chapter 1: The bloodied battlefield

The stench of death clung to the air, thick and unrelenting. Smoke curled from burning siege towers, twisting like phantom hands above the ruins of Rivenfort Keep. The sky, once a brilliant blue, was now choked with the soot of war.

Kael Dain barely noticed.

His breath came in sharp bursts as he drove his sword through the last enemy in front of him, the steel biting deep into flesh. The soldier—a young man, barely past his youth—let out a strangled gasp, his body convulsing before slumping against Kael's blade.

Kael pulled his sword free, blood spraying across the mud-soaked ground. The weight of exhaustion pressed against his limbs, but he did not allow himself to falter. There was no room for weakness in war

Around him, the battlefield was a wasteland of broken bodies and shattered steel. His mercenary unit, the Black Vultures, had fought and bled for this victory. They stood now in the eerie silence that always followed battle, some tending to wounds, others looting the dead.

Rivenfort Keep had fallen.

But this did not feel like victory. Not when the war raged on beyond the horizon.

A gurgling cough drew Kael's attention. Nearby, a wounded enemy soldier—his armor bearing the crest of the fallen keep—was sprawled in the mud, his hand pressed to a deep wound in his side. Blood seeped between his fingers, his breath coming in ragged gasps. But his wide, unblinking eyes were locked onto Kael's with something beyond pain.

"You… don't even know, do you?" the dying man rasped.

Kael frowned, gripping his sword hilt. "Know what?"

The soldier gave a weak, bitter chuckle. "The blade… Solmara… The fatebound warrior…" His body convulsed, his voice little more than a whisper now. "It was always meant to be you."

A cold unease slithered down Kael's spine.

Before he could demand more, the man gave a final, shuddering breath. His head lolled to the side, and he was gone.

Kael stared down at the body, his fingers tightening around his sword.

Solmara.

The name was legend—a blade of prophecy, said to be bound to the will of fate itself. Some claimed it was the weapon of the gods, forged in celestial fire. Others whispered it was cursed, a sword that chose its wielder and demanded sacrifice.

He had always dismissed such tales.

Kael Dain was a warrior, not a believer in myths.

A sharp clang of metal behind him made him turn. Captain Rhys, his second-in-command, was approaching, stepping over the fallen with the ease of a man too familiar with death.

Rhys was built like a warhammer—broad-shouldered and ruthless, his dark beard matted with the blood of his enemies. His armor bore fresh dents and scrapes, proof of a hard-fought battle.

"You're staring at corpses again," Rhys muttered, wiping his blade clean. "We won, Kael. That should be all that matters."

Kael glanced at the fallen soldier once more before straightening. "Yeah. We won."

But the unease in his gut did not fade.

A horn blast split the air, deep and commanding.

Both men turned as a line of banners crested the hilltop, their golden insignia gleaming beneath the setting sun. The royal colors of King Varos.

His army had arrived.

The war was far from over.

And Kael had the strangest feeling that this battle was only the beginning.