The King's voice rose with the slow, deliberate gravity of an oath older than any present could remember:
"I grant you the title of Sentinel Knight. From this day forward, you shall protect this kingdom from the darkness."
His proclamation echoed through the vast Crownspire Hall. Stone pillars climbed high into vaults of polished marble, each etched with the names of monarchs long buried beneath this very keep. Rows of noble houses stood assembled, their banners trailing colors across the cold air—reds, blues, the black crest of the old families—watching history unfold beneath the glow of enchanted lanterns.
A hush fell.
Velmira knelt, her gauntlets pressed to the floor's mosaic of the First Crown. The polished obsidian surface reflected her image: dark hair falling across her face, pale eyes fixed on the dais where the King and Queen sat.
In that reflection, she almost looked like a stranger to herself.
Slowly, she drew in a measured breath. The new
armor weighed upon her shoulders, unfamiliar yet undeniably hers. Its silver plates were engraved with the sigil of the Crescent Phoenix, a creature reborn through flame—symbolic, some whispered, of Velmira herself.
She stood, her expression steady, though a faint tremor passed through her fingers as she lifted her gaze to the throne.
"Your Highness."
Even those who had once flinched in her presence could not deny her bearing in that moment. The crowd erupted into cheers, though beneath the applause, a flicker of unease remained—Velmira had always been more than they could easily define.
Petals, white and crimson, fluttered from the upper galleries. They drifted across her shoulders, catching in the narrow gaps of her armor. For a heartbeat, she closed her eyes and let the sound of celebration wash over her, as if she might finally be absolved of all that had come before.
Then—
Clank. Clank. Clank.
Metal footsteps echoed from the archway behind them.
The crowd fell silent at once.
From the colossal doors—forty feet tall and carved with reliefs of ancient battles—a lone figure emerged.
He moved with an unsettling calm, each step deliberate, as if measuring the very air between himself and the dais.
Light blue hair spilled around his jaw, ragged and uncombed. Ocean-colored eyes lifted to survey the hall, unblinking. He wore a tattered gray hood over armor that shimmered with an unfamiliar black alloy, veined with fine filaments of silver that pulsed faintly, as if some hidden life moved beneath the plates.
And on his back, a double-edged silver sword gleamed with a cold, mirrored light.
Zevril, Aelric, and Rynor—standing behind the King's right hand—stiffened at once.
Velmira's hand drifted to the hilt of her new sword. Her knuckles whitened as she stepped forward.
"Stay there," she commanded, her voice low and unwavering, "or lose your life."
At her side, Prince Drazhael's jaw tightened. His irises brightened into an unnatural crimson that shimmered in the high windows' wan sunlight.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The assembled nobles began to murmur in an anxious ripple. Some craned their necks to glimpse the intruder; others reached for concealed charms or whispered wards.
The King and Queen did not move. They remained seated upon the twin thrones of Crownspire, their expressions carved from the same stone as the hall.
On the lower steps, Princess Lyra turned a puzzled look upon her brother, lips parted to speak—yet no words came.
The stranger tilted his head, studying them as if none of this surprised him. His voice, when it came, was deep and unsettlingly calm.
"I am not here to bother anyone. I am just a normal person."
Velmira's eyes narrowed, her tone growing colder.
"Wearing armor and carrying a weapon in the Crownspire Hall? This isn't something a 'normal' person would do."
She stepped down one stair, her blade still sheathed but her posture coiled like a drawn bow.
Rynor's breath caught in his throat. A tremor passed across his thoughts—something in this presence felt fundamentally out of place, like a flaw in the weave of the world itself.
"Zevril. Aelric." His voice was soft, almost choked. "I feel something isn't right. We need to move."
Aelric blinked, confusion etched across his youthful features.
"Why? What happened, Rynor?"
Zevril's stare never left the stranger's pale face.
"I feel it too. Something… I can't describe it."
Aelric rubbed his temples.
"I don't sense anything."
The stranger shifted his gaze to the three men.
"I sense something that does not belong here. That is why I am here—to take it with me."
Prince Drazhael stiffened, his pupils constricting. His crimson gaze seemed to flicker in fear as he Whispered:
"He is a…"
He trailed off, the word strangled in his throat.
Velmira shot him a hard glance.
"He is what?"
The stranger spoke before Drazhael could answer, his eyes turning upon Velmira, his gaze strangely curious.
"Crimson Insight. It has been a long time since I have seen that kind of power."
He looked her up and down as though inspecting some precious relic.
"I have never seen something like you. What are you? Some new… hybrid?"
Velmira's jaw tightened. She drew her second sword—a crystal-white blade that caught every flicker of torchlight. Twin blades in her grasp, she lowered herself into a ready stance.
Prince Drazhael stepped closer, his hand lifting in warning.
"Velmira. He is a Darkenshade."
The moment the word left his lips, the murmuring stopped.
The silence was absolute.
Zevril, Aelric, and Rynor froze mid-step.
Rynor whispered, as though to himself:
"Darkenshade?"
The King's expression—so long unreadable—cracked with visible fear. Slowly, he rose from his throne, his crown glinting coldly in the gloom.
The Queen did not move. She sat paralyzed, her hands locked in her lap, unable to lift even a finger.
All sound seemed to vanish from the vast hall.
And then—
"Haa? What's 'Darkenshade'? Hey—do you two hear me?"
Aelric's voice cut through the hush, raw confusion in every syllable.
The King swallowed, his gaze locked upon the intruder.
"What do you want from us?"
The stranger turned, and for a single moment, his eyes met Rynor's—one gaze calm, the other unsteady with dread.
"What I want…" he said, his tone unhurried, almost gentle, "is…"
Rynor's thoughts collided in silent panic.
(No… is he here for the Aqualis Ignis'ren feather?)
The stranger shifted his gaze, scanning the hall.
"I have found it. Now you may continue your ceremony for your new Sentinel Knight."
Even before his last syllable faded, seven Royal Knights materialized from the deepest shadows of the colonnades—each clad in iron so dark it drank the light. They spread out around the stranger, blades drawn.
The King took a step forward, his voice darkening into rage.
"You… half-blooded Darkenshade. How dare you underestimate us?"
The stranger regarded him without the faintest change in expression.
"As I said," he replied, "I am not here to bother you. But if you choose to bother me, you will face the consequences of your actions."
A bitter laugh erupted from the King, echoing off the vaults.
Meanwhile, along the walls, the guests began to inch toward the exits. Some clutched their children's hands; others recited prayers under their breath.
Rynor's voice rasped:
"Move. Quickly. Aelric. Zevril."
Once more, his gaze collided with the stranger's, and something cold swept through him.
Outside, the sky began to darken.
Thunderheads gathered with impossible speed, blotting out the noon sun.
Far across Silverbranch Road, Elaris paused, staring up in bewilderment as wind tore through the market.
"What's with this sudden change in weather?"
Back within the hall, Rynor, Aelric, and Zevril reached their cart, the horses stamping nervously as rain spattered their harnesses.
Rynor hauled himself up to the driver's bench, reins in hand.
Aelric shouted over the wind:
Rynor! What happened? Hello?!"
The cold gusts rushed past, carrying the brittle scent of dead leaves.
elric turned to Zevril, his voice hoarse.
"What are you thinking? Hey—what happened to both of you? Answer me!"
Zevril's eyes stayed fixed on the receding spires.
"Aelric. Don't you see the Royal Knights?"
Aelric blinked in confusion.
"Yes—so what?"
Zevril's voice dropped lower.
"There are seven Royal Knights. Didn't Velmira kill one of them last year? Then… who the hell is that?"
Aelric stared at him, stunned.
"You're right…"
His thoughts faltered, overtaken by a dread he couldn't name.
Both of them turned to Rynor."Rynor. What happened?"
"Master Rynor—did you hear us?"
And then—
A brilliant blue light flared from Rynor's pocket.
The Aqualis Ignis'ren feather burned against the fabric of his coat.
The rain came in a sudden, furious sheet.
Zevril's voice barely carried over the deluge:
"What was that?"
Rynor's knuckles clenched white around the reins.
"It's… Aqualis Ignis'ren feather."
Both men stared in disbelief.
Aelric's face went pale.
"How did you get this? Don't tell me the Darkenshade is after it—!"
Rynor didn't look up.
Yes. He is after Aqualis Ignis'ren feather."
Zevril turned to peer through the curtain of rain.
"I think… we're safe. We're far enough from Crownspire now."
Aelric rounded on Rynor, voice rising in incredulous fury.
"WHO THE HELL carries such a divine artifact—IN A POCKET?!"
The horses galloped on through the storm, and behind them, lightning split the darkening sky.