Kaelen awoke with a start, his breath shallow and his heart racing. The soft rustle of the night wind against the stone walls of his chamber did little to calm the uneasy feeling that had settled in his chest. He wiped the sweat from his brow and swung his legs over the side of the bed, the coolness of the stone floor grounding him to the present. His mind, however, was still lost in the dark recesses of the dream.
In the dream, the sword had been there, the Midnight's Edge, glowing with an eerie light. But this time, it was not in his hand. It hovered above a throne, its blade held aloft as though waiting for a king to claim it. And there, sitting on the throne, was a figure draped in shadow, their face obscured by a dark crown. The figure's voice echoed in Kaelen's mind, a low, menacing whisper that twisted his thoughts.
"The crown of darkness awaits you, Kaelen. Will you wear it, or will you fall beneath its weight?"
He shook the memory away, standing up and pacing the room to shake off the lingering unease. The dark corners of his chamber, once familiar and comforting, now seemed suffocating. The Sigil burned beneath his skin, a constant reminder of the power he had chosen to accept. The mark, invisible to all but him, was no longer just a part of his soul—it had become a presence in his thoughts, guiding him, whispering to him in the silence.
"You are bound to the sword now, Kaelen. The sword that chooses the worthy. The sword that will crown its king."
Kaelen clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought the rising tide of doubt. What had he truly chosen? The Sigil had marked him, but had he truly understood what that would mean? The sword was not merely a weapon—it was a key to something greater, something far darker than Kaelen could fathom. And the crown that appeared in his dreams... was it a symbol of power, or of his doom?
A soft knock at the door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. He paused, taking a deep breath to steady himself before calling out.
"Enter."
The door creaked open, and a familiar figure stepped inside—Elira, his childhood friend and confidante. Her presence was like a balm to his frayed nerves. With her warm smile and calm demeanor, Elira always seemed to know when he needed someone to steady him.
"You're up early," she said, her voice a gentle melody. She crossed the room and sat on the edge of his bed, her eyes scanning him with a quiet concern. "I heard you tossing and turning last night. Bad dreams?"
Kaelen nodded, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "More than just bad dreams," he muttered, glancing toward the window. The first light of dawn was just beginning to break, casting a soft, golden hue over the dark landscape outside. "I can't stop thinking about the sword... about the Sigil. And the crown."
Elira's brow furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. "The crown? What crown?"
He hesitated, then spoke the words that had been plaguing him all night. "I dreamed of it. A throne, a dark figure sitting upon it, and the sword held above them, waiting to be claimed. The figure wore a crown, but it wasn't a crown of glory. It felt... wrong, like it was meant to consume the wearer. The voice... it spoke to me, asking if I would wear it."
Elira's eyes softened, but there was a flicker of understanding in them, as though she had heard similar tales before. She leaned forward, placing a hand on his. "You've always had the weight of your family's legacy on your shoulders, Kaelen. But this... this is different. The Sigil, the sword—they're not just symbols of power. They're part of something much bigger. Something ancient. You don't have to carry it alone."
Kaelen looked at her, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and uncertainty. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do with all of this, Elira. The dream... it felt too real. I don't want to become something I can't control."
Elira's gaze softened further, and she squeezed his hand reassuringly. "You won't. You're not your father's shadow, Kaelen. You're your own person. You will make your own choices. And I believe you will make the right ones. You just have to trust yourself."
The sincerity in her voice eased the knot in his chest, but the unease still lingered in the back of his mind. The crown from his dream, the shadowy figure... they were more than just fleeting images. They were symbols of a destiny he had never asked for.
"I hope you're right," he said quietly, standing up and walking toward the window. His gaze fell on the distant spires of Nightstone Castle, silhouetted against the breaking dawn. The same castle that had stood for centuries, a symbol of power and strength. The same castle where his father had ruled, where Kaelen had always believed he would one day sit upon a throne of his own. But now, everything had changed.
The dream felt like a warning, a prophecy of what could come if he allowed the sword and its dark influence to guide him. But there was another part of him, a part that burned with the desire to prove himself, to embrace the legacy that had been handed down to him. The question was no longer whether he was worthy, but whether he was willing to pay the price of the crown.
"You need to go," Elira said suddenly, her voice sharp with a new urgency. "You need to speak to your father. The political tensions are rising faster than anyone expected. The kingdom won't wait much longer, and neither will your enemies."
Kaelen turned to face her, a sense of purpose rising within him. "I know. I'll go to him now."
He moved past her, toward the door, but paused just before he stepped into the hall. Elira's voice stopped him again.
"Kaelen... whatever happens, remember that you have the power to shape your own path. Don't let anyone—or anything—force you into a role you don't want."
He looked back at her, his resolve hardening. "I'll remember, Elira. I have to."
With that, he stepped out into the corridor, the weight of the crown—real or imagined—pressing heavily upon him. The road ahead was uncertain, and the darkness that loomed felt closer with each passing day. But Kaelen knew one thing for certain: whatever the dreams, whatever the Sigil, whatever the cost—he would face it.
And he would choose his own destiny.
The crown would not claim him. Not yet.