The world was far larger than most people ever realized.

  Most lived their entire lives within a single kingdom, never once questioning what lay beyond the mountains on the horizon or the seas at the edge of their maps. Yet beyond those familiar borders existed twenty kingdoms, each ruling its own lands—territories divided by towering mountain ranges, winding rivers, and fragile borders written in blood, war, and uneasy treaties.

  Beyond the continents lay countless islands scattered across the oceans. Some flourished as centers of trade and magic, while others remained silent and forgotten, their names erased by time.

  At the very center of the world stood a landmass unlike any other.

  The Central Dominion.

  A colossal capital land encircled by towering walls that stretched farther than the eye could see. Layer upon layer of stone, magic, and steel formed its defenses, refined across centuries. It was said that no army had ever breached its gates, that even calamities bent away from its walls.

  Kingdoms rose and fell at its edges.

  The Central Dominion endured.

  Watching.

  Judging.

  Waiting.

  And now—

  The world had taken notice of a single child.

  Far beyond mortal lands, in a place where light dared not linger—

  The silhouette stood.

  Its form wavered like torn darkness, its presence heavy enough to make the void itself tremble.

  Before it knelt several figures, their bodies pressed low against the ground, fear etched into every movement.

  “Go,” the silhouette commanded.

  The single word carried weight.

  “Travel to the Kingdom of Valemir,” it continued, voice slow, deliberate.

  “Tell them who sent you.”

  The kneeling figures stiffened.

  “Demand five hundred.”

  One of them swallowed, voice barely steady.

  “Five hundred… knights, my lord? Mages?”

  The silhouette did not hesitate.

  “No.”

  Its voice sharpened.

  “I want no famed swordsmen. No spellcasters.”

  A pause.

  “Only five hundred soldiers.”

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  The darkness around it pulsed, responding to its intent.

  “If the child lives—

  Valemir will die.”

  The figures bowed once more.

  When they rose, the space before the silhouette was empty.

  The throne room of Valemir was bright—but cold.

  Sunlight filtered through tall stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors across polished marble floors. Nobles stood in orderly rows as cloaked figures knelt before the throne.

  Then—

  A single name was spoken.

  The courtiers did not hear it.

  But the king did.

  His breath caught.

  Color drained from his face as though the blood itself had fled.

  “Y-Yes…” he stammered, fingers gripping the armrests of his throne.

  “Yes… I understand.”

  Uneasy murmurs spread through the room.

  “I will comply,” the king said quickly, forcing his voice steady.

  “Um… sir. How many do you require?”

  “Five hundred,” the figures replied.

  The king stiffened.

  “F-Five hundred…?” he whispered. “That is far too many—”

  “We are not asking for knights,” one interrupted calmly.

  “Nor mages.”

  “Only soldiers,” the other added.

  “Nothing more.”

  Silence fell.

  The king stared at the floor.

  “…Very well,” he said at last.

  “They will be sent.”

  And so—

  Orders were given.

  Armor was issued.

  Five hundred soldiers began their march.

  Toward a quiet countryside home that had never known war.

  Aldric sat at the table, unmoving.

  The message lay open in his hand.

  The paper crinkled slightly as his grip tightened.

  Elowen stood near the doorway, Azelion held close to her chest. She watched her husband’s face—the way his jaw was clenched, the way his eyes no longer seemed focused on the room.

  “Aldric…” she said softly.

  “…Say something.”

  He exhaled slowly.

  “They won’t stop,” he said.

  “This wasn’t a threat.”

  Elowen swallowed. “Then what was it?”

  “A declaration.”

  Her arms tightened around Azelion.

  “They want us to leave him behind…” she whispered.

  Aldric looked up sharply.

  “No.”

  The word carried no hesitation.

  “If the world wants my son,” he said, standing,

  “then the world will have to come through me first.”

  Silence settled between them.

  Then Aldric spoke again.

  “We go to the Count.”

  Elowen hesitated. “The Count of this land?”

  He nodded.

  “He owes me his life.”

  She studied his face—then nodded.

  “That’s enough,” she said quietly.

  They packed slowly but efficiently.

  Only what they could carry.

  Clothes. Food. Blankets.

  When Aldric lifted the floorboard and revealed the old wooden chest, Elowen froze.

  Inside, wrapped in worn leather, rested a sword.

  Aldric drew it carefully.

  Shing.

  The blade gleamed—clean, untouched by rust, as if it had never known neglect.

  “…It’s been a while, my friend,” Aldric murmured.

  The blade caught the light and shone faintly.

  He sheathed it without another word.

  The market was alive with noise.

  Merchants shouted prices. Adventurers laughed as they tested weapons. Mages browsed enchanted goods, glowing crystals passing from hand to hand. Blacksmith stalls rang with hammer strikes.

  Life continued.

  Unaware of the shadow moving toward it.

  They bought herbs. Dried meat. Bandages.

  Then healing potions—small vials glowing faintly red.

  “Just in case,” Elowen whispered.

  Aldric nodded.

  At the edge of town, they found a horse-cart station.

  “I need a cart to the Count’s estate,” Aldric said.

  “Two hours’ ride.”

  “Fifteen gold,” the driver replied.

  Aldric frowned—but handed it over.

  “…We don’t have a choice,” he muttered.

  The cart rolled forward, hooves striking dirt.

  Fields stretched wide.

  Trees whispered in the wind.

  Then—

  Aldric’s instincts screamed.

  “ELOWEN—!”

  Arrows tore through the air.

  Aldric leapt from the cart, hitting the ground hard and rolling as an arrow shattered where he had been.

  “GO!” he shouted.

  “Don’t stop—go straight to the Count’s house!”

  Elowen stood, frozen.

  “No! I can’t leave you!”

  Aldric drew his sword.

  “I’ll meet you there,” he said calmly.

  “I promise.”

  The cart rolled on.

  Aldric turned.

  Shadows moved among the trees.

  More arrows flew.

  His sword flashed.

  Steel sang.

  One swing—

  a cutting wave tore through the air, snapping arrows mid-flight.

  Soldiers emerged from the trees.

  So it begins, Aldric thought, stepping forward.

  His stance settled.

  His breathing slowed.

  The road fell silent—

  As the first blade came down.