The first light of dawn crept through the tall windows of the princess's chamber, a soft glow that brushed against the cool stone of the palace. The air was still, save for the faint rustling of the wind outside the castle walls. Serra's eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she lingered in bed, savoring the brief stillness of the morning. Her long, dark hair framed her face like a crown, though the weight of responsibility was never far from her thoughts.

  She pushed herself up, her movements graceful yet purposeful. The reflection in the mirror before her was one she knew all too well: a young woman, 19 years of age, with piercing eyes the color of deep pools, and sharp features that spoke of her noble heritage. She was tall, with the lean, athletic build of someone who had spent years honing their body through rigorous training. Her appearance—a blend of delicate beauty and quiet strength—was the source of admiration in the court, though it often felt like a double-edged sword.

  Serra’s hands moved instinctively as she prepared for the day ahead, a routine as ingrained in her as the sword styles she had mastered. She donned her simple training garb, tying the tunic tightly around her waist. Today, like every other day, was one of discipline, not indulgence. She did not let herself linger in thoughts of comfort. There was no time for that.

  The sound of her boots echoing on the stone floor soon followed as she made her way to the courtyard. The morning air was crisp, the faint scent of dew still hanging in the air as she met her fellow knights for the day's training. They greeted her with respectful nods and murmurs—most were men, older than her by many years, and all were in awe of her.

  Serra had earned her position as the recently promoted sergeant-of-arms, a title she held with pride but also an unspoken burden. Her father's legacy loomed over her every action, a shadow she could never escape. Radley the Summoned—her father, the great hero—was known across the kingdom and beyond for his strength in battle, his conquests, and the indelible mark he had left on history. But for Serra, that legacy was often a weight she carried with both pride and sorrow. She was expected to live up to his name, to embody his warrior spirit, to be both a princess and a knight of the highest caliber.

  The knights gathered for drills, and Serra took her place in the center. Her eyes swept over her fellow warriors, most of whom were now accustomed to her presence but still secretly cowed by her skill. She was a prodigy in every sense of the word. Though she was young, her mastery of the sword was unparalleled. She had trained in three different sword styles—each one requiring years of dedication—and she could wield them with unmatched precision.

  Serra squared off with a trusted knight, a seasoned veteran named Roric, who had been part of her father’s Liberation army of old, long before her birth. He had seen her grow from a young girl with a fierce spirit to a woman of remarkable skill. Their sparring match was swift and graceful, each strike and parry a reflection of her years of practice. Though Roric was a highly trained knight in his own right, it was clear to the other men that Serra’s technique was sharper, more fluid, and her tactical acumen more refined than anyone else’s.

  The clang of steel against steel rang out as Serra’s sword met Roric’s in a perfect counter, her eyes never wavering from her target. Her movements were calculated, deliberate—there was no wasted effort. The knights watching from the sidelines marveled at her skill, but for Serra, the match was nothing more than routine. Each strike was an opportunity to hone her mind and body, to push herself further. She was not simply training to defend the kingdom—she was training to prove she could rise above the expectations of her father’s name.

  As the sparring match ended, Serra bowed slightly to Roric, the barest flicker of a smile crossing her lips. It was not out of arrogance, but gratitude. He had always been a reliable partner in her training, and though they had grown close over the years, the difference in their ranks would never allow for any real friendship.

  The other knights dispersed, their murmurs of admiration still lingering in the air. Serra wiped the sweat from her brow and made her way to the royal garden to catch her breath. The garden, a quiet sanctuary amidst the chaos of palace life, was a place where she could take a moment to herself. The fragrant flowers and neatly trimmed hedges offered a brief respite from the demands of her station.

  It was here that her personal relationships flourished. Her servants, the caretakers of the palace, often greeted her with warm smiles. Though she was a princess and a knight, she made time to check in on them, to learn about their lives, to offer a word of kindness. In return, they adored her for her genuine care.

  But as she wandered among the flowers, her thoughts turned, as they often did, to her family. Her younger brother, Prince Eann, was often the first person she saw after her morning routines. At ten years old, Eann was a bright-eyed boy who looked up to her with unwavering admiration. The two shared a quiet breakfast, as they often did, in the palace’s garden house.

  Eann, with his tousled bronze hair and wide, innocent eyes, spoke of his own dreams of becoming a knight—of someday fighting alongside her in battle. Serra smiled softly at his enthusiasm, ruffling his hair gently. “You're blood of a Hero, Eann,” she always told him, though in her heart, she knew how much of a burden such a life could be.

  Their conversation turned to lighter matters, his childish energy a welcome distraction from the weight of the world that always seemed to press down on her. Yet, even as she laughed with her brother, a small, bitter seed of thought began to sprout.

  Her father, Radley, had many children beyond her and Eann—whispers of his many bastards had reached her ears over the years, and each mention of them stung. Serra could not help but think of the rumors, the dark secrets that had always surrounded her father. His conquests, both on the battlefield and in his personal life, had cast a long shadow over their family. The thought of his many other children, scattered across the kingdom and beyond, unsettled her. What legacy had he truly left them?

  As the meal continued, Serra’s thoughts drifted toward the political landscape of the kingdom. Her older brother, Prince Aidan, had been left to deal with the increasingly volatile relationship with the Bosco Federation. Radley’s conquests there had left a legacy of tension and distrust, and now Aidan, as the first prince, was forced to navigate the political landmines left in his wake. The delicate balance between power, alliances, and war was something Serra did not envy.

  Her gaze faltered as she glanced out the window, her mind heavy with the weight of it all. Radley’s actions had shaped the kingdom, no question. His conquests, his victories, his choices—they had all set the kingdom on a path it could not easily divert from. But as much as she could point to his influence, there was something else in the air, something elusive. The kingdom was facing strife, tension on all fronts, yet Serra couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a lost history buried beneath it all, a forgotten chapter tied to her father and his infamous war against the demons—a conflict that had marked him as both hero and tyrant. The answers, however, remained stubbornly out of reach, as though the very fabric of history had been scrubbed clean of some crucial detail.

  Her thoughts turned to her mother, Queen Deliah Dora Donnadu, whose own burdens were no less heavy. The queen, though still married to Radley, had long since grown weary of his behavior. She had been deeply disillusioned by the man she had once loved—the times he had betrayed her trust, the cracks in their marriage that had only deepened with each passing year. Yet the queen carried on, never showing weakness, her focus squarely on her royal duties. Serra knew well the cost of that duty, and she understood the distance that had grown between them over the years. It wasn’t just the political pressures, nor the weight of the crown; it was something more personal. The queen’s heart had been hardened by the same pain that Serra carried in her own chest. Though neither of them ever spoke of it, that unspoken bond of shared suffering was something they both lived with, quietly and painfully.

  Serra’s thoughts turned inward as she pushed her plate aside. Her mother had chosen her path, retreating into the responsibilities of ruling, leaving the personal heartbreak behind. Serra, however, was caught in the middle, caught between her loyalty to both her parents and the ever-present weight of the kingdom’s expectations.

  For a moment, as she sat there with Eann, she let herself linger in the quiet comfort of his company. She had always tried to protect him from the realities of their world, to let him hold onto his innocence for as long as possible. But even he, in his youthful exuberance, couldn’t escape the shadows that loomed over their family.

  The morning would soon give way to more duties, more training, and more political entanglements that would demand her attention. But for now, as she exchanged a rare smile with her younger brother, Serra allowed herself to savor the few moments of peace she could find. The rest of the day could wait.

  Serra’s thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. “Your Highness, your presence is requested in the council hall,” came the voice of one of her attendants.

  With a resigned sigh, Serra rose from her seat in front of the mirror, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She adjusted the fit of her armor, the weight of her responsibility settling back over her like a familiar cloak. The kingdom’s internal strife was becoming harder to ignore, and despite the quiet breakfast with Eann, the day’s demands would not allow her to remain in that fleeting moment of peace. She could feel the unease in the castle air—a subtle, but growing tension that only sharpened when her father’s absence was mentioned.

  When the princess entered the council hall, the room was filled with murmurs—lords, generals, and advisors discussing matters with quiet urgency. The moment she stepped inside, however, the noise ceased, and all eyes turned toward her. At the center of the table sat her mother, Queen Dora, a striking figure even now, nearing 50. Her dark hair, streaked with silver strands, framed a face that still held its beauty despite the years, the lines of age only adding to her dignity. Her violet-tinged dark eyes met Serra’s, tired but steady, carrying both the weight of a kingdom and the quiet strength of a mother who had weathered a myriad of hardships. Her well-toned figure and regal posture only emphasized her presence as she sat with the undeniable resolve that had seen Andalus through its most difficult times.

  “Serra,” she greeted, her voice holding the weariness of someone who had seen too many battles, both on the field and in the court. “Join us. We must discuss the rogue wizard who threatens the highland territories.”

  Serra nodded, making her way to the empty seat at the table, her sharp gaze scanning the room. There was an undercurrent of unease—an unsettled energy that didn’t just come from the wizard’s growing power, but from something deeper. The room felt as though it was waiting for something... or someone. And the absence of her father hung over them all like a shadow, one they could neither escape nor ignore.

  She sat, folding her hands neatly in front of her. Her mind was already grappling with the information she had overheard earlier. Radley’s warband had been dispatched a month ago to deal with the rogue wizard who had been causing havoc in the highlands, and yet… no word ever came back. The silence was suffocating, and the uncertainty it bred was even more dangerous than the wizard himself. Serra’s thoughts drifted to her father, the “summoned hero,” a figure of legend and terror. His absence created a power vacuum in the kingdom that no one seemed willing to speak of directly. The whispers of revolt, of rebellion, were no longer rumors. They were becoming a quiet chorus in every corner of the court, just waiting to erupt.

  “We must prepare for the worst,” General Roderic’s voice broke through her thoughts, his deep tone filled with a grim certainty. “If Radley’s warband has failed… if they are no longer capable…”

  The room fell into a tense silence at the suggestion. No one spoke openly of the possibility, but the fear was palpable in the air.

  Dora raised a hand, silencing the room with an authority that would not be questioned. “We have no proof of failure yet. But I agree with General Roderic. Preparations must be made,” she said, her eyes flicking to Serra. “You will oversee the reinforcements. If no word of your father’s forces returns by next week, we will act ourselves.”

  Serra’s heart skipped at the weight of her mother’s command. She nodded, though an unsettling wave of foreboding gripped her chest. It wasn’t just the responsibility of leading a campaign in her father’s stead that unsettled her. It was the very nature of the situation. Radley led his warband to subdue a rogue wizard—one whose power was rapidly growing—and yet now, with no word from them, there were whispers of failure, of possible defeat.

  The idea of leading a campaign without knowing what had truly happened to her father’s forces was almost unbearable. The kingdom was standing on the precipice of uncertainty, and every decision would be weighed against the harsh legacy of Radley’s own warmongering.

  Radley, even in his absence, loomed large over the kingdom’s fate. His military influence still kept the kingdom strong in the face of external threats, but internally, his absence left cracks in the foundation of power. It wasn’t just the rogue wizard that posed a threat—it was the undercurrent of dissent, the growing factionalism in the court, the disillusionment with Radley’s past campaigns, especially against the Bosco Federation and the demi-human tribes of the South. Radley’s conquests had left deep scars, and though his victories were still celebrated in the barracks and royal halls, there were murmurs that the kingdom’s strength had come at a price. The morale of the people was fragile, and Serra felt it in every word of the council.

  As the meeting adjourned, the chatter of the councilors faded behind her, but the weight of their conversation hung heavily in the air. Serra rose from her seat, her mind racing. She was capable, no doubt, but this new burden—taking command in her father’s absence—felt like more than she could carry alone. Yet, no one else would take the mantle.

  She walked slowly out of the hall, her thoughts drifting back to Radley’s legacy. His actions—his successes and failures alike—had shaped not only the kingdom’s borders but its very soul. The scars from his wars, particularly with the Bosco Federation and the demi-humans, still affected the kingdom’s future. The kingdom’s strife was not simply the result of a rogue wizard; it was the weight of history, of conquests that still echoed through every corner of Andalus.

  Serra paused before leaving the council chamber, her hand resting on the doorframe. She thought about the demon war that had set everything into motion. There were secrets buried beneath that history, secrets that even Radley himself might not understand fully. The loss of that knowledge felt like another shadow, darker and more elusive than any battle fought with swords and magic.

  The answers, like everything else, remained just out of reach.

  * * *

  The morning had passed in a flurry of papers and decisions, each more pressing than the last. Serra sat at the large oak desk in her chambers, her sharp eyes scanning through the day’s correspondence. Letters from lords, generals, and various regional leaders had piled up in front of her. She read through them carefully, signing where necessary, her mind whirring with each word. The kingdom’s security demanded her attention now more than ever, especially in the absence of Radley, her father, who had been away for weeks fighting in the highlands.

  Serra’s thoughts were focused on the immediate concerns: reinforcing the castle town’s defenses, monitoring troop movements, and preparing for the worst should her father’s warband fail in their mission to subdue the rogue wizard in the highlands. Radley had always been a force of nature, a “summoned hero” whose legacy shaped the kingdom’s borders and its internal politics. But his absence had created a vacuum, and Serra, at only nineteen, was left with the heavy burden of overseeing the security of Andalus.

  The weight of the crown was not just her mother’s to bear. Queen Dora may have dealt with the politics of the court, but it was Serra who had been trained in the art of leadership, in the discipline of a knight, and in the harsh realities of warfare. And so, she found herself managing the kingdom’s day-to-day operations with a mixture of resolve and unease. Her mind was a battlefield, torn between managing royal duties, ensuring the kingdom’s safety, and her own fears that something far darker was looming just beyond the horizon. The whispers of unrest were louder than ever before.

  The council meeting with her mother had left a bitter taste in her mouth. Preparations had been ordered to reinforce the military, and she would personally oversee these efforts. First, she would visit the castle’s garrison to check on recruitment numbers, then inspect the smithy and stables to make sure the horses and armaments were in peak condition for whatever was to come. But all the while, the knowledge that Radley’s warband had been missing for so long loomed over her, an uncertainty that threatened to swallow everything.

  She rose from her desk and moved toward the door, her armor clinking as she strapped on the familiar mantle of command. Her attendants, quiet and dutiful, followed in her wake, ready to assist with whatever her day would demand. The time for waiting had passed. She needed to act.

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  Serra arrived at the castle garrison, her footsteps echoing across the stone floors of the barracks. The soldiers stood at attention, their faces a mix of discipline and concern. They had all seen the same reports—Radley’s forces had been sent to deal with a rogue wizard in the highlands, and they had not returned. Now, the kingdom was relying on them. Serra moved down the line, eyes sharp as she took in the state of the troops.

  "Report," she commanded, her voice cutting through the tension in the air.

  A captain, one of Radley’s old men, stepped forward, bowing low. "Your Highness, recruitment numbers are steady, though morale is low. With the uncertainty surrounding the warduke's return, many soldiers are questioning their purpose. However, we maintain our readiness." His voice was careful, but Serra could hear the strain behind it.

  "You will maintain order, Captain," she replied, her tone firm. "Prepare the men for potential travel. I want every knight ready to move within the week."

  "Yes, Your Highness," the captain responded, a flicker of relief passing through his eyes.

  Serra nodded and turned away. As she left the garrison, her mind was already working through the next steps. The kingdom’s military force needed to be strengthened, its morale lifted, but the uncertainty of Radley’s fate made it all the more difficult. She couldn’t help but feel the pressure of having to step into shoes far too big for her, though she knew no one would question her orders. Not yet.

  The next stop on her rounds was the smithy, the rhythmic sound of hammer on anvil greeting her ears as she approached. Inside, the forge was a furnace of activity, with sparks flying as blacksmiths worked tirelessly, shaping weapons and armor. The smell of burning coal and molten metal hung in the air, and the heat from the furnace was palpable. Serra moved through the forge, inspecting the various racks of swords, shields, and armor pieces, her fingers brushing lightly over the steel as she considered their quality. Though her training had been thorough, and her skill with a blade honed, the thought of real combat still felt foreign to her.

  "Your Highness," came the deep voice of Thornir, one of the forge's specialists. He stepped forward from the shadows of the forge, a tall, broad-shouldered man with soot-covered hands, his face lined with the years of hard work. His dark eyes, usually focused on the forge, now met hers with a glint of familiarity. "I’ve finished the work on your blade."

  Serra’s gaze shifted to the table near the furnace, where her sword lay. It was a weapon she had come to rely on in her training—her trusty companion—though she had hardly seen it bloodied in battle. It had been forged with care, and though she hadn’t had much use for it in the heat of true combat, the memories of training with it, of sparring with mentors and against other aspiring knights, gave it a kind of weight in her hands.

  "How is it?" Serra asked, her voice quiet, almost uncertain. There was always a part of her that wondered if a weapon like this could live up to the expectations of its owner—especially with the pressures of what lay ahead.

  Thornir picked up the sword and ran his rough fingers over the blade’s edge, inspecting it with the same care he would a fine work of art. "It’s sharp. Balanced. I’ve made a few adjustments, re-tempered it to hold an edge longer. Your technique’s been growing, Your Highness," he said with a hint of pride. "You’ve been treating this blade like a true extension of yourself, I can tell."

  Serra allowed herself a faint smile at the compliment, but it was tempered with the realization that her sword had yet to be tested in the crucible of war. "I’ve only used it in practice, Thornir. Against those who know my moves, my style."

  Thornir chuckled, a deep rumble that seemed to resonate with the heat of the forge. "A blade like that, it’s not just for war, it’s for defense. For protecting the kingdom, and for you, Highness. That’s what matters most. But if the time comes, it’ll hold fast for you. I’ve made sure of it."

  She nodded, a weight settling in her chest. The blade in her hands was not just a tool—it was a promise. It was her only real companion when it came to facing the unknown that lay ahead. Thornir's words, though reassuring, couldn't silence the quiet dread that whispered in the back of her mind.

  "Thank you," Serra said, taking the sword from the table and feeling its familiar weight in her hand. She gave it a few experimental swings, the smooth motion easing her nerves, if only for a moment.

  Thornir gave a respectful nod. "It’s always an honor, Your Highness. May it serve you well."

  As Serra left the smithy, sword in hand, the sounds of the forge faded behind her. The day was slipping away, and the kingdom’s preparations continued. The future felt uncertain, but for now, with her trusty blade once more at her side, she felt ready to face whatever came next.

  Serra didn’t linger long after leaving the smithy, her steps quick and purposeful as she made her way toward the stables. The rhythmic sound of hooves and the familiar smell of hay and leather greeted her as she entered the stable. Her mind was focused on the journey ahead, and she knew that every detail had to be in place. The kingdom’s future might very well depend on it. She needed reliable, strong steeds for the forces she would command, and she had no time to waste.

  The stablemaster, a sturdy woman with weathered hands and a strong back, greeted Serra with a respectful bow. She had served the royal family for years, a steady presence in the midst of turmoil.

  "Your Highness," the stablemaster began, her voice both firm and apologetic, "the horses are well-trained and in good condition, but... we’re short on fresh steeds. Our resources are limited, and we’ve had to make do with what we have."

  Serra’s brow furrowed slightly as she absorbed the news. The weight of her responsibilities pressed down on her, and she felt a knot tighten in her chest. A lack of fresh horses wasn’t a simple inconvenience—it was a vulnerability. If they were to mobilize quickly, they needed a dependable, swift force ready for whatever lay ahead.

  She inhaled deep, her voice steady but resolute. "I'll see to it you get the funds needed to replenished your stock. But we'll need every available horse ready for travel. The time may come when we need to move swiftly, and I won’t have us hindered by a lack of supplies."

  The stablemaster nodded, her expression serious. "Understood, Your Highness. I’ll make the arrangements at once."

  Serra stepped past her, walking down the line of stalls, trailing her fingertips over the sleek coats of the kingdom’s warhorses. The beasts shifted beneath her touch, their ears twitching, their breaths steady. These creatures would bear the weight of the coming days as much as any soldier. She whispered a quiet prayer for their strength before turning away, her mind already shifting to the next task at hand.

  Serra walked along the rows of stalls, grazing her hand over the sleek coats of the steeds. Each horse was a living part of the kingdom’s defense, each a silent guardian in the uncertain days ahead. As she prepared to leave, hushed voices reached her ears—two stable hands speaking in low murmurs.

  "They say he’ll return, you know."

  "Who?"

  "The lost hero. The one who vanished after the war. Radley’s been gone too long. People are starting to talk."

  "Hah. Folk tales, that’s all. But... there was that one soldier. Remember him? Kept saying the hero wasn’t dead. Just waiting. Watching."

  Serra hesitated. It wasn’t the first time she had heard such rumors. Whispers of a hero long gone, of a figure wreathed in legend, a warrior who had shaped the very foundation of the kingdom. In childhood, she had heard the stories, passed from veterans of the Liberation Army to their apprentices, sometimes in drunken tales by the fire, other times in solemn recollections.

  One had stuck with her—a tale of an old knight who swore that in the darkest of times, the hero would rise again, not as a man, but as a shadow cast by war itself. The storm must call him, the knight had said, and he will answer, one way or another.

  The memory unsettled her. Now, with her father missing, the murmurs were growing louder, no longer confined to old soldiers but creeping into the voices of common folk.

  She left the stables, the echo of their words trailing after her.

  * * *

  The rest of the day passed in a blur of duties—more meetings, more reports, more preparations. Serra barely had time to eat before the evening began to settle over the palace. The sun dipped low, casting a golden light over the kingdom of Andalus. The day’s work was far from over, but for now, there was a rare quiet.

  She retired to her chambers, a long, tired sigh escaping her lips as she moved to the window. Outside, the city stretched out beneath her, its streets alive with the hum of evening activity. But despite the peaceful sight, there was a sense of unease in the air—an unspoken tension that Serra could feel deep within her bones. The kingdom was at peace—for now.

  But as her gaze swept over the city, her mind turned to the forces at play, the ones she could not see. There was something in the shadows, something lurking just beyond her reach. The rogue wizard in the highlands, her father’s absence, the whispered rumors about lost heroes—each puzzle piece added to a picture she couldn’t yet make sense of.

  She knew the peace wouldn’t last forever. How much longer, she wondered, before the kingdom was forced to confront the secrets that had been buried for so long?

  ...

  ...

  ...

  The echo of a loud crash shattered the calm of the palace, sending a ripple of panic through the stone halls. It was not just any ordinary noise; it was the unmistakable sound of destruction—a disturbance too severe to ignore. Serra's heart skipped a beat, her hand immediately reaching for the hilt of her sword. Her training took over, adrenaline surging through her veins as she sprang into motion.

  Her boots rang on the marble floor as she rushed through the corridor, passing servants and guards whose faces were stricken with alarm. Panic gripped the castle, and voices shouted in urgent confusion.

  “The castle’s under attack!” one guard cried out. “Sound the bells! Intruders in the palace!”

  Serra’s pulse quickened. How had this happened? The palace was fortified—her kingdom’s pride, protected by elite soldiers. Who could have breached the walls?

  The air was thick with confusion, and as Serra neared the courtyard, the tension escalated. Guards were rushing toward her, but there was no order to their movements—only panic. They did not seem to know what was happening, and their faces mirrored her own disbelief. Her eyes darted from one to another as they attempted to regroup, but nothing made sense.

  “What in the gods' name is going on?” one knight muttered as he passed her, his voice trembling. “Where is the threat? Who do we face?”

  Serra pushed forward, ignoring the chaos as she approached the source of the crash. She rounded a corner into the courtyard, and there—amidst the flickering torchlight—she saw the spectacle unfolding before her.

  At the center of the palace courtyard stood an intruder, his figure towering and commanding. He was dressed in dark, flowing robes that seemed to writhe with an almost unnatural energy. His presence alone seemed to draw the light away, casting long, ominous shadows across the stone. But it wasn’t the cloak that caught her eye. It was the weapon he wielded.

  A crystal staff.

  The weapon pulsed with a faint, eerie glow, the intricate markings carved into its surface shimmering with a strange, powerful energy. He held it with a casual authority, a symbol of his control over the chaos he had unleashed. The sight of the staff made her breath catch in her throat. It wasn’t just a weapon; it was a conduit of some form of magic she had never encountered before, a power that seemed to bend the air itself around him.

  Behind him, the bodies of fallen guards lay scattered across the courtyard. The knights had been easily dispatched, their weapons scattered about in the speed of their defeat. The few remaining guards stood frozen, confusion and fear in their eyes. None of them knew who this man was, or what power he commanded.

  The intruder raised the crystal staff high, a subtle yet unmistakable wave of energy rippling outward. Sparks danced across the courtyard as the remaining guards flinched, unsure how to counter this unseen force.

  “Do you hear me, Dora," His voice echoed through the stone walls of the castle, booming and resonant. The sound seemed to magnify, reverberating, filling every corner of the castle. “Do you fear, do you pray, do you even care, what you took from me?” His words carried with them a venomous weight, and his gaze fixed directly on Serra, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of contempt and sorrow. “I repay those thirty years now!”

  Serra's mind reeled, trying to process his words. Thirty years? But who was he? The question gnawed at her, and yet she found herself rooted to the spot, unable to make sense of the situation.

  Before she could speak, a dozen guards rushed forward, swords drawn, attempting to encircle the intruder. But they hesitated, unsure of what they faced. Their swords were raised, but their eyes betrayed their fear—this was no ordinary attacker. He was something else entirely.

  The intruder, with a dismissive flick of his wrist, sent a shockwave of force rippling through the air. It was as if the very fabric of reality bent. The guards were thrown back, crashing against the stone walls and landing in a tangled heap. Their swords fell to the ground, useless in the face of such power.

  Serra’s blood ran cold as she watched seasoned warriors—the kingdom's finest—reduced to nothing in an instant. The power this man wielded was something beyond what she had ever seen. Magic, yes, but with an overwhelming force that crushed all who stood before him.

  The intruder lowered the staff, and for a moment, there was silence. He turned his eyes back to Serra, and the corners of his mouth curled into a dark smile.

  "You must be wondering who I am," he said, his voice low and haunting. "You have no idea, do you? But you will soon."

  Serra’s heart raced, her thoughts a whirl of confusion and fear. His words stung, but she was too stunned to respond.

  With a fluid motion, the intruder’s form shimmered, and the crystal staff vanished. In its place, he now held a weapon far more terrifying—an unmistakable, glowing spear: the Gae Bolg.

  The weapon hummed with an almost sentient energy, its eerie light flickering ominously. The sight of it made her breath catch. It was only ever her father’s, or so the stories said. But there it was, in the hands of this mysterious figure.

  The courtyard fell deathly quiet, the guards still struggling to regain their footing as they gawked at the weapon. The Gae Bolg, its legendary power known to all, was in the hands of this intruder. The realization hit her like a thunderclap.

  He was no mere assassin. He was someone who had waited for this moment for decades, and now, he had returned to claim some long denied right.

  “I return to take what is mine,” he said, his voice filled with bitter finality. “This kingdom, its throne, its legacy… it belongs to me.”

  The weight of his words hung in the air, like a dark omen. The fear that had gripped the courtyard intensified, spreading like wildfire through the remaining knights and soldiers. They had no idea who this man was or how to stop him. Their weapons felt insignificant in the face of his power.

  Serra stood at the edge of the courtyard, her mind racing. Thirty years. A forgotten legacy. The Gae Bolg. Everything she had known about her kingdom’s history was now being questioned, thrown into turmoil. This was not a simple attack. This was something far more personal—an old wound being reopened.

  The intruder raised the spear high, its glow growing stronger. “Prepare yourselves, for I will make the kingdom remember my name.”

  At this point the princess and the royal guard had heard enough and rushed forward to subdue this threat, each of them charging into the fray with a resolve fueled by duty. But what they failed to understand was the sheer weight of the situation—their foe was not just another assassin or common invader. He was a force unlike anything they had ever encountered, a shadow of forgotten history that had returned with a vengeance. And they had no chance against him.

  The intruder, standing tall in the center of the courtyard with the Gae Bolg glowing faintly in his hands, had not even broken a sweat as he dispatched them one by one. His movements were fast, fluid—unnatural, almost as though he were some kind of specter. Every swing of the spear was precise, methodical. Some guards were impaled with the spear’s deadly point, their cries cut short as they crumpled to the floor. Others were struck with a casual swipe of the weapon, flung unconscious across the cobblestones. There was no mercy, no hesitation. The guards fell without a sound, their pride shattered in the face of a force they could not comprehend.

  But none of this mattered to the intruder. They were nothing to him, insignificant in the grand scheme of his return. They were simply obstacles to be swept aside.

  Princess Serra narrowed her eyes, gripping her sword with renewed focus. She was not merely a warrior—she was a master of the blade, trained to channel spiritual power into every strike. If raw skill alone was not enough to overcome this foe, then she would cut him down with everything she had left.

  A breath. A shift in her stance. Power surged through her blade.

  She was the last one standing, her sword now flaring with energy, a radiant extension of her very soul. Each movement carried the weight of her conviction, her strikes leaving shimmering arcs in the air. She was not fighting alone—she carried the will of her kingdom, the legacy of the Hero, and the teachings of the masters who had shaped her into the warrior she had become.

  And yet—

  He did not falter.

  The intruder moved with an effortless grace, his expression unreadable as he wove through the storm of her attacks. He barely acknowledged the power infused within her blade. The Gae Bolg flicked through the air, deflecting her strikes as if they were mere whispers in the wind. Every precise, honed technique—every ounce of force—was met with casual indifference.

  Serra grit her teeth, pushing harder. Her blade became a blur, flowing between forms, shifting between angles—seeking a weakness, any weakness.

  There was none.

  His stance was erratic, even careless, as if he had never been trained in proper combat. Yet he was still untouchable. His movements too unpredictable, almost mocking in their simplicity, and no matter how fiercely she struck, her sword found only empty space or the lazy parry of his spear.

  Her breath grew ragged. Her power waned. The energy she had poured into her swordplay was fading fast, the strain of maintaining it dragging her body toward exhaustion. The realization hit her like a hammer—he was toying with her.

  The moment she faltered, he struck.

  A flicker of motion. A sharp shift in the air.

  The Gae Bolg lashed forward.

  Serra reacted instantly, her blade rising to meet it. But the moment their weapons clashed, she felt it—an overwhelming force, unnatural in its sheer brutality.

  CRACK!

  Her sword shattered in two.

  The impact sent a shockwave up her arms, the hilt nearly ripped from her grasp. The masterwork blade she had trusted, the weapon that had carried her through countless trials, was now a splintered ruin.

  Her heart pounded. Her hands trembled. The last vestiges of her spiritual energy slipped from her grasp, leaving nothing but the bitter cold of realization.

  And yet, she refused to yield.

  She gritted her teeth, fists clenching as the last remnants of her spirit faded from her grasp. The sword techniques that had once defined her were gone—burned away, consumed, leaving behind only the raw essence of her will to fight. If her blade had abandoned her, then she would wield herself instead.

  With a sharp breath, she forced the energy inward, condensing what little remained into her core. She had been trained to harness Ki as well, though she had never imagined using it against someone like this. Her body ignited with a flickering, unstable battle aura, crackling around her like embers grasping for flame. It was rough, incomplete—nothing like the refined techniques of the masters who had trained her. But she didn’t care. She didn’t need elegance. She needed power.

  With a roar, she launched herself forward, her movements sharper, faster than before. She struck out with fists wreathed in raw force, her kicks lashing like whips of pure momentum. The air around her shimmered with each blow, her every strike carrying the weight of her resolve. She fought with a wild abandon.

  But still, he was faster.

  The intruder moved like a ghost, slipping between her attacks with unnatural ease. No matter how fiercely she lashed out, he was already gone by the time her fist reached him. It was maddening—a fight with a man who wasn’t even there. Her battle ki flared brighter in frustration, but she still couldn’t touch him. He dodged without effort, his body weaving through her assault as if the very laws of physics bent to his will.

  Her breath came faster. Her vision narrowed. Her body screamed for reprieve.

  And he knew it.

  Her swings slowed. Her footing wavered. Her aura flickered.

  And then—

  She barely saw him move. A blur of motion. A shift in the air.

  Then—impact.

  His fist drove into her gut with the force of a hammer striking glass. A deafening crack echoed through her very being as her last defense—the fragile shell of her battle ki—shattered.

  The force lifted her off her feet. A rush of pain flooded her senses. The breath was torn from her lungs.

  She barely registered the ground rising to meet her before she crumpled, her limbs useless, her consciousness slipping.

  The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her was the intruder standing over her, Gae Bolg gleaming in his hand.

  And then—

  Nothing.