The halls of Nightstone Castle seemed unnaturally quiet as Kaelen made his way toward the throne room. The high ceilings and stone walls, so often filled with the sound of bustling servants and dignitaries, now held an eerie stillness. It felt as though the weight of the world was pressing down on him with every step he took. His mind swirled with thoughts of the sword, the crown, and the dream that haunted him still. But more than that, it was the shadow of his father that loomed over him now, darker and more oppressive than ever.
The throne room doors were just ahead, their grand wooden frames adorned with intricate carvings of the kingdom's history—heroes, battles, victories—but all Kaelen could see was the figure of his father, Lord Dorian, seated upon the throne, his commanding presence filling every inch of the room. It was a sight Kaelen had known all his life, but today, it seemed as though the walls themselves were closing in on him.
He paused in front of the doors, breathing deeply as he summoned the courage to push them open. Inside, the throne room was dimly lit by the flickering light of a hundred torches, their flames dancing like ghosts along the stone walls. Lord Dorian sat at the far end of the room, his back straight and regal, his dark eyes fixed ahead, as though the entire world was beneath his watchful gaze. His ironclad hand rested on the arm of the throne, a symbol of power and control.
Kaelen's heart thudded in his chest as he stepped forward, his footsteps echoing through the vast chamber. His father did not acknowledge him at first, as if he were lost in some distant thought or decision. But Kaelen knew better—his father was always aware of his presence, even when his gaze never wavered.
The air in the room felt thick with unspoken words, and Kaelen felt the familiar weight of his father's expectations pressing down on him. The years of training, of preparation, of learning to be the heir—he had always known this moment would come. But it felt different now. The Sigil burned beneath his skin, its presence a constant reminder of the path he had unwittingly chosen. A path that had little to do with the legacy his father had set out for him.
"Father," Kaelen said, his voice steady but laced with uncertainty. "I need to speak with you."
At last, Lord Dorian's gaze shifted toward him. The sharpness of his eyes, once warm with fatherly pride, was now cold and calculating. His expression did not change, but there was a flicker of something—disappointment, perhaps, or expectation—crossing his features. It was hard to tell. His father was a master of masking his true emotions.
"Speak, then," Lord Dorian said, his voice deep and commanding, as if it alone could silence the doubts swirling around them.
Kaelen swallowed and approached the throne, standing tall but feeling small in the face of his father's imposing presence. "I've had dreams," he began, his words slow and measured, "visions of a sword—Midnight's Edge. It… it called to me. And with it, a crown. A dark one. I—"
"A dark crown?" Lord Dorian interrupted, his voice hardening like steel. His eyes narrowed, but his posture remained regal, unyielding. "You dream too much, Kaelen. There is no place for such fantasies in this world. You are not meant to chase shadows or be led by them."
Kaelen clenched his fists, the Sigil beneath his skin burning in response to his father's words. "It wasn't a fantasy, Father. It felt real. The sword, the crown—they are part of something. Something ancient. I need to understand what this means."
Lord Dorian stood, his heavy cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a dark bird. He moved toward Kaelen with slow, deliberate steps, his every movement filled with the power of years of rule. When he reached Kaelen, he placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm, but not without a trace of something softer—perhaps care, or perhaps control.
"You are the heir to this kingdom, Kaelen," Lord Dorian said, his voice lowering, "and the weight of that title is not one that can be taken lightly. The legacy of our family is not built on dreams or half-formed prophecies. It is built on blood, on strength, and on the choices we make. The sword is just a weapon, and the crown? It is a symbol, nothing more."
Kaelen shook his head. "It's not just a symbol, Father. It's a choice. And I need to know what that choice means."
A shadow passed over Lord Dorian's face—a flicker of something Kaelen had never seen before. It was gone before Kaelen could fully understand it, but it left a knot of fear in his stomach. For a moment, his father looked... vulnerable. It was only a moment, and then it was gone, replaced by the hard, impenetrable exterior that Kaelen had always known.
"You will not find answers in dreams, Kaelen. You will find them through duty, through loyalty to this kingdom and to your family," Lord Dorian said, his voice rising with authority. "I will not have you distracted by illusions. Do you understand?"
Kaelen felt his jaw tighten. "I understand."
Lord Dorian studied him for a moment longer, his gaze unflinching. "Good. You are not just a boy with dreams, Kaelen. You are my son. And it is time you learned what it truly means to carry the weight of this legacy. To carry my legacy."
Kaelen nodded, his mind racing with questions. His father's words were clear, but they only deepened the storm of uncertainty inside him. What was his father hiding? And why did it feel like the shadows that clung to his legacy were more than just a metaphor?
As he turned to leave the throne room, Kaelen's eyes fell on the banners that hung along the walls—symbols of victory, of conquest, of power. His father's shadow loomed large, not just in the throne room, but in every corner of the kingdom. Kaelen had spent his life preparing to stand in that shadow, to one day take his father's place. But now, with the Sigil burning within him, with the sword and crown calling to him, he wasn't sure if he could—or even if he wanted to.
The weight of his father's expectations pressed down on him as he stepped into the hall, but Kaelen knew that something had shifted. The crown that awaited him was no longer just a symbol of power. It was a question. And the answer, he knew, would come not from his father, but from within himself.
And that answer, he feared, would set him on a path that could shatter everything.