The fires of war had scorched the outer gates of Zarethrone. By dawn, smoke choked the skies, painting the sunrise a sickly shade of red. Ash drifted through the air like falling snow, and every corner of the kingdom pulsed with unrest.
Within the thick stone walls of the royal citadel, the war council chamber thrummed with tension. King Aldric stood at the war table, surrounded by commanders whose armor bore fresh blood. His gaze was iron. "The gate holds for now. But they will strike again by nightfall. We must not falter."
Lysaro slammed a fist against his chest. Then let them come. They will not find a prince cowering.
Elion, the youngest knight ever sworn to the King's Guard, glanced sideways at Kaelith. His face was bruised, his sword hand wrapped in cloth, but his voice remained steady. "The Crown Prince must be protected. If they breach the palace again, we form a circle around him."
Kaelith said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on the map before them, eyes scanning the enemy positions. His armor was dented, the crimson trim stained darker now. But his spine held straight. His silence spoke of battle, loss, and guilt.
Hale stood near the far column, eyes always tracking the prince even as he kept his sword sheathed for the moment. He hadn't spoken since they'd returned from the battlefield.
"Lock the inner city," Aldric ordered. "No civilian is to leave their home until the gates are secure. Anyone seen outside without an order will be taken into holding."
A captain bowed and rushed out.
The King's voice dropped, only for those in the room. Zarethrone has never seen this kind of siege. And we will not give the history of our defeat. Hold the city. Hold the heir.
Lysaro looked to Kaelith. They want your fall more than the kingdom's. They want to shame Zarethrone by dragging you to your knees.
Kaelith's jaw flexed. "Then I will not kneel."
The war horns sounded again.
Everyone in the chamber stilled.
Kaelith turned. To the ramparts.
The knights followed him like a tide of steel. As they reached the outer towers, they found the Orvanian forces regrouping. Their battering ram was rebuilt. Their catapults rolled forward.
Civilians cried behind shuttered windows. Mothers clutched their children. The marketplace was silent as a grave.
King Aldric appeared beside his son on the western wall, his sword drawn. We fight as one. Zarethrone does not break.
Kaelith drew his blade.
Hale stepped to his side.
Elion and Lysaro formed the front line, shields raised.
And just before the first boulder flew from the Orvanian catapult, Kaelith whispered under his breath:
"Let them come."
The war was not over.
The blood of kings had not yet spilled.
And Zarethrone would not fall quietly.
Night fell. And with it came fire.
The night sky was stained red with firelight, screams echoed between the stone walls, and the scent of smoke mixed with blood in the cold wind. The war for Zarethrone had begun in full.
Prince Kaelith moved like steel in the storm his blade glinting crimson, his armor bruised by battle, his breath rising in clouds of exhaustion. Yet he fought endlessly at the gate with Hale beside him. Sword to sword. Shoulder to shoulder.
The gates of Zarethrone held, barely, creaking with each blow from Orvanian rams. And the worst part they were relentless. The enemy came in waves, each more brutal than the last.
Suddenly, a horn sounded not from the palace walls, not from Orvania's lines.
It came from the north.
The sound was deep, unfamiliar, and commanding. The battlefield slowed. Even the Orvanian commanders halted, raising hands in confusion. Kaelith turned to the ramparts.
Flames curled against the sky. Dust kicked up from galloping hooves.
Another army was approaching.
"Gods," one of the royal guards muttered. "We're being flanked. Another invasion."
Kaelith's eyes narrowed. "No… wait."
Crimson banners lifted in the wind but they were not Orvanian. They bore a different symbol. A golden phoenix over obsidian flame.
Kaelith's heart jumped.
No. It couldn't be.
The front of the marching force broke apart, and at the head, a single rider emerged his armor black with gold accents, and a sapphire cape flowing behind him like stormwinds. His horse reared as he yanked the reins, drawing his sword and raising it high in salute.
Prince Ronan of Vaelaris.
One of the Seven Pillars of the World. Crown Prince of the High Kingdom of Vaelaris. Son of King Theron the man who once fought beside King Aldric in the wars of their youth.
But more than that…
He was Kaelith's childhood friend. His secret confidant. The only other noble Kaelith had ever dared to trust.
Ronan, Kaelith breathed, lips parting in disbelief.
Hale stood behind him, stunned. "Who is that?"
Kaelith didn't answer. He was already moving, pushing past guards toward the rampart.
The gates had not yet broken fully. Smoke clung to the air, but there, through the haze, Ronan raised his sword again.
And then he shouted.
"FOR ZARETHRONE."
The answer came like thunder.
His army surged forward.
Thousands of soldiers in black and gold, trained in the Vaelaris arts of war disciplined, ruthless, fast. Their archers launched flame-tipped arrows at the Orvanian flanks. Lances tore through the outer line. Horses trampled over invaders like waves crashing against stone.
The Orvanian forces reeled.
They hadn't expected this.
Zarethrone's defenders shouted in renewed fury, bolstered by the sudden turn.
From the western tower, King Aldric stepped onto the battlement. His expression was unreadable at first, shocked, wary, but then recognition bloomed across his face.
"Theron's son…" he murmured. "He came."
Within moments, Ronan had dismounted and entered the gates.
Kaelith was already waiting.
They met in the heart of the courtyard, both covered in sweat and dirt, but neither caring.
Ronan grinned beneath his helmet. Still alive, I see.
Kaelith blinked, stunned. "You crossed your borders for me?"
"For you? No," Ronan smirked. "For your Kingdom. For my father's oath to yours. For Zarethrone's soul."
Kaelith wanted to say something, anything, but his throat tightened. He hadn't expected aid. Not when the world had seemed ready to break.
And yet here Ronan stood.
Beside him.
"Your timing," Kaelith rasped, is either divine or suicidal.
"I'll take both," Ronan laughed. Then his face sobered. "We fight until they bleed."
Behind him, Lysaro and Elion arrived from the battlements.
Lysaro's voice was sharp. "Is this real? A northern army, here?"
Elion stared hard. "Not enemy."
Kaelith turned. No. They're not here to fight us. They're our allies.
They all looked again at the battlefield, where Vaelaris troops were cutting through Orvania's siege lines with terrifying efficiency.
Hope surged in Kaelith's chest.
But the war was far from over.
The Orvanian captains, seeing their forces fold, let out a new order.
"RELEASE THE BEAST!"
Kaelith's face darkened. "What now?"
And then, from the eastern field, something massive stirred.
A shadow. Tall as three men. Shackled. Snarling.
A weapon of ancient blood.
The earth trembled.
But Kaelith didn't back away.
He turned to Ronan. "You're with me?"
Ronan drew his sword. "To the end."
And Kaelith glanced over his shoulder to the ramparts, where Hale stood, watching, tense but loyal.
Then forward, into the dark.
With his old friend on one side.
His secret on the other hand.
And a war that was only just beginning