Flint barely registered Raphael’s voice over the soldier’s anguished screams.

  "Put him down there and apply pressure to the wound!" the healer barked as two women carried in the wounded man. His cries echoed through the infirmary, a grim reminder of the relentless war that had raged for three weeks without pause. Wave after wave of an unknown army had descended upon Primera, their numbers seemingly endless, their attacks unceasing.

  The heads of each great house had been summoned once more to the Capital City to strategize a response. But Flint’s mind was elsewhere.

  How will they react when they learn the truth about my lineage?

  The air was thick with the scent of blood and antiseptic. The soldier’s screams filled the stone halls, but Raphael remained focused, his hands deftly tending to the wounds. Flint, too, had grown numb to the suffering around him.

  "Flint! Your presence is requested in the great chamber. All the leaders are assembled." A firm hand gripped his shoulder, jolting him from his thoughts. He turned to see Gabriel, her armor streaked with dirt and dried blood. Though battle-worn, the royal guard bore no visible wounds.

  "Oh, Gabby. It’s you," Flint muttered. "Understood. I’ll head there now."

  Gabriel responded with a curt nod before vanishing, her form seamlessly fading from existence.

  "You’d best hurry," Raphael called over his shoulder. "Everyone's on edge. It wouldn’t be wise to keep them waiting."

  With no time to waste, one of the last remaining embers of House Ilyn set off for the great chamber, a growing unease twisting in his gut.

  The great chamber was a cavernous hall of dark stone, dimly illuminated by braziers lining the walls. At the head of the room stood Byronard, the crown regent, his presence as commanding as ever. Though he had forsworn his lineage and titles to lead the Royal Guard, fate had forced his hand—no one was better suited to bear such a burden. His expression was unreadable, his calculating gaze sweeping over the gathered lords and ladies.

  To his right stood Dunwick, Warden of the West, his broad shoulders carrying the weight of decades of war and sacrifice. His grizzled features were set in a stern frown, the only betrayal of the worry he dared not voice. Flint knew him not only as a friend and frequent partner in mercenary work but also as the man who had shielded his identity for years.

  Before them, Lady Tryst of House Huntingborne stood in full battle regalia, her auburn hair braided back, her armor stained with dust and sweat from the field. She spoke with steady urgency. "Our cavalry is holding the line as best we can in the open fields, but we are stretched thin. Every hour we delay, more of their forces push toward the Crownlands. We need reinforcements, or we will be overrun."

  Byronard’s fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair. "And the nature of their forces? Have you gleaned anything new?"

  Tryst’s lips pressed into a thin line. "They fight like men, but they do not tire as men should. We cut them down, yet their numbers never seem to wane. It is as if for every soldier we fell, two more take their place. We suspect dark magic is at work."

  A murmur rippled through the chamber. Flint remained silent, watching as Byronard exchanged a glance with Dunwick.

  "Then we must act now," Dunwick growled. "Send what we can spare before Stagvalley falls. If their cavalry breaks, the Crownlands are lost."

  "Spare?" Silas of House Davenmere scoffed as he played with his throwing axes. "You speak as though we have men to throw away. Every house is fighting for its survival. We need a decisive strike, not a slow bleed."

  "I agree with Silas," Augustus of House Hawthorne, the Knight of Thorns, added, his deep voice laced with frustration. "The South is barely surviving as it is. Our lands, once brimming with harvest and life, are now a wasteland soaked in the blood of good men, women, and even children."

  Byronard exhaled sharply, rising from his seat. He leaned over the massive stone table where a map of Primera lay, his expression hardening as his fingers traced the regions under siege.

  "Have we made any progress identifying who is behind these attacks?" the regent asked.

  "Not enough to form a concrete conclusion," Hans of House Silverkind responded without hesitation. "Their attacks are coordinated, but their leader is a ghost—always just out of reach. Our scouts report a surge of mana before the enemy arrives in hordes. That kind of consistency suggests they are using large-scale teleportation magic."

  "That’s absurd!" Marius of House Coppermouth objected, shaking his head. "Magic of that magnitude is an anomaly. I’d wager that out of a million living souls, only ten might possess such power."

  Menethil of House Grimguard, leaning on his greatsword, which was embedded into the stone floor, gave a grim nod. "Then it seems they have found one of those ten. And not just any, but someone with an immense reservoir of mana—one powerful enough to summon and sustain an army of these creatures."

  A heavy silence filled the room. The implications were terrifying. If such an individual existed, the battle ahead would be unlike any the realm had ever faced.

  Before another word could be said, Byronard raised a hand, silencing the room with an abrupt motion. His gaze swept over the assembled lords and ladies before landing on Flint.

  "Enough of this," he said, his voice firm. "There is another matter to discuss—one that can no longer remain hidden."

  The sudden shift in tone turned every head toward the regent.

  Byronard straightened, his expression severe. "Many of you have fought beside me, trusted me as your Crown Regent and as leader of the Royal Guard. But there is a truth I have kept from you all. A truth buried since the days of the civil war."

  Flint stiffened, his fingers curling into fists. He had spent his life avoiding this moment, and yet here it was, hurtling toward him.

  Byronard took a deep breath. "The boy you see standing in this chamber is not merely a mercenary. You may have already seen his prowess in battle and know him as Flint, but his true name is Kaelan—and he is the bastard son of King Septimus."

  The chamber fell into stunned silence. Dunwick lowered his head, his jaw tightening. He had known this was coming, but hearing it spoken aloud carried a weight even he was not prepared for.

  Byronard continued, his voice unwavering. "But that is not the only truth hidden from you. I, too, have concealed something—my own past. I am not just the Crown Regent. I am Byronard Ilyn, younger brother to Septimus. My existence was erased from history when I swore my life to the Royal Guard. Only a few ever knew—Septimus, myself, Dunwick, and Alaric. My nephew."

  At the mention of Alaric, a wave of grief flickered across Byronard’s usually impenetrable features. "We all knew he died fighting Dante in the civil war. He was the son I never had, and I loved him as my own. He would have been a great king, had he still been alive. Lowering my guard and letting him fight that bastard alone is and will always be my biggest regret."

  Flint’s breath caught in his throat. The world around him seemed to shrink, the flickering torchlight casting jagged shadows across the chamber’s stone walls. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Eyes bore into him from every corner of the room—accusing, questioning, weighing his very existence.

  He had always known this moment would come, but not like this. Not in front of the assembled lords and ladies, with the weight of Primera’s fate pressing upon them.

  Kaelan. The name felt foreign, like a ghost reaching out from a past he had tried so desperately to leave behind.

  Finally, Dunwick broke the silence. His grizzled features remained unreadable, but his voice was steady. “So. The truth is finally laid bare.”

  A sharp breath from Lady Tryst drew Flint’s gaze. Her lips parted slightly, her eyes scanning him as if seeing him for the first time. “You’re saying this man—this mercenary—is a prince?”

  “A bastard prince,” Silas Davenmere corrected with a smirk, the firelight glinting off his throwing axe as he spun it between deft fingers. “That does not make him heir, nor does it mean he has the right to rule.”

  Augustus of House Hawthorne’s brows shot up in surprise, before a slow, reluctant chuckle escaped him. He ran a hand through his hair, his posture relaxing slightly. “Well, well. I suppose I’m not the only bastard of a noble family then.” There was a mixture of surprise and relief in his voice, as if the weight of his own status had suddenly felt a little lighter. He glanced at the others, as though waiting for the inevitable teasing to follow, but his eyes quickly shifted to Flint with a knowing look. “I suppose we’ve all got our demons.”

  Augustus' sharp eyes flicked over to Flint, then back to Byronard, as if connecting some unseen dots. “It’s not the first time I’ve suspected something. The fire magic you wield, mercenary—it’s not common among your kind. I had a thought that you were something more than just another sell-sword. Turns out I was right.” His gaze sharpened again, as though the pieces of a puzzle were slowly falling into place.

  Flint’s heart beat faster, his thoughts a blur. He had always kept his abilities hidden, using them only when necessary, but the trial against Caine forced his hand, and now it seemed there were no secrets left to hide.

  Flint forced himself to speak, his voice rough. “This doesn’t change who I am.”

  “No,” Byronard said, eyes locking onto his. “But it changes what you mean to this war.”

  Flint clenched his fists. His whole life, he had been a blade in the shadows, a mercenary with no ties. And now, in the span of mere moments, he was a symbol—a piece in a game played by men who had spent their lives weaving fate’s tapestry.

  A slow clap echoed through the chamber.

  Marius Coppermouth chuckled, shaking his head. “A bastard prince and an unstoppable enemy at our gates. If we live through this, the bards will sing about it for centuries.”

  “We won’t live through this if we waste time squabbling,” Menethil Grimguard growled. “This war isn’t waiting for us to sort out our lineage disputes.”

  Byronard nodded, his sharp gaze shifting back to the map spread across the stone table. “Then let us return to the matter at hand. The enemy is advancing faster than anticipated. If dark magic is fueling their endless numbers, then we need to find the source.”

  Lady Tryst leaned forward. “There is one possibility. A name, whispered on the tongues of dying soldiers. A figure clad in black clothing, wreathed in shadows, watching the battlefield but never engaging directly.”

  Byronard’s gaze sharpened. “A name?”

  Tryst hesitated. Then, she exhaled. “They call it the Black Herald.”

  A chill ran down Flint’s spine.

  “Any more information on other than a name?” Dunwick asked.

  “Nothing,” Tryst admitted. “But if it exists, and if it's the one behind the magic sustaining this army, then it is the true enemy we must face.”

  Flint’s hands tightened around the edges of the table. His lineage was no longer the most pressing mystery in the room.

  Byronard straightened. “Then our course is clear. We must find the Black Herald. And end this as soon as possible.”

  A grim determination settled over the chamber. The war had taken its toll. But now, for the first time, they had a target.

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  Flint exhaled, forcing the chaos in his mind to the back of his thoughts. Prince or not, he was still a fighter. And if the Black Herald was the key to ending this war, then he would carve his way through the enemy ranks to find him.

  The room hummed with murmurs as the gathered lords and ladies weighed their options. Byronard, his sharp eyes scanning the map spread across the stone table, was the first to speak, his voice steady and pragmatic.

  “We need to start our search for the Black Herald,” he said. “If this thing's magic is sustaining the enemy’s numbers, it’s clear that we must find it before they overwhelm us. The question is—where do we start looking?”

  Dunwick grunted. “It’s a needle in a haystack. How do we even know where to look for this figure? What’s the point in hunting shadows?”

  Lady Tryst, eyes narrowed in thought, leaned forward, her fingers tapping against the table. “We start with its last known movements. If soldiers are speaking of it, we know that it wanders near the frontlines. Perhaps we can trace its path through the battlefield. But it’s a risk—every minute we waste could mean more lives lost.”

  “True,” Silas agreed, spinning his throwing axe thoughtfully. “We can’t afford to waste time.”

  A moment of silence followed, the weight of their choices pressing heavily on them, when a sudden shift in the air caused everyone to look up.

  Gabriel appeared in the doorway, her presence sharp and commanding, though her usual calm demeanor was now replaced by urgency. Her silver armor gleamed under the torchlight, and her striking blue eyes were wide with concern. She moved swiftly toward the table, her boots echoing against the cold stone floor.

  “My lords,” she began, her voice breathless, “an army has arrived outside the Capital walls. A massive one.”

  The room fell deathly silent. Everyone froze, the weight of her words sinking in. A collective gasp swept through the chamber, followed by an outburst from Augustus.

  “The Capital?” he exclaimed, his eyes wide with disbelief. “How could they have gotten this close? We were certain our defenses—”

  “They’ve breached the outer scouts,” Gabriel interjected quickly, cutting him off. “The gates are still secure, but they’re massing outside. We don’t have much time before they’ll attempt to break through. I came as fast as I could to warn you all.”

  Flint’s mind raced, his pulse quickening. The news of an army at the gates of the Capital was bad enough, but the fear of what it meant for the rest of their allies hung heavy in the air.

  “Then we’ve lost the other realms already,” Menethil Grimguard muttered darkly, his voice thick with concern. “If they’ve made it this far… the others must have fallen.”

  Gabriel shook her head, her violet eyes firm and resolute. “No. We’ve received no such reports. The other lands are still fighting. Even King Ithilien’s forces are reinforcing the southern border as we speak. His majesty himself is leading the charge to hold the line.”

  “Thank the gods for Ithilien,” Lady Tryst murmured, her fingers tightening around her goblet. “We need the elves' strength more than ever.”

  “But what of the North?” Dunwick’s voice cut through the tension. “Have you heard anything from Uriel?”

  Gabriel’s face darkened slightly at the mention of the northern lands. “No word yet. Uriel’s last report came several days ago, and it was troubling. The frost drakes have been relentless, and they're also facing beasts of unknown origin. What's worse, Lord Rykard Wintertomb is still in a comatose state. We haven't heard from them for nearly two weeks now. We fear for their safety, but without communication, we can’t know for certain.”

  A heavy silence fell over the room. Rykard Wintertomb’s name carried weight—not only was he the Warden of the North, he was also a renowned scholar of Divinity and Science. His status was a troubling omen.

  Flint felt a knot tighten in his stomach. They were fighting on too many fronts, with the enemy closing in from all sides. The Black Herald’s dark magic was an ever-present threat, but now, they had an army at their doorstep.

  Byronard was the first to speak after a long pause, his voice low but resolute. “We cannot afford to wait any longer. If the Capital is under siege, then it’s clear that the Black Herald’s forces are more than just a distraction. We must strike—strike fast and hard, or everything will fall.”

  Lady Tryst nodded, her eyes now set on Gabriel. “What’s the situation at the walls? Can we hold them for long enough to mount a counteroffensive?”

  Gabriel’s gaze flickered with uncertainty, but she stood tall. “It’s hard to say. The enemy is large, and they’re organized. But these walls have stood the test of time for millenia. If we can delay them, we may buy ourselves enough time for reinforcements.”

  “Reinforcements…” Augustus muttered, his thoughts racing. “And what of the other realms? How long until they can make it to us?”

  Gabriel’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she shook her head. “I've received a report that the western houses are on their way, but the war is already stretching their resources thin. As for the others, we can only pray that they’ll hold fast long enough for us to turn the tide here.”

  Flint’s thoughts raced, but his focus narrowed. The Black Herald, the incoming enemy army, the attack on the north—it was all tied together, one massive puzzle they had to solve. But time was running out.

  “We’ll need a plan,” Flint said, his voice cutting through the air with steely resolve. “We can’t afford to wait any longer. Gabriel, gather the men at the walls. We’ll hold them there while we find the Black Herald. The sooner we strike, the sooner we end this.”

  Gabriel nodded, her expression resolute. “I’ll inform the others and rally the defenses. But we must move quickly. Time is not on our side.”

  Flint met her gaze, feeling the weight of their fate hanging in the balance. “Then we don’t waste another second.”

  With that, the room erupted into a flurry of action. Plans were set in motion, the remaining force of the royal guards were dispatched to the walls, and the clock began ticking toward the unknown. The war was far from over. And now, with the Black Herald’s shadow looming larger than ever, Flint knew that they had no choice but to fight—no matter the cost.

  ***

  The air was thick with tension as the heads of the realm moved quickly, their footsteps echoing through the stone halls of the fortress. The gravity of the situation weighed on them all—an enemy at the gates, the fate of the Capital hanging by a thread, and the looming mystery of the Black Herald pressing on their minds.

  Byronard was the first to reach the courtyard, his armor clanking with each stride. His face was grim, his sharp gaze scanning the preparations. The royal guards, fully armored and alert, were already assembling, their eyes fixed on their commanding officers. There was no time for pleasantries, only the cold, hard business of war.

  “Get the citizens to the plateau!” Dunwick barked, his gravelly voice carrying over the bustle of the courtyard. “Evacuate them into the safety area we carved out! The castle will hold, but the city won’t survive if we don’t get them out of here now!”

  The inland plateau, where the castle of Primera stood, had been shaped over the years into a near-impenetrable defensive position. The castle itself was perched atop the plateau, high above the city, giving it a commanding view of the surrounding land. But beneath it, nestled against the steep slopes, the main city lay behind towering stone walls that were meant to protect the heart of Primera. However, with the enemy closing in, the city’s defenses were no longer enough to ensure safety.

  A large man-made structure had been built into the plateau, a secure area carved directly from the rock itself. This space had been designed as a final refuge for the citizens of Primera—a place to retreat to in times of war. Now, it was the only place left for them to flee.

  Silas Davenmere’s men were already moving, their agile forms cutting through the mass of citizens and soldiers, shouting orders in a language that only the experienced soldiers understood. “Move! Move! Get the civilians into the city center!” Silas’s voice rang out as he signaled for his personal army to clear the streets and create a secure passage toward the plateau.

  Augustus and Lady Tryst were by his side, commanding their own troops to follow suit. “Form lines, protect the flanks,” Augustus shouted, his usual calm demeanor replaced by a rare intensity. “We’ll need every able-bodied person to help get them to safety.”

  Flint stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching as the chaos unfolded around him. His pulse raced, but he pushed the feeling of dread aside. There was no room for hesitation. The people of Primera were depending on them, and he couldn’t afford to falter now.

  Gabriel’s silver armor glinted in the torchlight as she strode past him, leading the charge. Her usual composed demeanor had been replaced by an urgent focus. “Get them to the plateau!” she shouted, her voice carrying over the noise. “We’ll hold them there. No one gets left behind!”

  The royal guards, fiercely loyal to the crown, were at their posts, directing soldiers and citizens alike with sharp, practiced efficiency. The crowd was thick with the panic of the people, but the soldiers held their ground, ensuring that the citizens were moving toward safety.

  Flint caught sight of Menethil Grimguard, his towering form moving through the crowd with commanding presence. “Clear the eastern roads!” Menethil barked. “Get the children and the elderly out first. We’ll hold the west.”

  Lady Tryst caught Flint’s eye as she moved with swift determination toward the castle gates, her expression unwavering. “We don’t have much time,” she said, her voice low but steady. “We need to make sure the civilians are safe before we deal with the enemy. Once we’ve fortified the plateau, we can focus on pushing back the siege.”

  Flint nodded, his jaw clenched. There was no arguing with her. The evacuation had to be their first priority.

  As the last of the citizens were shepherded toward the plateau, the sounds of hurried footsteps echoed behind them. The gates were closing, the heavy wooden doors groaning in protest as they were sealed shut. The castle’s inner sanctum—its towering walls, the heart of the inland plateau, and the narrow mountain pass that led to it—would serve as their last stand.

  “Move, now!” Byronard’s voice rang through the gates as the last of the royal guard poured in, securing the final line of defense.

  Flint stood at the gates, his eyes scanning the distant horizon. The enemy was out there, closing in. The Black Herald, and the army that followed it, were not far behind. They had bought some time—time to regroup, time to fortify the plateau, and time to prepare for the battle that was sure to come.

  As the last of the royal guard took their positions, Flint glanced over his shoulder. The citizens were safe, at least for now. But with each passing second, the shadow of the enemy loomed ever closer. There would be no turning back after this.

  “We fight for our home,” Flint muttered under his breath, his fists clenching.

  The others gathered around him, their expressions grim. This was no longer about lineage or titles. This was about survival. And it would be a battle they would fight together.

  Flint stood atop the city walls, his boots echoing softly on the stone as he surveyed the advancing enemy forces. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on him, and despite the brisk air, an unsettling cold crawled up his spine. Below, the city gates were heavily guarded, but even from this height, the sight of the amassing army was enough to stir a deep sense of dread. Their numbers were staggering, and the aura of dread surrounding them made it clear they weren’t a mere raiding party.

  Byronard stood next to him, his towering form impossible to miss. The zweihander he carried—a weapon almost as tall as a man—rested across his back, the gleaming steel catching the fading light. As captain of the royal guard, Byronard was the embodiment of authority and power, his reputation as a fierce warrior known throughout the kingdom. It was said that his blade could carve through the toughest of opponents, and it was that very weapon he would wield once again in the battle ahead.

  The other heads—Silas Davenmere, Emilie Blackstone, and Augustus of House Hawthorne—joined them at the edge of the wall, their eyes trained on the enemy below. The southern side of the city, protected by the natural defenses of the plateau, was safe for now, but the northern and eastern gates were vulnerable. Those were the gates the enemy would target.

  Flint’s gaze shifted back to the pale-skinned warriors leading the charge. Their bodies, covered in dark, writhing tattoos, stood in stark contrast to the land around them. Something about them felt wrong, like they weren’t just soldiers, but instruments of a darker power. A cold shiver ran down his spine.

  “They’ve come for us,” Flint muttered, his voice a tight whisper. His hand instinctively gripped his sword as he spoke, the weight of his words hanging in the air. This wasn’t just another battle—it was a reckoning.

  Byronard’s voice was the calm anchor in the storm. “Focus, Flint,” he said, his voice deep and commanding. “This is just the beginning.”

  The other heads, though they remained silent, shared the same uneasy expression. The enemy was vast, and their dark energy was palpable. But they had little choice but to face them head-on.

  Byronard’s gaze sharpened, and he spoke with the authority that only he could command. “Send word to the other entrances. Reinforce the defenses. We hold this line no matter what.”

  A royal guard, a young man with a tense expression, hurried off to carry out the order. Byronard turned to the others. “And I want Demetrius and his company up here with us. We need every blade we can get.”

  Emilie Blackstone, always cool-headed in the midst of chaos, spoke first. “Byronard, splitting our forces right now could leave us exposed,” she said, her tone steady and precise. As one of the kingdom’s greatest strategists, her tactical mind always kept things focused on the big picture. “We need everyone on the walls. We can’t afford to scatter our forces.”

  Augustus of House Hawthorne frowned, clearly agreeing with Emilie’s concern. “She’s right. We need every archer we have ready to fire. The defenses must be our first priority.”

  Byronard, however, did not hesitate. He turned to face them, his expression hard as steel, his resolve unwavering. “You forget yourselves,” he said, his voice sharp like the edge of his zweihander. “Demetrius and his men are royal guard—they’re elite soldiers trained for situations like this. If anyone can get to the front and buy us time, it’s them.”

  Silas Davenmere, ever the pragmatic one, nodded in agreement, his gaze sharp. “Byronard’s right. We can’t afford to ignore the royal guard. They’ll cut through the front lines, and we’ll need them to hold the first wave while we focus on thinning their numbers.”

  Emilie’s lips pressed together in thought. “And what do we do while they fight?” she asked, still wary but acknowledging the necessity of Byronard’s plan.

  Byronard’s eyes flicked briefly to the horizon before he replied, his voice low but confident. “We cover their backs with arrows. The royal guard may be able to hold the line, but we’ll make sure they don’t do it alone. The moment they start pushing back, we hit them with everything we’ve got.”

  With that, Emilie’s stance softened slightly, though she remained ever-cautious. Her talents weren’t just in strategy; they were in the heat of battle. A master archer, she had no intention of standing idly by. She was already formulating how best to cover the royal guard’s advance.

  Flint, with his bow now in hand, gave a sharp nod, acknowledging the plan. “Let’s not waste time.”

  Byronard turned, his grip tightening on his zweihander as he made his way toward the front lines, ready to join the royal guard in the fight. “I’ll be with them, leading the charge,” he said, his voice resolute. “We’ve held this kingdom together through worse. We’re not about to lose it now.”

  The royal guard, now assembled, readied their bows, their discipline visible even in the rush of preparation. The heads of the realm, determined and resolute, followed suit, each moving into position as the defense took shape.

  Flint, standing shoulder to shoulder with Emilie, knew they were ready—ready for whatever the enemy had in store. The battle was imminent, and the fate of the kingdom hung in the balance.