It had been several days since Calen Storm first set foot in Eryndall, yet the city—grand as it was—offered him nothing but silence. Its towering spires and gilded domes might have held the whispers of thousands, but none spoke the truth he sought. Each morning, he walked the length of the stone bridges and winding alleys, passing under hanging lanterns and between marble arches, all while the city moved around him—alive, indifferent. Street performers played zithers on corner plazas, vendors shouted over carts of fruit and perfume, and nobles swept past in embroidered cloaks. Yet not a single voice could tell him what had become of his father.The trail, if it ever existed, had long since faded into the dust of time. All he had were stories—half-remembered, conflicting tales passed down by soldiers who had once marched under the banners of the Drakhtarion Rebellion. Some said Aldric Storm had fled to the mountains. Others whispered he had journeyed through Eryndall to find allies amo

Calen didn’t waste a moment.The second Carmen disappeared into the back corridor of the tavern, he was already on his feet, slipping out the door and into the cool night air. The streets of Eryndall were quieter now—lamplight casting long golden streaks across damp cobblestones, the sky above a canvas of deep violet, veiled with thin mist.He pulled his hood higher, face angled downward. He was a traveler, nothing more. And he couldn’t afford to linger too long in a place like this—not with his name whispered in the wrong corners of the realm.The Hollow Hearth. Carmen’s words echoed in his mind.South quarter. He moved swiftly, passing shuttered shops and flickering lanterns. But as he turned past a crumbling statue of some forgotten knight, he froze.Voices.Men’s voices—loud, rough, and far too alert for the hour.He pressed himself against a mossy stone wall, hidden beneath a warped wooden awning. On the street ahead, a group of men stood at a crossroads, half-shrouded in mist. F

Meanwhile, in Aerondale, the royal dining hall was bathed in an ethereal glow. Sunlight spilled through towering stained-glass windows, casting golden patterns across the long table of polished oak. The walls, lined with intricate tapestries depicting Aerondale’s victories and ancestral glory, seemed to shimmer faintly in the warmth of midday.The clink of silver cutlery and soft murmurs of nobles filled the air—a calm rhythm of court life. King Theron Ashford sat at the head of the table, regal in his crimson doublet embroidered with the phoenix crest of his house. His posture was impeccable, every motion deliberate. But his eyes—cool, silver-gray—missed nothing. They swept the room with quiet calculation, even as he cut into a piece of roasted venison.To his right sat Queen Elara, cloaked in soft ivory silk, her dark hair braided with pearls. Her beauty was as striking as ever, yet there was something amiss—her face, usually composed with effortless grace, looked pale. Shadows ling

In the heart of Aerondale, where the spires of Ardenfell pierced the overcast sky and the banners of House Drake rippled in the wind, a silent storm gathered its strength.Evan Drake stood alone on the high balcony of his private chamber, a place carved from obsidian-black stone and polished to mirror the power that Aerondale wielded over the realm. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, knuckles white, posture rigid as a statue. His cold grey eyes were locked onto the distant peaks that rose like jagged teeth beyond the horizon—mist-wreathed and timeless.The wind tugged at the long hem of his ebony coat, lined with silver embroidery—his sigil etched upon the collar like a crown of thorns. He didn’t move. He barely breathed. Only his clenched jaw betrayed the fury simmering beneath the surface.Moments earlier, he had emerged from the war chamber, where the council’s voices had echoed off the vaulted ceilings like the cawing of crows. They had spoken of delays, of setbacks,

The wind whispered through the gaps in the wooden walls of the hut, carrying with it the scent of dew and earth. Calen lay on the straw-stuffed cot, wrapped in his travel cloak, the fire in the hearth now little more than glowing embers. Sleep had come quickly, heavy and dreamless. But it did not last long.A sharp cry pierced the quiet night.Calen’s eyes snapped open. He sat upright in a blink, already reaching for the sword leaning against the wall. For a second, all was still—just the hush of the wind brushing the trees outside. Then the cry came again, louder this time. A woman’s scream. Then another—fearful, shrill, and close.He moved without hesitation.Calen threw open the creaking wooden door and stepped outside. The village, blanketed in silver moonlight, was in chaos. People ran from their homes, barefoot and frantic, clutching children or belongings. Chickens flapped wildly, and the goats bleated in terror.Then came the crashing.Trees splintered at the edge of the clear