Calen finished his meal and rose from the table, pulling his hood a bit lower. As he turned to make his way to the stairs leading to the guest rooms, someone bumped into him—hard. He staggered back a step, glancing up to see a man dressed in fine, embroidered robes, the kind only worn by officials or nobles. The man’s cheeks were flushed, and his eyes glazed—clearly drunk.The man swayed, pointing an accusing finger at Calen. “Watch where you’re going, you filthy commoner!” he slurred, his words tinged with the arrogance of privilege.Calen remained calm, bowing his head slightly. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to—”“Didn’t mean to?” the man cut him off, his voice growing louder. “You bump into me and think an apology is enough? Do you know who I am? I’m a high-ranking official from Eryndall! How dare a peasant like you lay hands on me!”The inn fell silent, all eyes turning toward the commotion. Calen kept his head down, suppressing the urge to retaliate. He knew that starting a fight her

Harlan, still glaring daggers at Calen, staggered forward and shoved him hard with both hands. To his utter disbelief, Calen didn’t flinch or step back an inch. Instead, he stood there, steady and unmoved—like a great oak rooted deep in the earth. The sudden immovability made Harlan’s face flush with a mix of embarrassment and simmering rage. Just then, a muffled chuckle from one of Harlan’s own men broke the tension, only fueling his fury further.“You think you’re tough, do you?” Harlan snarled, his voice thick with wounded pride. “I’ll teach you what it means to respect your betters.”The crowd of men surrounding them, once quick to mock, exchanged uneasy glances. From the beginning, they had all assumed Calen was just a weak, insignificant peasant—an easy target for their scorn. “Look at this idiot—thinks he’s a hero just because he won’t fall over,” one scoffed loudly. Harlan’s cruel grin deepened as he stepped closer, voice dripping with venom. “You don’t belong here, village fo

The towering double doors of the royal audience chamber groaned open, revealing the vast, vaulted hall bathed in golden candlelight. High above, chandeliers swayed gently, casting flickering shadows across the marble floor and the crimson banners of Aerondale that hung solemnly from the ceiling. At the far end of the chamber, seated on a throne of obsidian and gold, King Theron Ashford regarded the intrusion with a heavy gaze.His crown gleamed under the light, a silent symbol of absolute power, but the man beneath it looked weary—worn by long councils, war reports, and preparations for a royal marriage that was meant to solidify his legacy. His fingers were still dusted with ink from royal decrees, and his expression hinted at thinly veiled irritation as he looked up from the stack of documents before him.He was tired. And the last person he expected—perhaps even wanted—to see tonight was Lord Evan Drake.At the threshold, Evan stepped into the hall with slow, deliberate strides. He

The throne hall of Aerondale had never been so quiet. Despite the heavy velvet drapes, the polished marble floors, and the grand stained glass windows casting shards of morning light into the chamber, a chill had settled in the air—a palpable unease.The nobles arrived first, adorned in their family colors, some with gold-trimmed robes, others with ceremonial armor that clinked softly with each step. Soon after came the military commanders—broad-shouldered, grim-faced, many of whom had fought under General Calen Storm’s banner not long ago. And then, courtiers and ministers, clutching scrolls and ledgers, whispering urgently to one another behind fans and in corners. No one knew the reason for the sudden summons, only that it had come directly from the King’s hand.A tension hung over the room like a thundercloud refusing to break. Even the guards along the columns stood unnaturally stiff, their hands gripping spears a little tighter than usual.Then the heavy doors creaked open.King

It started with whispers.Posters, hastily nailed to market stalls and village gates, bore the unmistakable sigil of the crown—the golden stag pierced by a sword. And beneath it, the name that once commanded loyalty, awe, and fear:CALEN STORM.“WANTED. BY ORDER OF THE KING. TEN THOUSAND GOLD ROYALS FOR HIS CAPTURE — ALIVE.”No crime listed. No justification. Only a decree.And yet, it was enough.Within hours, bounty hunters flooded the streets of Aerondale—some local, many foreign. Mercenaries, assassins, outlaws seeking royal favor. The scent of gold had drawn them like vultures to a battlefield.They moved in packs.They wore armor bearing no sigils—only leather dyed black, swords strapped to their backs, and cruel grins that meant business. Some rode warhorses bred in the frozen north. Others carried siege crossbows, nets woven with iron hooks, or enchanted traps imported from the eastern provinces.Even among the shadows, one name echoed louder than the gold reward:“The God of