Chapter 12

The world was still veiled in night when the heavy wooden doors of Thalia's chambers creaked open. A voice, deep as the roots of the old oaks, filled the dimly lit room.

"Rise, girl. The hour is upon you."

Thalia stirred, her body half-lost in the warmth of her bed, her limbs entangled in the silken covers. Her father's voice was a distant thunder, rumbling words she could barely comprehend in the haze of lingering sleep. He paced the foot of her bed, the sharp tap of his boots echoing against the stone floor.

"Tis a rare day indeed," he continued, his voice laced with the weight of tradition, "when a Drale stands amongst knights."

The words struck her like a bell's toll. Thalia's eyes shot open, her breath catching in her throat. The moment had come. A smirk curled her lips as the realization settled. She sat up, red hair an unkempt tangle draped over her face and shoulders. Sleep still clung to her, her limbs protesting as if shackled by slumber's last desperate grip.

Her father, oblivious to her struggle, continued his speech, pacing with the patience of a storm waiting to break. Thalia, however, was still half-dreaming, and as he passed the foot of her bed once more, she let her body collapse backward into the plush mattress, gripping the silk pillow beneath her head. Just a few more moments...

Then it struck her—his words finally making their way through the fog of her waking mind.

"Tis a rare day when a Drale stands amongst knights."

Her eyes snapped open, her heart thudding against her ribs. This was it. She was to train. She was to fight.

Before she could fully process it, her father was gone, his retreating footsteps swallowed by the castle's vast halls. A sudden knock rattled her door, and then it opened to reveal her servants, their hands folded, their gazes poised.

"My lady," one spoke, her voice soft, "shall we assist you?"

Thalia barely turned to them before waving a dismissive hand. "No need. Leave me."

The servants bowed and exited without question, the door clicking shut behind them. As the silence settled, Thalia finally turned her gaze toward the far side of her chambers—and what she saw made her breath hitch.

There it stood, gleaming in the flickering candlelight—a suit of armor, her armor.

It was unlike anything she had ever owned, crafted with purpose, with precision. The steel shone with an almost ethereal sheen, the intricate engravings whispering of battles yet to be fought. A crimson cloak draped over the pauldrons, its color bold against the cold silver. The leather bindings were sturdy yet supple, ensuring agility in movement. The gauntlets, decorated with fine filigree, were made to fit her hands alone.

For a moment, she simply stared. Her fingers curled into fists, then relaxed. A shiver ran down her spine, not from fear but from anticipation, from something deeper, something primal.

She took a step forward. Then another. She walked around the armor, drinking in every detail, every curve of the steel, every buckle and strap. Her heart pounded. Her hands itched to reach out, to touch, to claim it as hers. She bit her lower lip, then turned abruptly toward her bed.

With no better way to contain herself, she grabbed a pillow and buried her face into it, letting out a muffled scream of sheer exhilaration. Her body trembled—not with doubt, but with the sheer weight of what this moment meant.

At last.

She inhaled sharply and exhaled through her nose. "Alright," she whispered to herself, turning back to the armor, "it begins."

The air was thick with an unspoken energy as she stepped closer. With deliberate movements, she reached out, tracing her fingers along the cool surface of the breastplate. It was heavier than she expected, solid and unyielding. The scent of oiled leather and tempered steel filled her senses.

Slowly, carefully, she donned each piece. The greaves strapped tightly to her legs, the weight grounding her, making her feel more real, more present. The bracers fit snugly, their firm grip promising protection. When she fastened the cuirass, its weight settled over her shoulders like the embrace of destiny itself.

Finally, the crimson cloak.

She fastened it at the shoulders, letting it drape behind her. The fabric whispered with each movement, a silent promise of the warrior she was to become.

She stepped back, breathing heavily, staring at her reflection in the polished mirror near her bedside.

This was not the same girl who had stumbled through the halls of Yainna, uncertain of her place.

This was not the same girl who had been plagued by visions of dark men and dead things rising.

This was something new. Something formidable.

A knock sounded at her door once more. This time, she did not sigh. She did not hesitate.

She turned, her fingers tightening into fists, her lips curving ever so slightly at the corners.

"Yes?"

A voice, firm yet deferential, came from the other side. "My lady. The training grounds await."

Thalia closed her eyes for the briefest of moments, letting the air settle in her lungs. When she opened them again, they were filled with nothing but fire.

"Then let us not keep them waiting."

The grand hall of the morning court was alight with the flickering glow of torches, their flames casting long shadows upon the stone walls adorned with the banners of the great houses. Lords, nobles, and war commanders filled the chamber, their voices rising in discord as the weight of impending war settled upon them.

"War?" Lord Aldric scoffed, his heavy hands slamming against the oaken table. "Against one man? And you declare war already?"

"What else do we know of this... man?" another lord asked, his voice laced with skepticism.

Lord Merek, a seasoned commander with scars as deep as his convictions, leaned forward. "We know he slaughtered our scouts. Not just any scouts—His Grace's own men."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the chamber, some nodding solemnly while others exchanged uneasy glances.

"Any man who slays a scout or knight of the king is punishable by death," Lord Vaelin growled. "It is an act of treason to spill noble blood. The law is clear."

At the head of the table, King Derek Drale sat in stony silence, his fingers curled around the chalice in his hand. He had listened to their quarrels, to their demands for immediate action, to their dismissal of what lay beyond the known world. And then, with the weight of a ruler who had seen kingdoms rise and fall, he finally spoke.

"Summon the survivors. The ones who returned from this... event. Bring them before me at once."

The court fell still at his command. A runner was sent, and as they waited, a different voice rose—measured, yet laced with challenge.

"Your Grace, a matter presses upon me," said Lord Alistair, William's father. "Your daughter. I have heard whispers that she has taken the path of a knight. Considering there has never been a woman knight in all the histories of Yainna, is this not against tradition?"

All eyes turned to the king. For a moment, there was only silence. A challenge had been set before him. Not of war, not of politics, but of his authority. Derek Drale exhaled slowly and took a sip from his chalice before rising to his feet. He was not a man who answered to traditions; he was the one who dictated them.

"I am King Derek Drale," he said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Ruler and conqueror of Yainna. Whatever I say, so it shall be. If I wish for night to be called day and day to be called night, then so it shall be. For I have the power to bend laws."

The words echoed through the chamber, heavy and unshakable. There would be no more questions on the matter.

Before the tension could settle, the great doors of the court groaned open. Two scouts entered, their steps hesitant, their faces gaunt. The lords turned to face them, their expressions shifting from irritation to intrigue—and then, to unease.

The men before them were not as they had been upon their return. They were thinner now, their eyes sunken into their skulls, as if sleep had abandoned them entirely. Their hands trembled, fingers twitching as if haunted by unseen specters. One flinched at the scrape of a chair, another let out a sharp breath when a torch crackled too loud. These were not the same men who had marched back from their doomed expedition. These were husks of themselves.

King Derek took a step forward, his gaze sweeping over them, keen and calculating. He nodded to his servant, who promptly fetched chairs for the men. They collapsed into the seats as if their bones could no longer bear their weight.

One of them, a man named Garron, swallowed hard before looking up. "Your Grace..."

"Speak," Derek commanded, his voice softer now, yet no less firm.

The scout's lips quivered before he found his voice. "He... he wanted to know if the Darkfolk had come for Yainna."

A murmur spread like wildfire.

"The Darkfolk?" Lord Vaelin repeated, brows furrowed. "You mean the people of the Welch Lands?"

"The Darkfolk are myths," Lord Aldric scoffed. "Stories conjured by delusional men, their minds rotted by too much ale and too many nights spent in the company of their own shadows."

"Be still," Derek ordered, his voice sharp as steel. The room fell into hushed obedience.

He turned his gaze back to the scout. "The people of Yainna are good. From the east to the west, from the north to the south. And yet... if the Darkfolk do exist, why would he—the one who felled our scouts, the one who commands forces beyond mortal comprehension—why would he fear them?"

Silence descended like a shroud over the court. Each lord sat with his own thoughts, eyes darting toward one another, questioning. Was the king truly entertaining the idea that the Darkfolk were real? Or worse—had he known all along?

The implications hung heavy in the air, unspoken yet suffocating.

The great hall, once alive with voices of defiance and doubt, now quivered under the weight of uncertainty. The shadow of war loomed over them all, but now, a darker shadow had begun to stretch across Yainna—one of myths, of nightmares, of things long buried but never truly gone.