"True family is not in fame nor riches—its in the joy of being surrounded by those who want you to prosper."

  The streets of Sundown—the left quarter of the city—hummed with life. Vendors called out their wares, children darted between stalls, and the mingling scents of spice and smoke drifted through the air. Caelum tugged the hood of his brown cloth cape lower over his brow, the folds brushing his cheek as he guided Lia, his sand-colored mare, along the winding road. Her hooves clopped steadily on the cobbled path.

  “Don’t tell Darknight I took you instead,” he murmured, patting her gently. “He gets jealous.”

  Lia snorted, as though in agreement.

  Darknight—his jet-black warhorse—might have been recognized as quickly as Caelum’s face. But today wasn’t for recognition. Today was for peace. For home.

  He turned off the main street and trotted into a familiar compound nestled at the edge of Sundown. A modest cottage rested snugly against one side, its pale stone walls wrapped in ivy. On the other, smoke curled from a smithy where a glowing forge illuminated beams lined with tools and metalwork.

  The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel rang like a heartbeat. Sparks danced from the anvil, and heat from the heather furnace shimmered in the air. Behind it stood a broad-shouldered man, his light-brown skin darkened by sun and labor. Thick dreadlocks were pulled back, and sweat soaked his tunic. His gloved hands shaped red-hot steel like it was something alive.

  Caelum paused, memory flooding him — this very man—Nexav the blacksmith —guiding his younger hands, firm but kind, whispering over the roar of fire: “A sword is not just a weapon, boy—it’s the soul extended.”

  “We’re closed,” the man grunted without looking up. “Come back to my stand at sunrise tomorrow.”

  Caelum smirked. “Special order.”

  The hammer paused mid-strike. “Even the King waits at the gate. What messenger dares interrupt now?”

  With a soft pull, Caelum dropped his hood.—dismounting his horse.

  “Not even for your son?”

  The hammer clattered to the floor. The man looked up sharply, eyes widening. He tore the gloves off and crossed the space in heavy strides, pulling Caelum into a tight embrace.

  “My boy—my boy is home,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

  “Virelen favors your age, Father.” Caelum embraced him tightly.

  Though his father still seemed larger, Caelum now wrapped around him better than he once could.

  His father stepped back, gripping Caelum’s arms as if to measure how much time had passed. Tears welled in his eyes.

  “Look at you… Seeing you from afar is nothing like this. You’ve grown. Truly a man now.”

  The cottage door burst open and two young women came rushing out. With laughter and squeals, they threw themselves into his arms, clinging to him with unrestrained joy.

  “You’ve both grown into proper ladies,” Caelum laughed, hugging them tight. “And I’ve missed every moment. Feels good to be home.”

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Jolin, the middle child, now twenty, was the picture of maternal composure. She wore her dark curls tied in a neat bun, her eyes full of warmth but sharp enough to hold her own. Sikia, the youngest at eighteen, was more spirited, her golden-brown curls bouncing wildly as she practically leapt into his arms. Her clothes were smudged from running barefoot, a wooden knife tucked into her sash.

  “Where’s Mam?” he asked, glancing toward the house.

  “She went to see Maria in town,” Sikia replied, her eyes shining. “She just had her baby!”

  Nexav gestured toward the door. “Come. I want to hear everything—your travels, the expedition—all of it.”

  The warm scent of home greeted them inside: roasted stew, fresh bread, and the faint perfume of dried herbs hanging from the rafters. By nightfall, they were gathered around the table, laughter echoing between bites of stew, cheese, and sweet cake. But the true feast lay in the stories and joy Caelum shared.

  “All right, son, tell me,” his father said, folding his arms.

  “There he goes with that look,” Sikia groaned.

  “Father, can’t this wait till next time?” Jolin glared at him.

  “Who makes the best swords among the allied kingdoms?” his father asked with a smirk.

  The girls grunted and began clearing plates.

  “Well…” Caelum touched his chin, streaked with a faint beard. “Those from Aerlinthia are sturdy and well-flexed. Draevenhold’s are heavy but balanced. Others are known for sheer sharpness. But yours? That’s an exception.”

  “I knew it. Poor Gadnad tried to cheat me, saying he got better craft at a cheaper price.”

  “Hm… maybe he’s talking about the Cravharn supply. Haven’t seen their steel firsthand—” He paused, glanced around, then sighed. “Old habits. I’m home. Their craft was good enough that the princess heir chose to go on an expedition to study it.”

  “Interesting. Speaking of the princess heir…” his father raised a brow.

  Caelum squinted, then groaned. “No. No, absolutely not. Come on, Pa! You know that’s not possible.”

  “So you’ve considered it, then,” he grinned.

  Caelum recoiled. “Ma’s been influencing you.”

  “She’s my wife, after all.”

  Knock. Knock. — It wasn’t loud, but it sliced through the room like a blade.

  Caelum looked to the door. “Expecting someone?”

  His father shook his head.

  A voice called from outside: “Commander Caelum, urgent news.”

  Caelum sighed—Hark’s voice. “Even on a free day, freedom still seems far.”

  His father smiled. “You came by. That’s what matters.”

  Caelum rose, clasped his father’s hand. “I’ll return when Ma’s back. I promise.”

  Outside, a squad of soldiers waited—his rapid squad of ten—their expressions grim.

  “What’s happened?” Caelum asked.

  “There was an attack on a town. One survivor made it back,” Hark said.

  Caelum didn’t wait. He mounted Lia with a smooth motion, cape fluttering behind him. “Lead the way.”.

  —————

  They rode west in silence, urgency burning in every hoofbeat. Lia galloped hard, flanked by the thunder of armored hooves. In the distance, faint smoke curled into the sky—ghostly signs of ruin.

  The town came into view, deceptively intact from afar. But as they neared, an unnatural stillness fell. Too quiet. Too cold.

  Caelum dismounted first, boots hitting dirt with a splash.

  “Pairs,” he ordered, signaling. “Quiet and alert.”

  He turned to Hark—the archer with the long, knotted Mahogany hair. “With me.”

  The boy nocked an arrow. Together, they crept down the main street.

  Bodies lay scattered—town guards slumped against walls, throats slit. Civilians, mid-flight, had arrows in their backs. A third of the town lay dead.

  Where’s the rest?

  They reached the square—and froze.

  A pyre of charred corpses stood in the center. Women. Children. Blackened limbs, faces frozen in agony.

  Caelum staggered. His chest heaved. Hark fought back his supper.

  This wasn’t just an attack. This was slaughter and a declaration of war.

  A voice called—low, urgent.

  Caelum rushed toward it, ducking through alleys until he reached the town’s edge. Two soldiers pointed to the ground.

  Tracks—twin grooves pressed deep into the dirt.

  “These looked like carts,” one said. “Heavy ones.”

  Caelum traced the tracks as they vanished into the forest.

  “The kingdom of Iskavell lies just beyond,” the other murmured.

  Caelum stood. His voice was steel. “Send word to nearby towns. Alert the guards.”

  “And the capital?” a soldier asked.

  “Three troops sweep the Valedrin borders. One guards the capital.”

  He turned to Hark, tightening the strap across his chest.

  “We’re not waiting.”

  Hark looked toward the trees. “Can we catch up? It seems a lot of time has gone by.”

  Caelum’s eyes burned into the forest.

  “We may not have to engage them, just to verify who sponsored this attack.”