Memory. Part: 1

The echoes of war had yet to fade.

Even after Eldoria's fall, its remnants refused to be swallowed by oblivion. Scattered knights, battle-worn and grieving, had gathered within the last stronghold—a lone castle that stood defiant against the tide of destruction. It was an outpost that had never been meant to house an entire order of survivors. Yet here they were, bound together by the sheer will to reclaim what was lost.

But victory was a distant dream.

For now, all they could do was endure.

The castle was cold, its stone walls lined with banners of a kingdom that no longer existed. The air carried the scent of damp steel and burning torches, the faintest trace of dried blood lingering beneath. Knights moved through its halls like ghosts, their armor battered, their eyes hollow. Some had fought in Eldoria's last stand. Others had only known retreat.

And then there were the children.

Some had been found in the ruins of villages, others rescued from battlefields before they could be claimed by death. The youngest among them barely understood the world they had lost. The older ones carried their grief in silence.

Kael was among them.

He stood within the great hall that night, surrounded by rows of tired faces, as the knights spoke in hushed voices. He had nothing—no home, no family, not even a name that meant something to anyone but himself.

The fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows across the stone floor, stretching toward the three figures who stood at the front of the hall.

Even among the orphans, they stood apart.

A boy with jet-black hair and crimson red eyes, his gaze sharp as lightning, burning like embers in the dim firelight. There was an unnatural presence about him, an aura crackling with something darker than mere talent. Even at a glance, one could sense the power coursing through him—the mark of Demonic Thunder, a force that had no equal.

A girl with flowing crimson hair, standing with quiet confidence, her stance poised yet unreadable. Her very presence radiated heat, as though the embers of an unseen fire burned just beneath her skin. She did not need to announce her strength—her mere existence was proof enough. She was a wielder of Flame, one born with fire in her veins.

And then there was Kael.

His silver hair shimmered in the firelight, a stark contrast against the dim hall. But it was his golden eyes that drew the most attention—bright, piercing, as if charged with an energy unseen. A wielder of Lightning, though unlike Zirath, his power was not laced with the chaos of demonic heritage. His was something else entirely.

Kael did not know their names. But he knew that they were strong. Stronger than the rest. Stronger than him.

________________________________________

Days passed. The castle was no refuge. It was a forge.

The knights had no use for the weak.

Their training was relentless, breaking those too fragile to withstand it. Some faltered, fading into obscurity. Others pushed forward, hardened by the necessity to survive.

Kael trained with the others, his muscles aching from the weight of the wooden sword in his grip. Each day bled into the next, his body growing accustomed to the strain, but still, he lagged behind the black-haired boy. "Zirath".

That was his name.

Kael had heard it spoken among the others. It carried weight, whispered with either admiration or frustration. Even the knights had taken notice of him. He was fast, strong—his strikes precise, his footwork fluid. There was no hesitation in his movements, no doubt in his stance. He was a warrior before he even knew what it meant to be one.

And Kael hated how easily it came to him.

They sparred for the first time on the fifth day.

It was not a friendly match. It was a fight for dominance.

The knights watched in silence as they took their positions. The training swords were heavy, rough in their grip, but Kael barely felt it. His world narrowed to the boy standing before him.

Zirath moved first.

Fast. Too fast.

Kael barely deflected the strike in time. His arms burned from the impact, his feet sliding back against the dirt.

Zirath smirked, his crimson pupils glinting with something close to amusement.

And then he attacked again.

Each strike forced Kael to retreat, his defenses cracking beneath the relentless assault. He gritted his teeth, adjusting his stance, pushing back with everything he had.

It wasn't enough.

Zirath's next blow knocked the sword from Kael's grip, sending it clattering to the ground.

The fight was over before it had even begun.

A sharp silence fell over the training ground.

Zirath stepped back, tilting his head. "You're slower than I thought."

Kael's fists clenched, his breath heavy.

The knights said nothing. They didn't need to. Defeat was its own lesson.

Zirath turned away, already losing interest.

Something in Kael burned.

A fire that would never die.

________________________________________

The days that followed were filled with exhaustion and bruises.

Kael trained harder than before, pushing himself beyond his limits. He refused to fall behind. He refused to remain in the shadow of the boy who had defeated him.

Zirath noticed.

He didn't acknowledge it at first, but there was something in the way his gaze lingered when Kael fought. A silent understanding. A recognition that had not been there before.

They sparred again. And again. And again.

Each time, Kael lasted longer.

Each time, the gap between them closed.

Seraphina watched from the sidelines, her crimson hair catching the sunlight, her expression unreadable. She did not speak often, but when she did, her words carried weight.

"You're stubborn," she told Kael one evening.

He exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

She smiled faintly. "No. It means you'll survive."

Kael glanced toward the training grounds, where Zirath stood, his sword resting against his shoulder. Their eyes met.

And for the first time, Zirath nodded.

Not in mockery. Not in condescension.

But in acknowledgment.

________________________________________

Knights does not fight alone.

They fought in formations, in unity. They fought as one.

The orphans were no different.

The day came when the knights chose those who would train together, who would learn to fight alongside one another. Some groups were formed out of necessity. Others were formed out of fate.

Kael stood among them, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

A name was called.

"Zirath."

The black-haired boy stepped forward. He stood tall, unshaken, waiting for the next words.

"Seraphina."

The crimson-haired girl moved to stand beside him, her gaze sharp, unwavering.

The knight paused.

Then, another name.

"Kael."

His breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, he thought he had misheard.

But no—Zirath turned, his crimson pupils locking onto him, unreadable. Seraphina's expression remained neutral, but she did not object.

Kael stepped forward.

The weight of the moment settled over him.

This was no accident.

This was the beginning of something.

Something that would change everything.