, bloodied, exhausted, breathless, feels it in his chest.
Not fear.
But a warning.
This war is not the end.
It's the beginning.