The God of War Calen Storm

Calen’s Funeral

Calen's fingers twitched weakly at first, as if testing whether life still lingered within him. Then, like a sudden spark igniting a dry forest, a surge of energy erupted from deep within. It wasn’t painful; it was exhilarating, an all-consuming warmth that radiated from his core, spreading outward to every inch of his battered body.

The warmth flowed to his chest, seeping into the gaping wound where the blade had pierced. The pain that had been his constant companion faded, replaced by a soothing sensation as his skin knit itself back together. Bruises vanished, torn muscles mended, and broken bones realigned with a satisfying crack. His heart, which had nearly faltered, now beat with an almost thunderous rhythm, steady and strong.

A voice—soft yet commanding—echoed in his mind once more, urging him onward.

“Rise.”

Calen’s hand moved instinctively toward the sword lying just out of reach. As his fingers closed around the hilt, a jolt of power surged through him, more intense than before. The once-heavy weapon now felt weightless in his grip, an extension of his very being. The intricate patterns etched along the blade glowed faintly, as though responding to its rightful wielder.

Pushing himself to his feet, Calen rose slowly, his legs steady and firm beneath him. There was no longer a trace of the weakness that had plagued him. Strength coursed through his veins, filling every fiber of his being with newfound purpose and resilience.

He looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them in wonder. They felt different—stronger, surer. He could feel the latent power humming just beneath his skin, a power he had never imagined could be his.

The air around him shifted, charged with an almost electric energy. The forest, once indifferent to his plight, seemed to hum in approval. The trees whispered as the wind passed through their leaves, and the ground beneath his feet felt solid and unyielding, as though the earth itself acknowledged his rebirth.

Calen raised the sword, its edge catching the faint rays of light that filtered through the canopy above. The once-weak, defeated man was no more. In his place stood someone new, someone powerful.

A hero reborn.

Calen’s raced as he made his way back to Ardenfell, the capital city where the royal palace stood. Justice must be served. The Frosts had crossed a line by attempting to end his life, and Calen would make sure their treachery was exposed.

As he neared the gates of Ardenfell, the skies opened, releasing a heavy downpour that soaked him to the bone. The rain washed away much of the blood staining his torn clothes and battered body, but faint streaks of crimson remained, evidence of the ordeal he had endured. His sword hung at his side, its once-pristine hilt now tarnished by mud and rainwater.

The city was unusually quiet. The usual hum of activity was replaced by a somber stillness as Calen approached the palace. The guards at the gates stared at him with wide eyes, mouths agape. They didn’t dare stop him, though their faces betrayed their disbelief. Calen pushed forward, his drenched boots echoing on the polished stone floors as he stepped into the grand hall.

Inside, the air was thick with an air of solemnity. Nobles and officials dressed in dark attire gathered, speaking in hushed tones. At the center of the hall was a long table draped in black silk. A portrait of Calen, adorned with funeral garlands, stood prominently. Calen's stomach churned at the sight. A funeral. His funeral.

Near the portrait lay an embroidered handkerchief with the Storm family crest—his crest. It was stained with blood, likely taken from his body during the attack.

“We grieve today for Calen Storm, the son of a great general,” the man intoned, his voice thick with feigned sorrow. “He was lost to the wilds, a victim of cruel fate. His remains were unrecognizable, devoured by beasts, but we recovered this”—he held up the bloodied handkerchief dramatically—“as the last token of his existence.”

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the hall, followed by the forced wails of those who pretended to care. Calen's fists clenched as anger surged through him. The Frosts had spun their lies expertly, seeking to erase him entirely.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Calen stepped forward. Rainwater pooled beneath his feet as he shouted, his voice booming above the din, “I am not dead!”

The room fell silent. Gasps of genuine shock echoed as every head turned toward him. Nobles backed away, some clutching their pearls as if they’d seen a ghost. The Frost representative stumbled, dropping the handkerchief in his haste.

“Impossible!” someone whispered.

“Calen?” another voice choked out, disbelieving.

Calen strode toward the center of the hall, his piercing gaze fixed on the Frost representative. “You dare to announce my death? You dare to hold a funeral while plotting my murder?” He raised his sword, pointing its glistening blade directly at the man. “The blood on that handkerchief is mine, but the story you told is a lie. I am here, alive, and I will not be silenced.”

The nobles erupted into chaos, some arguing, others retreating in fear. The Frost representative stumbled back, his mask of grief slipping into one of sheer panic.

King Ryan Ashford rose from his gilded throne, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Calen with an intensity that silenced the hall.

“Who do you accuse of orchestrating your murder, Calen Storm? Speak plainly.”

“The Frosts!” Calen declared, his voice resonating with conviction. “They ambushed me in the forest, their assassins left me for dead, and now they spread lies of my demise.”

“That is a lie! Look at this pathetic man! There’s not even a bruise on his pale skin!” shouted Elias Frost, Calen’s father-in-law.