Theo closed the door of the Valcren Quarters behind them, the soft click echoing through the dimly lit space. As soon as the wards recognized his presence, the mana-lamps shivered awake, bathing the obsidian-black furnishings in an eerie blue glow. Even the air seemed denser here, as though the walls remembered every secret ever whispered within them.
Adelina shivered, rubbing her arms. "Gods… even his room feels intimidating. Does everything about him radiate dominance?"
Seraphina surveyed the room quietly. The curtains were drawn, the fireplace cold, yet the atmosphere pulsed faintly—like a beast resting but not asleep.
"Theo," she said gently, "please sit. There's no need for formality."
He obeyed, though stiffly, as if bracing himself to recount a story that should never have been spoken aloud.
After a slow exhale, he began. "You asked why the world fears the Valcren. The truth is… the answer begins long before Lord Asher was born—before the empire itself existed."
His gaze drifted toward the portrait above the hearth: an armored figure haloed by the blazing Valcren crest.
Adelina leaned in eagerly. Even Seraphina edged closer, curious. They both waited for the secrets the world had forgotten.
"Before the empire existed," Theo continued, "this land was divided into many nations—some vast, some little more than villages—but all locked in constant war. Each dreamed of unifying the continent. And in one of the smallest nations, Zarithion, a warrior appeared."
He paused.
"He was the prince of that nation. Aeron Zarithion."
"That's the founding father's name," Adelina murmured, glancing at Theo.
"Please, don't interrupt," he replied, not unkindly but with a rare sharpness.
She swallowed and nodded.
"The prince had great ambition," Theo said.
"He wished to unite the kingdoms and rule a single land. But Zarithion was small—no great armies, no mage towers, only one swordmaster to its name. What they did have was their location. Their kingdom bordered the Forbidden Forest—home to monsters unseen by the world and to riches beyond imagination. Yet no one ventured inside. It was considered a miracle if anyone emerged alive."
It was an ordinary morning in the kingdom of Zarithion—sunlit streets, merchants opening their shops, guards padding casually along the walls. Peace had long been the pride of the kingdom. Yet beneath that quiet, something darker was already moving.
It was the calm before the storm.
Far beyond the city gates, a royal carriage traveled along the forest road, its banners fluttering gently in the breeze. Inside sat Princess Elara of Zarithion, returning from a diplomatic visit to a neighboring territory. The journey had been uneventful, the path familiar.
But peace bred desperation in those who had lost everything.
Hidden in the thickets nearby were soldiers from a recently defeated nation—men who had once marched proudly under their own banner but now lived as scattered remnants, hunted and starving. Driven by desperation rather than strategy, they made a reckless choice.
A chance for survival.
A chance for ransom.
When the carriage approached the bend in the road, the ambush dropped like a shadow. Horses reared, guards shouted, steel flashed—but the attackers were many, and the royal escort was small.
Within minutes, the carriage was surrounded.
"Open the door!" one of the raiders barked. "We want the girl alive!"
The princess was pulled from the carriage, frightened but unbroken. She demanded answers, but the soldiers gave none. They forced her onto a horse, retreating quickly into the wooded path.
Their message was simple: A ransom. Money enough to rebuild their fallen nation.
Back at the castle, chaos erupted as news reached the court. Advisors panicked, nobles argued, and generals scrambled for solutions.
But in Zarithion's throne room, among the murmuring crowd, the young Prince Aeron stood very still.
His jaw was tight.
His eyes were cold.
The storm had arrived—and with it, the moment that would shape everything he was destined to become
The nobles were arguing blaming one another of negligence
Ministers shouted over one another, generals accused each other of negligence, and courtiers whispered about omens and curses. Yet at the center of the chaos, Prince Aeron stood motionless, his hands clenched at his sides.
His sister—taken.
His kingdom—shamed.
His people—afraid.
Aeron's voice cut through the noise like a blade.
"Enough."
Silence crashed over the hall. Even the torches seemed to still.
"Tell me where the raiders were seen last," Aeron demanded, his gaze fixed on the captain of the guard.
"Along the western ridge, Your Highness. Near the old river pass. They fled into the woodland paths after seizing the princess."
Aeron nodded once.
"And our scouts?"
"On their way, sire. But… the trails split into five routes. They will need time."
"Time is the one thing we do not have."
Aeron stepped down from the dais, every stride sharp with purpose.
His commanders exchanged worried looks—this was no trained negotiation, no political discussion. This was personal.
Aeron fastened the final clasp of his armour with trembling fingers. Dawn crept over the horizon, staining the sky with streaks of gold, but he felt none of its warmth. His heart was a storm of guilt and rage.
Elara… his sister… his only family left.
Kidnapped under his watch.
He stepped out of the castle gates, his expression carved from stone. His trusted men mounted behind him, silent, understanding the weight he carried. Aeron did not look back as he rode; the castle walls faded behind him like a memory he no longer deserved.
His uncle, the sword master, called after him, "Bring her home, Aeron."
But the prince didn't answer. He only urged his horse faster.
They followed broken branches, torn fabric, the faint footprints of several men. The forest thickened, shadows swallowing the sunlight. Hours passed. Aeron's pulse grew heavy, hammering with dread.
Finally—they found them.
A clearing, too quiet.
A bonfire smoldering.
And there—Elara.
She was tied to a tree trunk, blindfolded, her wrists red from the ropes. Her breathing was shallow, frightened, helpless.
Aeron's vision blurred with fury.
Two kidnappers stood nearby, snickering.
"Should we have a little fun with the princess?" one whispered, staring at her with disgusting intent.
"Yeah… doubt we'll ever get another chance," the other replied.
They got up and began walking toward her, one pulling out a dagger.
The sound of Aeron's self-control collapsing was like a thunderclap.
He roared—an animalistic, broken sound—and shot forward, sword blazing. Leaves erupted in a whirlwind behind him.
His first strike was merciless.
Two bodies hit the ground before they even noticed he moved.
"WHO ARE YOU!?" a kidnapper screamed, stumbling back.
Aeron pointed his sword straight at his throat.
"The Prince of Zarithion. And today, none of you leave alive."
His knights rushed in beside him, but it was fifty bandits against five men. Still, Aeron cut through the weaker ones with fluid, precise movements born of desperation. Each swing carried his guilt, his fear, his love for his sister.
But then—
The forest hushed.
A single step echoed like the crack of a tree trunk.
A massive figure emerged, dragging a huge cleaver across the dirt. His presence made even the other bandits step back.
"I am a fifth-circle swordsman," he declared, raising his blade toward Aeron. "I challenge you, prince.''
Aeron's heart clenched. He was only a fourth-circle. The difference was a canyon impossible to cross.
But he stepped forward anyway.
"I accept."
Their swords collided.
The impact shook the ground.
Mana burst outward like a wave, blinding soldiers left and right. Each strike rang like lightning crashing, sparks slicing through the air. Aeron staggered with every blow, his arms trembling, his armour dented, blood dripping from new wounds.
He was losing.
But he refused to fall.
Meanwhile, near Elara—
"Princess, keep quiet," a soft voice murmured behind her.
"I'm Kael, Prince Aeron's subordinate. He ordered me to get you out safely."
"Is my brother alright?" Elara whispered, fear cracking her voice.
Kael hesitated.
That silence answered her more painfully than words.
Her throat tightened. She ripped off her blindfold herself as Kael cut the ropes. The first thing she saw
Aeron, bleeding heavily, barely holding himself upright, facing a man far stronger than him. His breaths were ragged. His stance was shaking. Yet his eyes held no fear. Only determination to keep fighting for her.
"Brother…" she whispered.
Then louder a scream full of terror.
"Someone save him!"
Aeron heard her.
He looked at Elara as if memorising her face.
His lips curled into a weak, warm smile.
Take care of yourself, little sister, he mouthed.
Elara collapsed to her knees, the earth beneath her tilting. She was certain — absolutely certain — she was watching the last moments of her brother's life.
The fifth-circle swordsman raised his blade.
Aeron could not block it.
Kael shouted.
Elara screamed.
Then—
A gust of wind.
A shadow moving too fast to follow.
CLANG.
The colossal sword stopped.
Stopped against one finger.
Silence swallowed the clearing.
Dust exploded violently, blinding everyone for several heartbeats. All they could hear were
Bones cracking.
Bodies falling.
Screams cut short.
A skull shattering like pottery.
When the dust settled, a figure stood at the center of the chaos.
A man draped in black, darker than midnight.
His hair was a curtain of obsidian, shifting like liquid shadow.
His eyes so dark they held the depth of a starless void glimmered with quiet intensity.
He held the crushed skull of the fifth-circle swordsman in one hand, blood dripping down his fingers, his expression calm… almost bored.
But when his gaze shifted to Princess Elara
His eyes softened.
Warmth replaced the void.
A gentle light melted the darkness in them.
And for a moment, even Elara forgot to breathe.
His beauty was unreal — not delicate, but powerful, dangerous, enchanting… like a prince from forgotten myths, a saviour born from shadows.
This was Nova.
And the world of Zarithion would remember the moment he arrived.