The candlelight flickered in the dimly lit chamber, casting long, wavering shadows across the ancient stone walls. Sir Byronard sat motionless at the oak table, his calloused fingers tracing the spine of an aged leather-bound book. The acting regent kept meticulous records—every sworn knight’s history meticulously preserved within the vast library of Primera. His own record lay before him, untouched for years, yet here it was now, staring back at him like a relic of a past life he had tried to bury.

  Byronard Ilyn.

  Not the Captain of the Royal Guard, not 'The Sword of the Morning.' No. That name tethered him to a bloodline he had long abandoned, to the duty he had sworn to reject. He had willingly left behind the titles and burdens of House Ilyn, believing he had freed himself from the chains of destiny. But now, as the past clawed its way back to the surface, he wondered if fate had ever truly let him go.

  A sharp knock on the door broke his thoughts. It was purposeful, firm—a knock that could only belong to Lord Dunwick Browgan.

  "Enter," Byronard said, his voice steady despite the storm brewing in his mind.

  Dunwick stepped inside, his broad frame barely clearing the door. His face was grim, but there was a certain finality in his expression, as though a heavy weight had settled upon him. Behind him, Raphael, the physician of the Seven, lingered at the threshold, hands clasped behind his back.

  Raphael wasted no time. "I know who he is."

  Byronard closed his eyes for a moment. "Flint."

  "A bastard, but a son of King Septimus nonetheless," Raphael confirmed. "His foundation of mana is fire, the same as yours. The same as the kings of old. He is the last direct heir of House Ilyn. How could you hide this from us?" His voice carried a bite of betrayal.

  Byronard exhaled slowly. "Does he know?"

  Dunwick stepped forward. "Of course he does. He’s an idiot, but he’s not stupid. It’s been gnawing at him since he was a little boy."

  Byronard leaned back in his chair, the weight of his armor feeling heavier than ever. "I’m sorry, Raphael. I should have known better. But this affair never concerned you or the Seven. The knowledge that the king sired a bastard would have caused nothing but unrest among the common folk and the other houses."

  Raphael’s anger flared but he pushed it aside, accepting the apology. "What do we do now?"

  A heavy silence filled the room. Byronard understood the weight of this revelation. If Flint’s true identity reached the wrong ears, he would either become a pawn or, worse, a target. A great evil still lurked in the shadows, and the kingdom, scarred by Civil War, remained vulnerable. Many would seek to use him—or eliminate him—to shape the future.

  Dunwick folded his arms, his gaze steady. "There are two choices: we prepare him for what’s to come, or we bury the truth, let him live as he has, and pray it never finds him."

  Byronard stared down at his own name written in the records before him. House Ilyn had been built on secrets and sacrifices. This would be another. "The truth has a way of finding those who need it," he murmured. "Flint must be told. And when he is, he must be ready for the storm that follows."

  Raphael nodded. "Then we must decide how to tell him—and what comes next."

  Byronard glanced at the flickering candle. The past was no longer something he could ignore. The bloodline he had cast aside had come full circle, demanding acknowledgment.

  Byronard closed the record book with a quiet thud, his fingers lingering on the worn leather cover. He had spent a lifetime burying his past, but it seemed history had a way of unearthing itself when least expected.

  Dunwick remained standing, his eyes fixed on Byronard. “Flint’s a strong lad, but he’s not ready for this alone.”

  “No one ever is,” Byronard replied, his voice low. “Not even Alaric was.”

  At the mention of his fallen nephew, the room grew colder. Alaric had been raised with all the expectations of a king, with Byronard secretly guiding him in the ways of their House’s true strength. Yet, Alaric had fallen before he had ever had a chance to face his true destiny.

  Raphael spoke, his voice quiet but measured. “Flint’s situation is different. He wasn’t groomed for this. He wasn’t raised to be a prince, and the blood of House Ilyn is more than just a name. It carries burdens, expectations, whispers of the past.”

  Byronard’s grip tightened on the edge of the book. “That’s why he must learn. If we wait, if we let him discover these truths on his own, he’ll be easy prey for those who would twist him to their own ends.”

  Dunwick sighed. “Then we tell him. But how much?”

  Byronard stood, his armor shifting with the motion. “The truth. At least as much as he needs to know for now.” He turned toward Dunwick. “You’ve kept him safe all these years, but safety isn’t an option anymore. He needs to know who he is, where he comes from, and why it matters. Otherwise, he won’t stand a chance in the days ahead.”

  Raphael tapped his chin thoughtfully. “And his power? His foundation remains a mystery. If he truly carries the fire of House Ilyn, there will be more than just political enemies who take an interest in him.”

  Byronard’s jaw tightened. “Then we train him. Properly.”

  Dunwick raised an eyebrow. “And who do you suggest for that?”

  Byronard met his gaze, unflinching. “Me.”

  The room fell silent. Raphael studied him, searching for hesitation, but found none.

  Dunwick exhaled a resigned sigh. “I suppose there’s no one better.”

  Byronard nodded. “Flint’s path is no longer one of obscurity. It’s time he learns what it means to be an Ilyn.”

  ***

  Flint sat alone atop the castle ramparts, the cold wind biting at his skin. The capital city stretched below him, a sea of rooftops and flickering lanterns, but his thoughts were far away. He had spent his life believing himself to be no more than a mercenary, a survivor of conflict and hardship. Now, he was something else entirely—something he wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

  A bastard of House Ilyn. A son of a king. A half-brother of a prodigy.

  He clenched his fists, his breath visible in the frigid air. What did it mean? What did it change? He had fought, bled, and suffered without ever needing a title. Did knowing the truth make him any different?

  What would Septimus have said, if he had known me? The thought gnawed at him. It was unwelcome, but persistent.

  Before he could spiral further, a sudden weight collided with his side, nearly knocking him off balance. Flint’s instincts kicked in—his hand shot to his belt, only to freeze as a cheery laugh rang out.

  Gabriel, a member of the Seven, grinned up at him, her short golden curls tousled by the wind. "You looked like you needed a reminder that you're still alive after that fight with Lord Dewblossom. Are you sure his consequence was just?"

  Flint groaned, rubbing his ribs where she had crashed into him. "By nearly pushing me off the damn wall? And yes, that bastard deserves to be where he is now."

  She shrugged. "All right then. I trust your judgment."

  He exhaled, shaking his head. "Gabriel, was it? What do you want?"

  She plopped down beside him, her legs dangling over the edge. "What, I can't just check on the castle guests? You’re different from Wyatt and the others. And call me Gabby."

  Flint shot her a look, but she only smirked in return.

  "You’ve been quiet," she continued, kicking her feet absently. "You’re always the quiet one, but today... you’re quieter than usual. Something tells me it’s not just the trouble brewing outside these walls."

  Flint hesitated. Gabriel wasn’t one to pry unless she really wanted an answer, and he wasn’t sure if he had one to give.

  "Would you believe me if I told you I was a bastard from a great house?" he muttered.

  Gabby whistled. "Hells, that’s a twist. Do I have to call you ‘Your Grace’ now?" She looked at him, but his expression remained unchanged. "This isn’t a joke, Flint. Are you serious?"

  Gabby blinked, searching his face for a sign of jest, but Flint’s expression was stone-cold.

  "Wait, you’re actually—?" She sat up straighter, finally realizing the weight of his words. "You’re from one of the Great Houses?"

  Flint exhaled sharply and turned his gaze back to the city. "Yes."

  Gabby stared at him, mouth agape. "No offense, but I thought you were just some stubborn mercenary with a knack for surviving impossible fights. Not... royalty."

  Before Flint could respond, the sound of armored boots echoed behind them. Both turned as Byronard, Dunwick, and Raphael stepped onto the ramparts. Their faces were grim, but it was Raphael who spoke first.

  "It's true," the physician said, his voice heavy with certainty. "Flint is the bastard son of King Septimus, the last living heir of House Ilyn."

  Gabby shot to her feet, her head whipping between Flint and the three men. "Are you telling me this... this guy... is actually royalty?!"

  "And a claimant to the throne, yes." Dunwick finished for her.

  Gabby gaped at Flint, her mind racing to catch up. "Flint, do you realize what this means? You're—you're a damn prince!"

  Flint let out a humorless chuckle. "No. I’m a bastard. There’s a difference."

  Byronard stepped forward, his eyes sharp. "Not as much of a difference as you think. Whether you want it or not, your blood ties you to the legacy of House Ilyn. That’s something you can’t run from."

  Gabby blinked, still stunned. "You’ve been a prince this whole time, and you just... sat there acting like some common rogue?!"

  Flint shot her a glare. "Because that’s all I’ve ever been. A mercenary. A fighter. A survivor. That was my life." He sighed, frustration evident in his voice. "I never asked for any of this."

  "And yet, here we are," Dunwick muttered.

  Gabby threw her hands up in exasperation. "Great. Just great. The quiet, brooding one turns out to have the biggest secret of them all." She sighed, muttering under her breath, "Why is it always the quiet ones?"

  Byronard ignored her outburst, turning his full attention to Flint. "Enough games. You need to understand the gravity of your situation. The kingdom is already on the edge. If the wrong people discover your identity, you'll either be used or destroyed. You must decide now how you’re going to face what’s coming."

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  Flint clenched his jaw. His entire life had been about surviving, carving out his own existence without the weight of a noble name. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

  Gabby crossed her arms and huffed. "You’re full of surprises, Flint. Now what the hell are we supposed to do with this?"

  Flint exhaled deeply. "That’s the real question, isn’t it?"

  Byronard was about to call for Jophiel, but Gabriel quickly interrupted, shaking her head. "He’s gone."

  Byronard’s gaze snapped to her. "Gone?"

  Gabriel nodded. "He left for the Abussonian Kingdom after finishing his ‘project’ in the workshop. Left without a word, as usual."

  Byronard sighed, rubbing his temple. "That complicates things."

  Dunwick crossed his arms, unfazed. "Then we’ll make do without him. Let’s head to the council chamber. This conversation needs to be private."

  Raphael, who had been silent until now, spoke up. "Before we begin, we’ve received word that Lady Coraline has arrived safely. The Southlands have accepted her as their new Warden. Meanwhile, King Ithilien nears the elven borders, and the Great Houses are preparing their armies. As for the Westlands, I trust you have one of your vassal houses looking into the situation?" He glanced at Dunwick, who nodded in agreement.

  Byronard exchanged a look with Dunwick. "Then we don’t have much time."

  ***

  Without another word, the group turned toward the great hall, the weight of their looming discussion pressing down on them like an impending storm.

  The great hall was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows over the gathered figures. Byronard, Dunwick, Raphael, and Flint stood around a heavy oak table, their faces grim. Gabriel lingered nearby, her arms crossed, her usually carefree expression now uncharacteristically serious.

  Dunwick broke the silence first. "We need to talk about your identity, Flint. Whether we reveal it or not."

  Flint exhaled sharply, leaning against the table. "And what does that change? I’m still a bastard. It’s not like the Great Houses will kneel at my feet just because I have the right blood."

  Raphael shook his head. "It’s not about kneeling. It’s about whether they can believe in something again. The kingdom’s been fractured since the Civil War. The people need hope, something to rally behind. If House Ilyn still lives through you, that might be enough to unite them."

  Dunwick’s voice was cautious. "Or it could destroy what little stability remains. Let’s not pretend the common folk will accept him without question. Some might, but others will see him as an unstable figure in these times."

  Byronard, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. "He’s right. Flint, if your name is revealed, you won’t just be a mercenary anymore. You’ll be a target. Every ambitious man, every opportunist with a blade, will either want you dead or try to use you. The real question is: do we risk that?"

  Flint scoffed. "Assuming I even want this. I’ve spent my life fighting just to survive. Not to sit on some throne I never asked for. You talk about legacy, hope... But what if I don’t want to be a symbol? What if I just want to keep my damn life?"

  Gabby smirked, her tone softening. "Funny, you were already a symbol before you knew it. The people in the lower wards don’t talk about the king’s council—they talk about warriors like you. The ones who fight, who survive, who don’t back down when the world throws everything at them. You might not want this, Flint, but the people need it. And you’ve already sparked interest within our ranks, too." Flint remembered his fight with Caine Dewblossom, how he had managed to defeat him with an unsettling surge of magic.

  Byronard studied Flint with a steely gaze. "Legacy is a burden. I walked away from mine thinking it would set me free. But I learned the hard way—it doesn’t let you go. The blood in your veins, the name you carry, it will catch up to you. The question isn’t whether you want it, Flint. It’s whether you’re ready to rise to meet it."

  A heavy silence followed, the weight of Byronard’s words hanging in the air. Flint clenched his fists. He had spent his life running, surviving, forging his own path. But now, he faced the truth—he wasn’t just a mercenary. He was an Ilyn. The last of them.

  Dunwick let out a weary sigh. "If we reveal the truth, we’ll need to be ready. We’ll need the support of every Great House before we make a move with the common folk. After your display in the bout, the lords and ladies will be swayed, if they haven’t been already. As for the other races, the dwarves and Abussonians are busy with their own troubles, but we still need news from them."

  Raphael nodded. "Then it’s clear—we need to decide. Do we keep Flint’s identity hidden and let fate take its course, or do we seize control now?"

  All eyes turned to Flint.

  He exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to his hands—calloused, scarred, the hands of a fighter, not a ruler. But perhaps, he realized, that was exactly what the kingdom needed.

  "If we do this," he said finally, his voice steady, "we do it on our terms. I won’t be a pawn. I won’t be anyone’s game piece. If House Ilyn lives through me, I’ll decide what that means."

  Byronard gave a single nod, his expression unreadable. "Then we prepare. For the storm that’s coming, and for the future you choose to carve."

  The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room as the group fell into a tense silence. Flint sat at the far end of the table, arms folded, staring out the window. As the others discussed their next steps, a new thought gnawed at him.

  That strange surge of power during his spar with Caine. He hadn’t fully processed it then, but now, with the weight of everything else pressing on him, he couldn’t ignore it. The unsettling, untapped force inside him—what was it? And how would he control it?

  “This isn’t just about strategy or manpower,” Raphael’s calm voice sliced through the murmur in the room. His gaze fixed on Flint. “We need to address something else. Something important. Flint’s mana.”

  Flint’s eyes narrowed instinctively. He wasn’t used to being under such scrutiny, but Raphael’s tone—a quiet, controlled urgency—piqued his curiosity.

  “Flint’s mana,” Raphael repeated, emphasizing the words as if the gravity of the statement had only just fully hit him. “It’s... unusual.”

  Flint’s chest tightened. He didn’t like where this was going. “Unusual?” he echoed, leaning forward. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Raphael kept his gaze steady, the air around him thickening with the weight of his thoughts. “When I observed you after your fight with Lord Caine, and examined your wounds, something struck me. Your mana—its core energy—has a resonance, a frequency, identical to Byronard’s.”

  The room went deathly quiet at the mention of Byronard’s name. Flint stiffened. Byronard’s name was always spoken with caution, and Raphael’s mention of it now carried a heavy weight.

  Flint shook his head, trying to push away the implications. “What are you getting at, Raphael?”

  Raphael stood, pacing slightly as he continued. “Your mana and his share the same foundation. It’s not a coincidence. I’ve felt this power before, but in your case, it’s... it’s tainted.”

  “Tainted?” Flint repeated, bitterness creeping into his voice. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the table. “What do you mean, tainted? My magic is mine. It’s not tainted by anyone.”

  Raphael held up a hand, signaling for calm. “I didn’t mean to imply your magic is weak—quite the opposite. But there’s something in it. Something foreign. Something... other.”

  The words hung in the air, their meaning sinking in slowly. Flint’s jaw clenched. This wasn’t just about the bloodline—this was about his very identity. “Are you saying I’ve got some kind of... curse in my veins? Is that it?”

  Raphael’s expression softened, but his eyes never wavered from Flint’s. “Not exactly. But there’s a residue in your mana, something that marks it as different from other awakened beings. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Almost like it’s been... contaminated by something darker.”

  The room remained silent, the tension thickening as everyone processed Raphael’s words. Flint could feel their eyes on him now—judgment, concern, and confusion mixing with his own rising turmoil. What was this power? Where had it come from? And how could he control it before it consumed him?

  “We need to understand the full extent of this,” Raphael continued, his voice low but resolute. “There’s a connection between you and Byronard—one that goes beyond mere blood. Whatever this ‘taint’ is, it could be more dangerous than we realize.”

  Flint shifted in his seat, frustration bubbling to the surface. “So what? You want me to just accept that my magic is wrong? That I’m some kind of anomaly?”

  “It’s not about accepting it,” Byronard said sharply. “It’s about understanding it. If we don’t figure out where this power comes from, how it’s affecting you, we risk losing control of it—and potentially you. We cannot afford that.”

  Flint’s breath quickened. “So, what do we do now?”

  Raphael paused, his gaze sweeping the room as if gauging the response of the others. “We investigate. We dig into House Ilyn’s history, your family’s origins. We uncover what this truly is and why this ‘taint’ exists in your mana. This is a puzzle we need to solve together.”

  The room was still, the weight of the revelation pressing on them all like an unspoken threat. Flint could almost feel the power within him, gnawing and restless. He had always prided himself on his ability to fight, to survive, but now there was a new enemy. A force that resided within him.

  “And if this power does take control of me?” Flint asked quietly, his voice hard as steel.

  Dunwick met his gaze, unflinching. “Then we’ll be there to stop it.”

  Before anyone could respond, Gabriel, who had been silently observing Flint for some time, finally spoke. Her voice was calm but sharp, as if she had been holding back a thought she could no longer keep to herself.

  “There’s something else,” Gabriel said, her eyes never leaving Flint. The room fell silent again, all eyes turning toward her. "It’s not just the mana I noticed. There’s something... strange with your other eye."

  Flint blinked, momentarily thrown off by the unexpected mention. He had always assumed his eye color was just a medical condition—something that made him stand out, so he kept it hidden with an eye patch.

  Gabriel’s expression was focused, her mind replaying a moment. “When you used your mana during the fight with Caine, I saw it. Your left eye—the one that’s... different. It glowed differently from the other one.” She paused, letting the weight of the statement sink in. “Your other eye was crimson-colored, but your other one...it was a deep haze of purple. It flickered, like something reacting to the power you were using.”

  The room froze. Flint’s hand instinctively went to his face. There were no obvious signs of magical interference—no warning that his eye could react to his mana. He had always thought the changes to his vision were due to excessive, uncontrolled mana usage, but Gabriel’s words felt like a fresh mystery.

  “That... that’s impossible,” Flint muttered, though the doubt in his voice was unmistakable. He had no memory of his other eye glowing during the fight. It seemed absurd. “It’s just an eye. There's nothing special about it.”

  “I’m telling you, Flint,” Gabriel pressed, her voice unwavering. “It wasn’t just the mana you were using. Your eye—when the mana surged, it reacted. I could feel it in the air too. A shift, like the energy was being pulled into your eye. Then, just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. It’s like your mana is manifesting through it.”

  Flint turned his head, narrowing his eyes. Could this be the source of the strange power he had felt during the fight? Could his left eye, the one with the mysterious scar, be connected to whatever was happening within him?

  Raphael’s gaze flickered toward Flint, sensing his confusion and growing uncertainty. “This is what I meant when I said your mana isn’t normal,” he said quietly. “It’s not just about your core energy. There may be something tied to that eye—something outside of you that’s influencing your magic.” His words were grave, laden with knowledge Flint hadn’t yet grasped.

  Flint’s heart raced. “You’re telling me my eye is tied to this... taint?” His voice was a mixture of disbelief and growing frustration. “How is that even possible? What does it mean?”

  Gabriel’s gaze softened, though her resolve remained firm. “I don’t know. But if it’s reacting to your mana like this, it could be the key to understanding why your magic is so... unpredictable. Something in your past might be tied to that eye. Something from before you were even born.”

  The mention of his past struck Flint like a cold blade. His mind raced back to the days when he was just a boy, hidden away, pushed into a life of survival.

  “I can’t believe this,” Flint muttered, pressing his fingers to his temples, trying to block out the weight of the growing mystery. “I thought I was just another awakened being with a rough start. But now you’re telling me my mana’s tied to a curse, to Byronard, and... and this eye?”

  Byronard’s tone was quiet but stern. “Flint, you can’t ignore this anymore. Whatever is happening to you, we need to figure it out as soon as possible. You have my word. I failed to protect my brother, and I couldn’t save my king. I won’t let another of my blood be lost. Not this time."

  The others exchanged glances. No one spoke, but the weight of the situation was clear. This was no longer just about Flint’s abilities—it was something darker, something deep within him.

  Before anyone could continue, the door to the meeting room suddenly burst open with a loud crash, breaking the heavy silence. Everyone turned sharply toward the disturbance, and a royal guard, breathless and wide-eyed, rushed into the room.

  “Captain Byronard, urgent news!” the guard exclaimed, voice shaky with fear. “Intruders have been reported from all fronts! Their numbers are estimated to be in the thousands. We’ve only covered the Crownlands so far. The borders, the cities, even the capital—there’s chaos spreading faster than we can contain it!”

  The room went completely still.

  “What kind of intruders?” Raphael demanded, his voice sharp, already bracing for the worst.

  “Reports aren’t clear, sir,” the guard stammered, trying to regain his composure. “They appear human, but their skin is as pale as chalk, with strange markings all over their bodies. And there are... creatures—monstrous, unlike anything we’ve seen. The lower houses have begun evacuating civilians to strongholds. The great houses are mustering their armies and preparing countermeasures.”

  Flint’s mind raced. The curse still lingered in his thoughts, but now the stakes were higher. Whatever was happening to him, whatever power was stirring inside him, could be the key to surviving what was coming. His pulse quickened.

  “We need to move,” Raphael said urgently, turning to the others. “Get to the command center. Gear up. Flint, stay close.”

  Flint shot him a look. "I may be royalty, but I'm a fighter at heart. Give me a weapon already."

  Byronard looked at him, a spark of pride in his eyes. "I already have one for you. Follow me. Gabby, Raphael, tend to the defenses now."

  "I'll follow Raphael and secure the safety of the citizens. The Divines be with us all." Dunwick said.

  With no wasted motion, Gabriel was gone, seemingly disappearing from existence as if she was never in the room. Raphael whispered under his breath, and his walking cane appeared out of thin air.

  "Shall we begin?" Raphael asked. The three of them, accompanied by the royal guard, exited the room in hurried steps, for a long and bloody spring would now begin.