The great council chamber of Veldora echoed with murmurs and clinking goblets as high lords, ambassadors, and ministers sat across the obsidian-black table, forming a circle around Emperor Rinegar. Draped in a crimson mantle lined with golden thread, the Emperor leaned against the armrest of his high-backed throne, fingers drumming the side of his temple in growing annoyance.
They had been arguing for over an hour — the usual nonsense. The price of wheat from House Forenthal, the complaints of the merchant guilds about taxation, and the discontent in the borderlands. All things that meant little now, considering the whispers reaching him from the North.
It was then that the doors creaked open.
A knight in full ceremonial armor, bearing the sigil of the Black Crown, marched swiftly down the hall. His boots thudded against the polished obsidian floor, echoing like war drums.
"Your Majesty," the knight said, lowering to one knee, arm crossed over chest. "A raven has come. From the Archduke."
The murmurs stopped at once.
Several lords exchanged glances.
Rinegar's eyes narrowed slightly. A small smile touched the edge of his lips as he straightened in his throne.
"I told you," he said calmly to the council, "he would act."
Lord Gormund of House Eldren scoffed, an aged man with a beard like snow. "Act, yes… but will it be with honor, or with fire?"
Rinegar waved him silent. "Read it."
The knight stood and unrolled the letter. His voice was clear, calm — yet the words carried weight, like cold steel through the spine.
To Rinegar, my blood and crown.
I've received word from the Wall. Giants have stirred, but worse still — the dead walk again.
I ride north with the 34th. You and I both know the court will argue and delay. This cannot wait.
Do not send the White Cloaks. Do not send diplomats. Send no banners.
Let this be handled in darkness — as it always has.
I ride not as a general, nor as a prince — but as the last warden of the forgotten war.
—Arthur
The council sat in stunned silence. Some paled. Others glanced toward the Emperor, unsure if he would allow it.
Rinegar's fingers curled tightly on the armrest.
"A request, yet also a declaration," said Lord Varmund of Trade. "He moves regardless."
"I would expect nothing less from my brother," Rinegar said softly. "He has always known the weight of what stirs beneath our feet. And he's right — we delay, and we die."
One of the younger nobles rose, frowning. "But your Majesty, to let him command the 34th without sanction—"
"He is the supreme general of the Black Knights. Their loyalty is to him, not to me. I am Emperor of Six Kingdoms, yes… but the 34th was never built for parades."
"Then," said Lord Varmund carefully, "you grant it?"
Rinegar exhaled slowly. "Yes."
Then, rising from his throne, he added with a distant voice:
"And may the gods have mercy on the North… because the 34th won't."
The night was thick with mist, and the moon was hidden behind a veil of clouds when the 34th Legion, clad in pitch-black armor, began its silent march north. The sound of hooves and steel boots faded into the wind like a distant omen. From a tall window in the dormitory tower of the Royal Academy, Arthur watched them disappear into the horizon. His crimson-gold eyes reflected neither sentiment nor concern—only urgency.
"The dragon…" he muttered beneath his breath, turning away from the frost-kissed glass. "The heir was born… but it may not be his to ride."
He fastened the last strap of his black leather gloves and quietly exited the dormitory. The halls were dimly lit with enchanted torches; portraits of long-dead heroes and headmasters glared down at him, as if they sensed something unholy stirring. Aisha remained asleep in her quarters, unaware of the silent departure. Arthur had left a single note: "Do not follow."
Through a hidden passage concealed behind the academy's old observatory, Arthur emerged onto a secluded courtyard where a single, black-hooded carriage awaited. The horses, beasts bred from the War-Keep of Bronzekin, pawed at the ground, their snorts visible in the cold.
The driver gave a curt nod."Where to, milord?"
Arthur stepped into the carriage. "The Forest of Silence. Directly. No stops.""As you command."
With a crack of the reins, the carriage moved through the back paths, swerving away from the main gates of the academy. The shadows of the trees grew deeper with every mile, and the road beneath began to twist, old, moss-covered, and forgotten.
Inside the cabin, Arthur sat motionless, his mind turning to the records he'd stolen years ago from the Imperial Archives. Yellowed scrolls and brittle tomes spoke of an ancient beast—older than the Empire itself—nestled somewhere in the heart of the Forest of Silence. It had once belonged to the first warlord of House Hurellious, a beast of midnight scales and molten eyes… said to sleep under a mountain of bones. The last dragon not yet tamed.
And it was said… only one with the blood of the true heir could approach it.
"I am not here to awaken it for the Empire," Arthur thought coldly, "I am here to claim it before Reinegar does. Before the world knows it even breathes."
He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, remembering the moment he discovered the name carved into a dead priest's jawbone—"Drae'kul", the Silent Inferno. An ancient dragon of the Deepfire Order. It had vanished after the First Calamity, presumed dead, yet sightings of charred forests and rumbling under the forest floor continued every generation. The Church declared it heresy to pursue it. That made Arthur certain it was real.
The forest loomed ahead now.
Thick with black trees and whispering winds, the Forest of Silence was no place for men. It had no birdsong, no life, only the creaking of branches that never swayed. Magic twisted unnaturally here—time slowed, and even spells bent or reversed. The carriage stopped at its edge. Fog blanketed the forest floor.
"We've arrived, sire," the driver said, voice hushed.
Arthur stepped down, fastening his cloak. The moment his boots touched the dead earth, the temperature dropped. No sooner had he taken ten steps than the forest swallowed the light behind him. It was just him… and the bones of old things.
He walked deeper, past silent stone faces half-buried in the ground—ruins of a civilization predating the Empire. On the third mile, he found the sigil carved into a rock wall: the twin-headed serpent of Drae'kul.
Arthur reached into his coat and pulled out a sealed vial of blood—his own, enchanted and preserved. Without hesitation, he poured it into the mouth of the sigil.
The forest groaned. Trees trembled. The ground cracked.
A distant roar rolled like thunder across the horizon. Birds did not scatter—there were none. But a fire lit up faintly beyond the trees, crimson and pulsing.
Arthur smiled."It lives…"
Arthur turned to the driver, who was nervously glancing at the edges of the trees—as if they breathed. The fog was alive here, moving like fingers across the ground.
"Don't wait for me," Arthur said, without looking back."My lord—""Return to the Academy. Tell no one where you brought me."
The driver hesitated only for a heartbeat, then gave a sharp nod. He turned the horses, and within seconds, the carriage disappeared into the mist, wheels vanishing without a sound.
Arthur stood alone before the treeline, the Forest of Silence yawning before him like the mouth of an ancient, sleeping god.
"…Now," he muttered, drawing the high collar of his black coat, "Shall I get you?"
ChatGPT said:
As Arthur stepped into the Forest of Silence, a heavy breath of mist rolled past his boots, curling like tendrils around the trees — trees older than any history book, their bark etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the half-light. His cloak dragged through damp leaves, and each footstep echoed not outward, but inward, like the sound was being swallowed by the forest itself.
The sun above dimmed unnaturally, even though it was just past morning outside. Here, inside this place… time was not a straight path but a spiral. Every breath felt longer. Every heartbeat rang louder.
He whispered to himself, "The records said the ancients passed through this forest and never returned. Let's hope I'm less foolish than they were."
He pressed on through thorny underbrush until, after what felt like an hour but was no more than minutes, the ground grew softer beneath his boots. Wet. Muddied. The trees parted just enough to reveal a vast, silent swamp stretching out ahead like a sleeping beast.
The water was still, dark, and glimmering with odd lights that moved just beneath the surface. Lush vines hung like nooses from skeletal branches. Insects buzzed without sound. At the edge of the swamp lay half a stone obelisk, its runes weathered, nearly buried in muck.
Arthur knelt beside it, brushing moss off the surface. He read the first three runes aloud in a whisper.
"Here walked the ones who sought truth… and drowned in it."
He narrowed his eyes. A warning, or a test?
Suddenly, the stillness was disturbed. A ripple crossed the swamp — not from wind, but from something just beneath the surface. Something that circled.
He didn't flinch. He stood tall, placed one hand on the hilt of his blade, and muttered, "I didn't come for you… But if you wish to stand in my way, then come."
The ripple stopped. Silence.
Then… nothing.
Only the slow hum of time returning to its spiral rhythm. Arthur turned and continued deeper into the forest, the air growing colder, the trees older, and the light stranger with every step.
He hadn't found the dragon yet.
But something ancient was watching him now.
Arthur's boots sank deeper into the wet soil as he moved into the heart of the swamp. The deeper he went, the more surreal the world became — the moss on the trees began to glow faintly blue, and strange whispers drifted through the reeds like echoes from dreams never spoken aloud. A pale fog clung low to the ground, and odd insects with translucent wings spiraled through the air in slow, hypnotic patterns. Everything felt wrong here, but also... ancient, sacred, and forbidden.
He moved forward, pushing aside twisted vines that writhed ever so slightly, as if reacting to his presence.
Then — a sharp metallic tone. Ting. Ting. Ting.
His finger instinctively reached for the pocket inside his black coat. It was his Tigner, a compact, enchanted time-stone issued by the Academy — only students of the highest class rank received one. And it was ringing.
A faint red pulse shimmered across its surface. He narrowed his eyes.
Academy bells. The opening hour. The first trial was about to begin.
Arthur exhaled sharply, lips tightening.
"So soon?" he muttered. "Only a few minutes have passed out there…"
He looked around. From his perception, he had been in the swamp for hours. But that was the curse of the Forest of Silence. Time here did not bow to the laws of the world. The outside world moved swiftly while the forest dragged its own feet.
He turned his gaze toward the far end of the swamp, where a natural archway of roots bent down like the mouth of a beast. That was where the records said the path to the dragon's resting shrine would begin. But it was too far. He couldn't reach it now.
"Tch," he spat quietly and clenched the Tigner.
He couldn't afford to miss the trial. The forest might be eternal, but the Academy was not forgiving.
He tapped the stone twice.
A swirling glyph appeared in the air, and Arthur traced his finger through it, muttering ancient transport incantations. The sigils flickered. The air split, and time reeled slightly backward.
A shortcut. A return gate.
Before stepping through, Arthur turned once more toward the swamp. The surface had grown quiet again, as if whatever stirred before had submerged once more.
"I'll return for you," he whispered, as if speaking to someone — or something—that could hear.
He stepped through the gate.
The world spun. The air thinned. Wind whirled in his ears — and then, in an instant, he was standing in the Academy's stone corridor, just outside the Grand Courtyard where hundreds of nobles and commoners alike were gathering, blades strapped to backs, armor being fastened, parchments being read.
The sun had only just climbed above the spires of the Grand Academy, casting golden rays across the gathering of students in the vast central courtyard. A sea of uniforms — navy blue with silver trim for nobles, plain brown and black for commoners — moved with a quiet buzz of tension. Today was the announcement of the top scorers from the Forest of Silence assessment — a trial that had left many students bruised, frightened, and humbled.
Standing at the wooden podium in front of the marble steps, the announcer, an older professor with a hawk-like gaze, cleared his throat and began to call the names.
"Evander von Reiks."
A tall noble boy stepped forward proudly, chest puffed, applause ringing from the noble wing.
"Serena Clarestine."
A girl with silver hair and a cold expression walked to the front.
One by one, names were called until there was a pause.
"…Ash. Is Ash here?"
Whispers broke out like fire across dry grass.
"Ash?"
"Who the hell is Ash?"
"Never heard of him."
Arthur, calm as a shadow under moonlight, raised his hand. "Yes."
All heads turned. A few widened their eyes as they saw the plain, dark-robed figure standing in the midst of the crowd — neither in noble colors nor commoner garb, but somewhere between, as if he didn't belong to either world. A few instructors looked over their papers in disbelief.
The announcer's eyes narrowed slightly. "Mr. Ash, please come forward. Your place is here among the top six."
Arthur — Ash — nodded silently and began walking toward the stage.
A few students instinctively stepped back to make space as he passed. He said nothing. His eyes didn't flicker. Only the wind rustling his coat spoke of his presence. There was a strange weight to his steps, as though he were walking through a world apart from theirs.
He climbed the steps and stood beside the others. Six figures in total. Five nobles — and Ash.
The announcer raised his voice. "These six students achieved the highest scores in the Forest of Silence assessment. They displayed combat aptitude, survival instincts, magical efficiency, and tactical intelligence. From this day forward, they shall be placed in the elite Class 1-A."
Applause followed — unsure, hesitant — especially when it came to Ash.
"Who is he?"
"I swear, I've never seen him before."
"Ash? That's not even a surname."
"Is he… a commoner?"
Arthur didn't react. He stood with hands behind his back, eyes closed for a moment, as if filtering the world away.
As the six were dismissed, they walked down the steps. Aisha, his personal guard in training, pushed through the crowd to reach him. Her dark eyes narrowed as she approached quickly, voice low but sharp.
"Sire. Where were you last night?"
He didn't stop walking. "No need to ask. I won't tell you."
She clenched her jaw, stepping in beside him. "Desire. I'm your guard. I have to know where you go. You vanished all night and returned just before dawn — what if something had happened? What am I supposed to do if you go missing in cursed forests?"
Arthur gave her a faint, dry smile. "You're supposed to live. That's all."
She grabbed his sleeve. "No, that's not all. You're pretending to be someone you're not. You act like none of this matters, but you're hiding something. If you don't let me in—"
He stopped, turning to her.
For just a second, the playful mask slipped.
His voice, low and cold, was steel behind silk. "If you ask again, I'll send you back to the palace."
She froze.
Then, her hand dropped from his sleeve.
"…Yes, sire," she said quietly.
He turned again and began walking toward the east building — the Class 1-A lecture hall.
But even as he walked, his thoughts were elsewhere.
The swamp. The Forest of Silence. The records he had read years ago.The "dragon" said to be sleeping there — not a beast of fire and wing, but something older. Something buried beneath the fog and roots.
A shard of my empire, he thought. A relic that belonged to me. A jewel taken when I fell.
He clenched his fist in his coat.
I don't have the luxury of waiting.
Today, he would endure the lectures. Play the role of "Ash."But tonight?
Tonight, he would return to the forest.
And this time, he wouldn't stop halfway.
The cold northern winds howled relentlessly as the 34th Legion thundered through the icy pass toward the ancient walls that guarded the kingdom's border. Snow swirled like restless spirits, biting through the steel armor and freezing exposed skin. Ahead, the battered fortifications loomed—scarred by fire and siege, their stone towers cracked and crumbling.
The ground was a morass of churned mud and shattered weapons, the aftermath of a brutal assault. Broken shields and bloodied banners littered the frozen earth. The once proud garrison lay scattered, many dead, some moaning in pain, others barely clinging to consciousness. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and decay.
From the shattered gatehouse came the war cries of the last defenders, fighting with desperate fury against the overwhelming tide. And then came the giants.
Towering creatures of nightmare, their massive limbs smashing through stone and flesh alike, stomped forward, their thunderous footfalls shaking the very earth. Their roars split the cold air as they crushed soldiers beneath huge clubs and shattered battlements with brutal swings.
The 34th Legion halted briefly at the edge of the chaos, the cold steel of their blades reflecting the fiery glow of burning towers. Their captain, a grim-eyed veteran named Joran, raised his voice over the din.
"Hold your ranks! Shield wall! Steady! These monsters are big, but they bleed like any other!"
The legionaries tightened their formation, their shields locking into an impenetrable barrier. Arrows flew from their ranks, finding eyes and joints in the giants' thick hides, but many went wide, lost in the storm of snow and flame.
A giant's massive hand crashed down on the front line, sending men flying like ragdolls, their screams swallowed by the roar of battle. But the legion was relentless. Spearmen thrust upward, aiming for the beasts' throats, while swordsmen circled around, striking at ankles and knees.
"Push forward! Protect the walls!" Joran barked, leading a charge that shattered one giant's knee. The creature bellowed in pain but swung wildly, flattening a group of soldiers before toppling to the ground.
Nearby, fireball catapults hurled flaming projectiles, igniting piles of rubble and sending plumes of smoke skyward. The giants shrieked and stumbled as the flames licked their thick hides.
Yet for every giant that fell, two more took its place. The siege was relentless.
Amid the chaos, cries rang out — "Reinforcements! The Black Knights come!" From the horizon, dark banners appeared, the 34th Legion's elite vanguard charging into the fray with brutal precision, their black armor glinting menacingly even in the dim light.
Their arrival turned the tide. With coordinated strikes and ruthless discipline, the Black Knights carved through the giants' ranks. The monstrous foes, once invincible, began to falter beneath the unyielding assault.
As the battle raged on into the freezing night, the northern walls held firm — battered, scarred, but unbroken.
Joran wiped blood from his brow and shouted, "We hold! We fight! For the Empire!"
The men answered with a roar that echoed across the frozen wastes, a promise that no matter how dark the storm, the 34th Legion would stand as the shield between the realm and destruction
Daemon closed the heavy book with a slow exhale, the flickering candlelight casting shadows that danced like ghosts along the stone walls of his chamber. He rubbed his temples, the weight of ancient wars and long-forgotten secrets pressing down on him.
"So the giants marched to that wall," he muttered, voice low and distant, as if speaking to the past itself. "The beginning of the end… or perhaps the end of a beginning."
Outside, the wind howled like a restless spirit, stirring the branches of the Black Forest that surrounded the castle.
Deep within that very forest, under a canopy of twisting limbs and whispered secrets, Arthur strode into the dim glow of a tent. The scent of damp earth and smoke filled the air.
Inside, Otto Hightower sat chained and weary, his once-proud posture diminished but his eyes still sharp with wary defiance.
Otto's voice broke the silence first. "Why did you save me?"
Arthur's gaze was hard, unreadable. "You owe me an answer. You—more than anyone—know what's at stake." His voice dropped, pressing like steel. "I saved you not out of mercy, but because I need you. Now, tell me—where is the passage to the secret vault?"
Otto swallowed, his eyes flickering with a mix of fear and reluctant respect. "I don't know why you spared me," he said hoarsely, "but the vault lies beneath the old chapel ruins. Sealed tight. The keys... scattered among those who fear the power buried there."
Arthur stepped closer, the firelight catching the fierce glint in his eyes. "Find the keys. I want no obstacles. The vault holds the tools to end this war."
Otto's voice was barely a whisper now, trembling with warning. "Beware, Archduke. The vault is protected by ancient curses—things older than any of us. Many who seek it never return."
Arthur's jaw clenched, resolve hardening. "Then I will be the first to return."