Lorian Vexel exhaled sharply as he stumbled backward, his boots scraping against the stone. He righted his stance, clutching the wooden practice sword with knuckles white from strain.
“Again,” said General Asha Ryn.
Her voice cut through the still air like a drawn blade.
She stood tall and unrelenting, clad in a dark leather tunic reinforced with chainmail. A scar traced her cheekbone like an old memory. Her stance was perfect—always was. Lorian, nineteen and prince by birthright, faced her with a mix of exhaustion and defiance.
Sweat clung to his brow despite the chill. His breath misted in the night air. The weight of the sword, light as it should have been, felt like lead.
“You hesitate,” Asha said for the third time that evening.
“I don’t,” Lorian replied, teeth clenched.
“You do. You pull back before every strike. Not because you doubt your aim—but because you fear what happens if it lands.”
She tossed her wooden sword aside with a clatter that echoed through the yard and walked to the weapons rack on the far end. Her shadow stretched long behind her, cast by torchlight dancing on the outer walls.
Lorian lowered his guard slightly. “Sparring is different.”
“And what happens when it isn’t sparring?” she shot back, lifting a gleaming steel longsword from the rack.
She turned and offered it to him. “Take it.”
He stared at it like it was a viper.
“I’ve trained for years,” he said quietly. “Spellcraft, tactics, even diplomacy. Why must it always come to this?”
“Because monsters don’t bleed from speeches,” Asha said. “And soldiers don’t follow a prince who trembles at the thought of blood.”
He didn’t reach for it.
She stepped closer.
“You’re not a boy anymore, Lorian. War doesn’t pause for your morality.”
“I’m not like my father,” he said.
Her gaze softened. “No, you’re not. But Valanith still needs a prince who can stand in front of a line and command it to move forward.”
He looked down at the sword. For a long moment, he considered taking it. Then he turned away.
Asha didn’t press him.
“I’ll see you at dawn,” she said, voice lower now. “And Lorian—someday, someone will place a crown on your head. And you’ll have to choose whether you wear it with conviction… or let it fall from your hands.”
He watched her leave the courtyard in silence, the sound of her boots fading beneath the rustle of the breeze.
Beneath the blackened skies, the courtyard quieted. The twin moons—Lunaris and Velor—hovered above like twin gods in judgment. Lorian dropped onto a nearby bench, the wooden sword across his lap, and let the silence surround him.
He closed his eyes.
And memory answered.
He was six again.
The royal library was cavernous, its walls lined with books that smelled of old ink and richer times. But he wasn’t interested in reading.
On the velvet cushions beneath a tall arched window, Queen Elara sat cross-legged, golden magic spiraling around her fingers. In her palm fluttered a tiny, wounded sparrow. Its wing hung limp. Blood stained its side.
“You see,” she said gently, guiding his smaller hands toward the bird, “healing isn’t just about mending wounds. It’s about understanding where the pain comes from.”
Lorian watched in awe as the bird’s wing shimmered, bones aligning, feathers smoothing. He could feel the warmth pulsing from her magic—soft and calming, like a lullaby without sound.
“I thought magic was for battle,” he said, his young voice curious.
“It can be,” Elara replied. “But in a world drowning in war, healing is the greater rebellion.”
The sparrow fluttered from her palm to his shoulder. Lorian laughed, cheeks flushed with wonder.
Elara smiled. “Your father teaches you strength. I’ll teach you what to do with it.”
That night, he fell asleep to the sound of her humming and the scent of old parchment and lavender.
Now, thirteen years later, Lorian sat in the same courtyard where soldiers were forged, gripping a sword he didn’t want to wield in a war he no longer believed in.
Above him, the stained-glass tower loomed from the Hall of Ancients—its tall window glowing faintly even in the moonlight. The gods depicted there, arms outstretched in divine authority, cast their long shadow over the training grounds like silent judges.
He glanced up, just once.
And for a fleeting heartbeat… he thought the central figure’s expression shifted.
Impossible.
He shook the thought away, but a chill crept down his spine that no wind could explain.
The next morning, sunlight spilled over the spires of Valanith like a slow-burning flame. Pale gold light filtered through stained-glass windows that lined the eastern wall of the royal dining hall, casting shifting patterns across the white-marble floor. The scent of baked fruit, honeyed bread, and smoked meat curled in the air—rich and warm—but the tension at the high table turned appetite to ash.
Lorian sat at the far end, drumming his fingers against polished wood.
Queen Elara, serene in her flowing green and silver robes, added a touch of mint to her tea with deliberate grace. Across from her, King Thalion leaned forward like a statue carved from duty itself—broad-shouldered, silver-haired, and armored even at breakfast. His presence filled the room more than any number of servants or silent advisors lining the walls.
“Reports from the Vurnath Pass,” Thalion said. His voice, like a warhorn wrapped in velvet, silenced the hall. “Movement along the southern border. At least two battalions. Demon warflags sighted on the cliffs.”
Lorian stiffened. “Could be a feint.”
“Or a warning,” Thalion countered. “Or a sign they mean to breach the line and march on Virelmar.”
Elara set down her cup with a soft clink. “We’ve had false alarms before. Could it not be posturing? Testing our response time?”
“Posturing doesn’t involve the disappearance of five scouts.”
A murmur ran through the surrounding advisors. Lorian opened his mouth, hesitated, then spoke.
“Let me see the maps. If they’re massing troops, we should verify their supply lines first before charging into unknown terrain.”
Thalion arched a brow. “Spoken like a scholar.”
Lorian kept his voice even. “Better a scholar than a fool who charges blindly.”
The words lingered in the air like smoke. Several nobles shifted uncomfortably.
Thalion took a long breath, then turned fully to his son. “Then prove your wisdom. Lead a scouting party yourself. I want your eyes on the Vurnath cliffs by week’s end.”
Lorian blinked. “My—?”
“You’ve trained for this. Magic, tactics, swordplay. It’s time you stepped into the role of your title.”
Elara’s voice slid in like cool water over a flame. “He’s not ready.”
Thalion didn’t even glance at her. “He must be.”
“I’ll go,” Lorian said quietly.
Both of his parents turned toward him—Elara with concern, Thalion with surprise that quickly hardened into grim approval.
“I’ll gather a unit,” Lorian continued. “Survey the area. Report back. But we don’t commit to engagement until we know more.”
Thalion nodded once. “You leave in three days. General Ryn will help you choose your men.”
A servant appeared behind the king, bowing low. “Pardon, Your Majesty. The High Inquisitor awaits in the Hall of Judgment.”
Thalion stood. “Then I won’t keep him waiting.”
He left without another word, crimson cloak billowing behind him like a banner.
The tension didn’t leave when he did.
Lorian leaned forward, his appetite long gone. “He’s sending me to provoke them.”
Elara sipped her tea, but her expression grew taut. “He believes action is the only language demons understand.”
“Do you believe that?”
Her gaze softened. “I believe in survival. And I believe you must find your own way to it.”
He turned his eyes to the window. Outside, the city of Valanith spread in tiers—white stone towers, ivy-covered walls, and glimmering rivers cutting through the heart of civilization. A place worth protecting. But from what? The demons on the border?
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Or the rot within?
Later that afternoon, Lorian wandered through the eastern wing of the palace. The hallways were quieter here, used less by court officials and more by scholars and attendants. Tapestries of old battles hung between archways—heroes with shining swords, demons falling beneath them like shadows before dawn.
One in particular always caught his eye.
A figure wielding a blade of golden light, standing over a smoking battlefield strewn with both human and demon corpses. The figure’s face was obscured by a hood, but light radiated from their back like wings.
Underneath was a single inscription:
“The gods guide the righteous blade.”
Lorian stared at it a moment longer than usual.
“How many died for the righteousness of the gods?” he muttered.
“Too many,” came a voice beside him.
He turned. Mirelia Vaenor, the elven diplomat, stepped from a side corridor. Her pale violet robes shimmered like starlight, and her silver eyes glinted with quiet knowledge.
“You heard the council?” he asked.
“I hear more than they think I do.” She walked beside him. “Your objection this morning didn’t go unnoticed. Especially not by the Inquisitor.”
Lorian grimaced. “He’d burn books if they contradicted his worldview.”
Mirelia smiled faintly. “He’d burn people too.”
They stopped near a window overlooking the central courtyard. Below, squires trained with staves under the supervision of older knights.
“I read something strange last night,” she said. “An old scroll buried beneath the library of Eldoria. A legend. It claimed that the gods don’t seek faith—they seek obedience.”
Lorian frowned. “There’s a difference?”
Mirelia nodded. “One demands love. The other demands control.”
By evening, the sky blushed with the last light of day, and Lorian returned to his chambers to pack. His thoughts were a storm—duty clashing with doubt, expectation grinding against instinct. No matter how he turned it over in his mind, peace remained elusive, a phantom just out of reach.
And yet, buried within all that chaos, a single truth pulsed like a heartbeat:
This war is built on a lie.
He didn’t know where the thought had come from.
He only knew it felt true.
And part of him, deep and quiet, suspected that the gods weren’t smiling down on them at all.
Night fell.
The moons rose.
And Lorian wandered.
He didn’t plan to go anywhere in particular—only to move, to breathe, to escape the weight that seemed to press heavier on his shoulders with every passing hour.
Lanterns flickered low along the corridor walls, their flames dimming like the breath of dying stars. Most of the court had long since retired, leaving the halls still and solemn. Sacred. Untouched by the clamor of politics or the echoes of marching boots.
He passed beneath archways carved with ancient glyphs, their meanings half-lost to time. His boots whispered against the polished obsidian tile, each step in time with the quiet thud of his heart.
He didn’t know why his feet had brought him here.
Only that they had.
The Hall of Ancients.
Few entered it without invitation. Fewer still left unchanged.
It was a place of memory, of myth and reverence. Built over the oldest foundation stones of Valanith, it housed relics of a time before the current era—before the war, before even the gods had claimed dominion over the world.
Lorian pushed open the heavy double doors. They creaked like old trees in a windstorm.
Inside, the air was cooler. Still. As if the room existed outside of time.
The centerpiece stood at the far end of the chamber: a towering stained-glass mural rising from floor to ceiling, flanked by marble pillars. The scene depicted the gods descending from the heavens, arms outstretched, light pouring from their hands to the mortals below.
Human, elf, dwarf, demon—all knelt in unity beneath their divine figures.
But Lorian had looked closely at the mural before. Closer than most.
And he’d seen something different.
He stepped toward it slowly, each footfall a whisper.
The figures of the gods were beautiful in design. Radiant. Awe-inspiring.
But their faces were blank.
No mouths. No eyes. No features at all—just smooth hollows where expressions should have been.
He reached the center of the room, where moonlight poured through the glass like falling stardust. The entire floor lit up in a kaleidoscope of color, painting his armor and cloak with reds, blues, and golds.
He raised his gaze to the central figure in the mural—a being taller than all the others, cloaked in robes made of white and gold glass. Their arms were extended outward, not in embrace… but command.
Their hands were not giving light.
They were taking it.
Lorian swallowed. That realization had come to him once before as a child, and he’d never forgotten it. He hadn’t understood the feeling back then. But now—
A flicker.
He blinked.
There it was again.
For the briefest of seconds, his reflection in the glass changed. His eyes, usually a stormy gray, glowed gold.
Like a divine flare had lit something within him.
And then it was gone.
He stumbled back a step.
“What in the gods’ name…”
He scanned the room. Empty. As it should be.
The light around him dimmed slightly, though the torches had not burned out. It was a change in the feeling of the room, not the appearance. As if the mural had acknowledged him.
Watched him.
His heartbeat quickened.
He turned his attention to the base of the mural, where ancient inscriptions curled around the border like vines. They were written in a dialect older than the common tongue. Elven in structure, but twisted—modified. Warped through centuries of translation.
He reached forward and brushed dust from the first line.
“To serve the divine is to forget the self. To forget the self is to become the blade.”
He traced the next few symbols.
“In their Light, there is no will. Only memory. Only obedience.”
Lorian’s breath caught.
He had read scriptures his whole life. Scrolls. Verses. Prayers. But never something like this. This… wasn’t worship.
It was indoctrination.
A sudden chill swept the chamber.
The torches flared. A low hum began, so quiet it might have been imagined.
And yet—it grew louder. A resonance. A vibration in his bones.
Lorian turned toward the center of the hall, where a platform rose like a dais. It was ringed by statues—each depicting figures of old: warrior kings, elven sages, demon warlords, and dwarven architects. All united in a circle. All bowing inward toward a single, sealed pedestal.
A relic lay within it.
A sword.
He approached slowly, drawn by a force he didn’t understand. The pedestal was crystalline, pulsing faintly with light. The sword inside was partially obscured by mist and runes. Its blade was forged of gold and crystal, sheathed in ancient symbols that shimmered like sunlight on water.
And there, carved into the pedestal itself:
“To speak its name is to awaken memory.”
Lorian stared at it, heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. He raised a hand, hesitating only for a moment, then placed his palm gently on the glass.
The world tilted.
Suddenly, he stood on a battlefield drenched in golden fire.
The sky wept light like blood from a wound. Bodies—human and demon alike—littered the earth, charred and broken. Craters tore through the landscape, and flames danced on the wind like mournful spirits.
He staggered back, his breath ripped from his lungs. Voices screamed around him in languages he didn’t recognize.
In the heart of it all stood a figure—cloaked in white, sword raised. They turned slowly toward him.
No face.
No name.
Only Light.
Too much Light.
Lorian screamed.
He was back in the Hall of Ancients.
On his knees.
Blood trickled from his nose.
The sword still pulsed faintly within the pedestal.
But now it whispered.
One word.
A name.
“Astraos.”
The air turned still—thick with something unspoken.
Lorian’s head spun, his breath shallow. What had he just seen?
A memory?
A prophecy?
A warning?
He touched his chest, fingers trembling. That name burned within him—etched not in thought, but into the very marrow of his soul.
The vision had shown him something beyond mortal comprehension.
A battlefield shaped not by kingdoms…
…but by gods.
And in that moment, he realized something terrifying:
The gods did not protect them.
They used them.
He didn’t remember leaving the hall.
Only that he was moving, fast and unsteady, through winding corridors bathed in shadow. Guards stood at their posts, unaware. The torches lining the walls flickered as he passed, their glow blurred by the fog in his vision.
He clutched a cloth to his face, wiping away the blood still leaking from his nose. His skull throbbed with every step. The pounding hadn’t stopped since he touched the relic.
Nor had the voice.
Astraos.
It whispered the name again in his mind, not with malice or warmth—but like a memory long buried, now unearthed.
He bolted the door behind him, collapsed onto the divan by the hearth, and stared into the flames.
His reflection in the sword-glass mural. The golden battlefield. The blank-eyed gods. The sword sealed beneath the floor.
None of it made sense.
And yet, it did.
Deep down, something inside him recognized that sword. Not the way a scholar recognizes a name in a text—but like a child recognizes the scent of home.
“The blade remembers.”
The words surfaced again. Not the relic’s whisper. Something else.
From before.
The night he’d last meditated.
Was it just a dream?
He pushed himself up and crossed the room to his personal shrine—a simple circle of elven stones and a cushion inlaid with moon-silver thread. Queen Elara had taught him the art of mana-breathing here when he was barely ten. Meditation was more than ritual. It was communion—with one’s inner magic, with the leylines of the land, and sometimes, if the silence was deep enough, with echoes older than thought.
Lorian sat cross-legged and breathed.
Inhale. Focus. Stillness.
Exhale. Release.
His thoughts fluttered like restless birds. He gathered them, slowly, like feathers falling through his mind.
He focused on the image of the sword again. The runes. The name.
Astraos.
A pulse.
Soft.
Then another.
Mana stirred inside him, like the current of a river just beginning to thaw.
The warmth spread from his spine to his fingertips. He let it grow, imagining light filling every limb. His breathing slowed, synced with the ancient rhythm of his mother’s teachings.
And then—
The world fell away.
He stood in blackness.
No walls. No sky. Only a sea of stars and a single platform beneath his feet made of broken stone.
The relic sword floated ahead, suspended in the air by threads of golden energy.
But this time, he wasn’t watching it.
It was watching him.
The air rippled, and a presence bloomed around him—immense, ancient, and cold.
Not evil.
Not divine.
Remembering.
“Lorian Vexel.”
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere.
It was not spoken in words, but in memories. It carried weight. History.
“The blade remembers your name.”
He stepped forward, heart thundering.
“What… are you?”
“I am what was broken to keep the truth hidden. I am what sleeps so that others may dream.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
The blade’s golden light brightened. Threads of memory unfurled around it—visions moving too fast to make sense of: a cloaked figure in battle, a crown of flame, a tear falling into a pool of starlight, a god screaming into the void.
Lorian tried to look away, but the images kept flooding his mind.
“You are not the first to wear the crown. You are not the first to seek the blade.”
“But why me?”
“Because you asked. And now… you remember.”
The golden light enveloped him.
The visions stopped.
And in their place, silence.
Not peace.
But a question.
One he’d been avoiding his whole life
Lorian woke with a gasp, heart hammering against his ribs.
The chamber was dark now. The fire had died to embers.
He was sweating, breath sharp and shallow, as though he’d run for miles.
But he remembered everything.
Not just the dream—but the feeling. The voice. The pull of the sword. The knowledge that something ancient had been stirred awake… and it had spoken to him.
He stood, swaying slightly, and crossed to the window. The twin moons were low now, casting a pale sheen over the sleeping capital.
Below, soldiers walked the inner walls. Torches burned steadily. The city breathed its regular rhythm, unaware that anything had changed.
But something had.
Lorian could feel it in his bones.
The world was shifting.
And whatever lay buried beneath relics and murals, beneath crowns and names and lies—the gods didn’t want it found.
He retrieved the short ceremonial blade from beneath his bedframe and unsheathed it. Not magical. Not significant. But it had weight. He looked at it in the moonlight.
Then he raised it—not in salute, nor in threat.
But in acknowledgment.
“You remember,” he whispered.
The steel reflected his face.
And for the briefest moment—
His eyes glowed gold.