The chill of dawn crept across the training hall floor as Kaelen stood rooted in place, the Midnight Blade still humming in his hand. The words of his father echoed in his mind: "You must learn to wield your destiny, before the world is consumed by shadow."
But there was no time.
A sharp knock rang out from beyond the heavy wooden doors of the training hall. Moments later, Captain Elandor, clad in battle-worn armor and breathing heavily, burst in, sword half-drawn and eyes wide.
"My Lord," he said, addressing Lord Dorian, but his eyes flickered toward Kaelen and the blade in his hand, brow furrowing in surprise. "You need to come. Now."
Lord Dorian crossed the space in seconds. "What is it?"
"The Eastern Gate," Elandor said, voice low and urgent. "They've come."
Kaelen's heart thudded. "Who?"
Elandor looked between father and son. "Ravener's men. And something... worse. We lost two scouts before they even saw what hit them. And there's blood—so much blood."
Lord Dorian's jaw clenched. "Sound the horns. Ready the archers. We hold the Gate."
Elandor nodded and turned sharply, vanishing down the hall.
Kaelen's mind raced. Ravener—the exiled lord who had once tried to claim the throne through dark sorcery. He had vanished years ago, presumed dead or imprisoned beyond the cursed Blackmere Mountains. But now... now his forces stood at their gate?
"Kaelen," Dorian said without turning, "you're not ready for this fight."
Kaelen's grip tightened on the hilt. "The sword chose me for a reason. If I'm to face what's coming, let me start now."
His father paused. The weight of generations seemed to rest on his shoulders. "Then stay close. And don't let that blade out of your sight."
Together, they raced through the inner corridors, the castle awakening to alarm bells and shouted commands. Servants fled toward safety. Guards rushed to the ramparts. When they emerged into the open courtyard, smoke already curled over the eastern wall.
Kaelen looked toward the rising sun—and saw it obscured by black banners marked with a crimson claw. Just beyond the walls, shrill war horns sounded. A distant scream pierced the morning air.
They climbed the battlements, and Kaelen's breath caught in his throat. Below, at the base of the Eastern Gate, lay half a dozen bodies—guards, townsfolk—strewn like broken dolls. Blood darkened the stones. And approaching the gate was a line of shadow-cloaked figures—Ravener's army, wearing jagged armor that shimmered like obsidian, their eyes glowing with faint, unnatural light.
But at the center of the approaching force stood a figure wrapped in dark crimson robes, his face masked, but his presence unmistakable—Kaelen felt him before he saw him. A pressure behind his eyes, a twist in his gut. Something dark and familiar.
A voice whispered in his head: He knows the blade has awakened.
"Who is that?" Kaelen asked.
Lord Dorian's voice was heavy. "A shadebinder. One of Ravener's inner circle. They were thought extinct."
The figure raised a hand—and the shadows themselves seemed to crawl forward.
A bolt of black fire erupted from his palm and slammed into the gate with a deafening crack. Wood splintered. Stone buckled. Soldiers screamed. Kaelen's heart pounded as he reached instinctively for the sword on his back.
"I have to go down there!" he said, turning.
Lord Dorian grabbed his arm. "You must not let the blade fall into their hands. That's why they're here, Kaelen. Not for conquest—for you."
Another explosion rocked the wall.
And then something inside Kaelen snapped into focus. The dreams. The whispers. The sword. It had led him here for a reason.
"No," Kaelen said, pulling away. "They can't have it. And I won't run."
He turned and leapt down the rampart stairs, his cloak billowing behind him. Soldiers parted as he passed, some looking on in awe, others in fear. He reached the shattered gate just as it groaned inward under the weight of a battering ram made of bone and black iron.
Kaelen planted his feet. Raised the Midnight Blade.
The first shadow warrior stepped through—and Kaelen moved like he had trained for this moment his whole life. The blade pulsed with light and shadow, slicing cleanly through armor that no ordinary weapon could break. More poured through, and Kaelen fought like fire, every strike guided not just by instinct, but by purpose.
Behind him, Dorian and the guards joined the fray.
But above the chaos, Kaelen saw the crimson-robed shadebinder raise both hands. Runes glowed around his fingers, and he spoke in a language that burned Kaelen's ears. A dark spell gathered, aimed at the heart of the city.
Kaelen knew what he had to do.
He broke from the line of battle and charged, ducking between blades, blood painting his path. The shadebinder's eyes locked with his. Their magic clashed in a crackle of light and shadow as Kaelen swung the Midnight Blade with all the force of his will—
The spell shattered.
The shadebinder hissed in pain and staggered back, retreating into the smoke. As he vanished into the morning fog, he left behind a whisper only Kaelen could hear:
"The true heir awakens. But the crown is not yet yours."