The ravens came at dawn.
Three of them, black as oil and marked with crimson wax seals bearing a crescent moon. They spiraled through the sky and landed with eerie precision—one at the gate of Ardyn Hold, one upon the battlements above the eastern tower, and one at the foot of Kaelen's bed.
He hadn't slept. His mind was a storm of fire and names, of Myre and Ardyn, of truth and lies. Elira's words haunted him. Heir of the phoenix. The fire returns to the sky.
When the raven cawed beside him, he didn't flinch. Instead, he reached for the scroll it carried, his fingers trembling only slightly.
He recognized the sigil immediately. Not Myre. Not Ardyn. Avaron.
One of the Three Eastern Realms. The one whose prince had vanished years ago… and whose throne had remained empty since.
Kaelen unrolled the message, his heart already bracing:
To the Wielder of the Blade of Midnight,Word travels faster than silence. You have been seen.The sword lives. The line of Valebright is not broken.The East remembers its oaths—and its debts.
Come to Avaron before the others do. Before the shadows find you again.The old blood stirs in our bones, and the Ravens rise.
We await the flame.
No signature. Only a smear of what looked like ash.
Downstairs, Elira and Dorian were already gathered in the strategy chamber. The map of the kingdoms lay across the table, now dotted with fresh markers.
"You've read it?" Elira asked as Kaelen entered.
He nodded. "Avaron. They know who I am."
Dorian frowned. "That's not possible. The Eastern Realms have been fractured since—"
"Since the war burned Myre to ash," Elira interrupted. "But not all their oaths died in fire."
She pointed to the map, to a distant mountainous region east of the Shrouded Vale. "House Thorne. Loyal to Myre before the collapse. If the message came from them, then they may still be allies."
"Or a trap," Dorian muttered.
Kaelen looked between them. "They called me the Wielder of the Blade. They know about the sword."
"It's awake," Elira said. "And the world is beginning to stir because of it. Which means you must move quickly. If Avaron truly offers safe haven... you need to be there before the shadows reach it."
Dorian clenched a fist. "You're not ready."
Kaelen looked up. "I'll never be ready by standing still."
There was silence.
Then Dorian, after a long moment, stepped back and placed a worn travel satchel on the table. "Then you'll go with aid. Supplies. And this."
He drew a sealed envelope with the Ardyn crest. "A letter of peace from House Ardyn to the Eastern Lords. If there's still honor in their blood, they'll read it before drawing swords."
Kaelen nodded, his resolve deepening.
But before they could speak again, the ground shook.
Not a tremor. A warning.
The tower bell rang out, echoing across the courtyard. Soldiers shouted. Steel was drawn.
Kaelen and Elira raced to the windows—and saw it: a dark mist curling beyond the southern ridge, creeping like spilled ink across the dawn-lit hills.
"Too soon," Elira hissed.
"The shadows are moving," Dorian said grimly. "They must have followed the ravens."
Elira turned to Kaelen. "We go. Now."
They left Ardyn Hold by the hidden northern path just before midday, cloaked and mounted, the Midnight Blade wrapped in cloth and bound to Kaelen's back.
As the gates faded behind them, Kaelen glanced back only once.
Goodbye, old life.
He was heading toward the East, toward a kingdom of fractured loyalties and unfulfilled oaths. Toward the answers that still burned like coals in his chest.
But he could feel it now—something was coming. Not just war.
A reckoning.
And the ravens would not fly again until blood had been spilled.