A month passed after the first raid.

  The fires died down, but the scars did not.

  What remained of the civilians of Fiester Kingdom gathered what little they could carry and fled west, crossing frozen plains and broken roads until they reached the neighboring kingdom of Valenreach—a stone-walled land of iron bridges and high watchtowers that had not yet known fire.

  Rhen Calder walked the entire way.

  Lemon rode in his cloak, quieter than he’d ever been.

  No one laughed anymore.

  Fiester became a name spoken only in whispers.

  The Great Four Kingdoms—Valenreach, Solaryn, Crestfall, and the remnants of Fiester—formed an alliance within days. Treaties were signed with shaking hands. Messengers rode until their horses collapsed. For the first time in centuries, humanity stood as one.

  And winter came.

  Snow fell thick and heavy, blanketing battlefields before the blood could dry. Corpses froze where they fell—humans and elves alike—buried slowly beneath white silence.

  Rhen Calder joined the Knight Academy of Valenreach the moment refugees were granted asylum.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  “I’m enlisting,” he said flatly.

  The officer at the desk looked at his age. “You’re young.”

  “I’m alive,” Rhen replied. “That’s enough.”

  Lemon peeked out. “He’s stubborn too.”

  Somehow, that sealed it.

  The academy was brutal.

  Steel rang from dawn to dusk. Bones broke. People quit. People disappeared.

  Rhen endured.

  He trained until his hands bled, until his breath froze in his lungs, until sleep came only in fragments. Lemon became his registered Companion—an official spiritual familiar—earning curious glances and whispered rumors.

  “What kind of spirit is that?”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Is it… cute?”

  Lemon snapped at anyone who leaned too close.

  After months of training, blood, and snow, graduation day arrived.

  Thousands of knight cadets stood in formation beneath a steel-gray sky. Armor gleamed pale beneath falling snow. Banners snapped in the wind.

  Rhen stood straight, Lemon perched on his shoulder.

  Then the crowd fell silent.

  A man stood from his chair atop the balcony.

  White hair. Grey eyes sharp as winter dawn. His presence alone pressed down like gravity.

  “Aurelian Caelus…”

  Whispers rippled.

  “That’s him.”

  “The Dragonbreaker.”

  “He killed the World Dragon.”

  “Which one?” someone whispered.

  “The one they called Vaelthryx the Horizon-Eater.”

  Aurelian Caelus leaned forward, resting his hands on the railing. He looked down at them—not as soldiers, not as heroes—but as people.

  He said nothing at first.

  The silence stretched.

  Then he spoke.

  “You are afraid,” Aurelian said calmly.

  No denial came.

  “You should be.” He let that sink in. “Bravery is not the absence of fear. It is choosing to stand when fear tells you to kneel.”

  Some cadets swallowed.

  “You will bleed,” he continued. “You will watch friends fall. Some of you will die alone in the snow, wondering if it was worth it.”

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  Rhen’s fists clenched.

  “But you stand here because you decided the world does not end quietly.”

  Aurelian’s eyes hardened.

  “The elves believe humans are prey. They believe fear makes us weak.”

  He straightened.

  “Show them what fear makes us become.”

  The silence shattered into roaring applause.

  Lemon whispered, “He’s… scary.”

  Rhen nodded. “Yeah.”

  Three days later, they were at war.

  The battlefield was a frozen forest near the northern front. Snow reached up to their knees. Breath fogged the air. Sound carried too easily.

  Rhen lay flat against the snow, white armor dulled and scuffed to blend in.

  “…Where are the others?” he whispered.

  No answer.

  He was alone.

  His unit had split during a maneuver. Visibility dropped. Orders got lost. Now only the wind answered him.

  Rhen crawled forward slowly, inch by inch beneath frost-laden trees.

  “Lemon,” he murmured. “Stay quiet.”

  “I am quiet,” Lemon whispered back. “I’m terrified, but quiet.”

  A shadow passed overhead.

  Rhen froze.

  Elven scouts.

  He pressed his face into the snow as footsteps approached—light, precise, wrong.

  Voices spoke in sharp, melodic tones.

  “They’re nearby.”

  “Search the trees.”

  Rhen’s heart hammered.

  He reached for his sword—

  —and stopped.

  Five elves emerged from the mist.

  Too many.

  Rhen backed up slowly.

  A twig snapped.

  “THERE.”

  An arrow struck the snow inches from his face.

  “RUN!” Lemon screamed.

  Rhen turned and sprinted.

  Arrows sliced past him. One tore through his shoulder guard, spinning him into the snow.

  He rolled, gasping.

  An elf landed in front of him, blade raised.

  “Human.”

  Rhen’s mind screamed.

  I’m going to die.

  Then—

  Something inside him broke open.

  The world… thinned.

  The snow beneath his hands felt distant. His breath echoed like it wasn’t his.

  “What—?” Rhen whispered.

  The elf lunged.

  Rhen fell backward—

  —and passed through the tree behind him.

  The elf’s blade struck bark.

  “…What?” the elf breathed.

  Rhen stared at his own hands embedded halfway into solid wood.

  “I—Lemon—I—!”

  “You’re doing it!” Lemon shouted. “You’re phasing!”

  Rhen yanked himself fully through the tree, stumbling onto the other side.

  The elves shouted in confusion.

  “Magic!”

  “Trap!”

  “Where did he go?!”

  Rhen didn’t wait.

  He ran—straight through trunks, through rocks, through roots like mist through smoke.

  Snow no longer slowed him.

  His body felt light. Untouchable.

  He burst out of the forest edge and collapsed behind a ridge, gasping.

  “I… I’m alive…”

  Lemon slid down, trembling. “You just walked through reality.”

  Rhen laughed weakly. “…Guess I learned something.”

  The sound of battle echoed in the distance.

  Rhen stood, eyes hardening.

  “…I won’t run next time.”

  Snow continued to fall.

  And somewhere, the war took note of his name.