Something was born… and yet, fate did not bend.
The tremor spread across creation. Palaces, fortresses, and hidden halls where only the most powerful dared to dwell felt it.
And then—
A letter appeared.
Not carried. Not delivered. Not written by mortal hand.
It simply was.
Parchment woven of shadow and light, sealed with an ancient mark.
When touched, it spoke in a voice that was not a voice at all:
"You have been summoned.
The Umbral Blades are called.
Will you attend?
Yes, or no."
The Kingdom of Araveth
Lightning tore across the sky as soldiers flooded the great hall.
A parchment floated before the throne — burning itself to dust before the king's eyes.
The man who sat there rose slowly. His aura rolled like a storm, shaking the stone walls until torches flickered and banners snapped.
"So… the Veythar Empire dares to stir again."
A captain knelt before him, head low.
"Yes, my lord. And I've heard that the Nine Blades of Velrath are gathering."
The king's hand tightened around the armrest of his throne. His voice deepened.
"Is there more?"
The captain hesitated. "Yes… They attacked one of our border outposts. Twenty minutes ago."
The king's expression hardened. A pulse of golden light rippled across the hall as his aura burst free, crushing the air with divine weight.
Stone cracked. Flames bent toward him.
"Tell Araveth to come back to the land," he commanded, his voice thundering through the hall.
"Send word to every division. If the Blades of Velrath move, we will meet them head-on."
The captain bowed deeply. "Yes, my King."
As the man left, the ruler of Araveth closed his eyes briefly.
"They dare strike the frontier…" he muttered.
"Then war it shall be."
Far from Araveth, across the continent, the kingdom of Reseten stood under a pale sun.
The air here was calm and heavy with incense.
A grand hall lay beneath golden banners. At its center stood a black throne veined with gold, and before it stretched a long table lined with goblets and empty plates.
Torches burned blue, casting light over polished stone and shadows of ten thrones that faced each other.
The man upon the main throne rested his chin against his hand, a crown glinting faintly atop dark hair.
Behind him, a single guard bowed low.
"They are here, my lord."
The man nodded once. "I understand. Thank you."
"It is my pleasure," the guard replied before vanishing into shadow.
Moments later, the great doors groaned open.
The rulers entered — ten of them, cloaked in power and pride. None bowed. Each took their seat around the long table.
"Who gathered us here?" one ruler demanded.
The man on the throne smiled faintly. "A friend of mine. You will see soon enough."
"If this friend doesn't appear soon, I'm leaving," another said coldly.
A third leaned back in his chair. "I was promised food."
"And so what if you were?" a ruler scoffed.
"Then where is it?"
The crowned man raised a single hand. "It will come."
As though the palace itself obeyed him, the doors opened again. Servants entered, bearing trays of roasted meats, spiced breads, and golden wine that shimmered like liquid starlight.
The hungry ruler grinned. "Finally! It is here."
He wasted no time, tearing into the feast. Another ruler sighed, shaking his head. "You're a ruler. Act like one."
The hungry man smirked through a mouthful. "So what?"
Then, between bites, his tone shifted. "Have you heard what's happening with Veythar?"
The others turned toward him, curious.
"You're talking about the Nine Blades of Velrath," one ruler said.
"Exactly. They're gathering."
Silence rippled across the table.
"For what?" another ruler asked.
"They're preparing for war — against Araveth."
"And what are these 'Nine Blades'?"
"Nine warriors scattered across the empire," one ruler explained. "Each carries a weapon forged from the remnants of a fallen god."
Another ruler leaned forward. "A fallen god? Which one?"
"The Crowned God… Zareth."
Gasps echoed.
A ruler glanced toward the man seated on the throne. "Are you planning to attack Velrath as well?"
The crowned man smiled faintly. "Why would I? The King of Velrath isn't foolish enough to drag me into this."
"What if Araveth attacks you?" another pressed.
"I expect he will," the man said calmly. "But the moment a single soldier sets foot on my land… there will be war. And even he knows better than to test that."
The table quieted.
One ruler broke the silence. "Then who do you think will win?"
Another ruler scoffed. "That's obvious. Araveth. They have Kael'reth, the Dragon Saint, on their side. Even if Velrath gathers the Nine Blades, they'll fall."
Before more could be said, the air rippled.
A parchment appeared above the table — woven of shadow and light, marked with an ancient seal.
It spoke with no tongue, its voice echoing in every mind:
"You have been summoned.
The Umbral Blades are called.
Will you attend?
Yes, or no."
The rulers froze. All eyes turned to the man on the throne.
He stood slowly, descended the steps, and reached for the parchment. A quill appeared beside it. Without hesitation, he wrote one word.
No.
The parchment ignited in silent flame, disintegrating into ash.
One ruler sneered. "I don't understand why you even bother being one of the Umbral Blades. Every member is the same — idiots drunk on their own strength."
The hungry ruler wiped his mouth and grinned. "Hmph. As if any of you are different."
Then, the chamber doors creaked open once more.
No servant entered.
The grand doors of the hall opened with a sound that echoed like thunder through marble and gold.
Every conversation stopped. Every ruler turned.
A shadowed figure stepped inside — tall, calm, every motion deliberate.
One hand rested behind his back. The other lay across his chest, gloved, as he bowed slightly — the ancient gesture of the old eastern kingdoms.
His head lowered just enough to show respect, but not submission.
"Your Majesty," his voice was deep, steady, almost melodic.
"Thank you… for allowing me to hold this meeting within your kingdom."
He straightened, his golden eyes catching the torchlight, then turned toward the circle of rulers seated around the obsidian table.
"And to you all… thank you for coming."
A ruler saw the weapon at his side. The hall went silent.
Gasps broke the stillness.
"That sword… it cannot be…"
The blade glimmered dark red, black steel veined with crimson light — jagged, alive, as though it had bitten through gods themselves.
"That is Nerthul, the Severed Fang," one ruler whispered. "There are only two such blades in existence."
Another ruler leaned forward. "And only two who may wield them — Aurelia… and him."
The shadowed man stepped closer. His voice was calm but heavy. "I am here to form an alliance. With all of you. Against the Clan of Eryndral."
"An alliance?" one ruler scoffed. "You destroyed the Clan of Varzynthal on your own. Why need us now?"
The man's eyes gleamed faintly. "Because Eryndral is different. And they've already attacked yours as well."
"You mean to use us as pawns?" another ruler spat.
His smile was sharp. "I won't say it. But yes."
The one who had burned the parchment rose from his throne. "Enough. If he wanted a refusal, he wouldn't have come here himself."
The shadowed figure tilted his head. "You know me well."
"Of course. You haven't changed since you were a boy. Still the same reckless child."
The man with the Severed Fang laughed softly. "Do you truly think so?"
"Yes," the ruler said with a grim smile. "And I'm glad for it."
Far away, under the fading sun, a boy sat upon the rocks overlooking the sea.
The horizon burned gold, and the waves shimmered like molten glass.
He couldn't have been older than ten.
His hair was jet-black, tousled by the salt wind, and his eyes—deep crimson with hints of warmth—seemed to hold both mischief and thought.
He wore a dark tunic stitched with silver thread, too fine for a common child, and a pendant of onyx hung loosely around his neck.
A letter appeared.
Not carried. Not delivered. Not written by mortal hand.
It simply was.
Parchment woven of shadow and light, sealed with an ancient mark.
When touched, it spoke in a voice that was not a voice at all:
"You have been summoned.
The Umbral Blades are called.
Will you attend?
Yes, or no."
The boy's eyes widened. "My first time… I'll finally see the others."
Behind him, footsteps approached. A man with long silver hair and calm golden eyes — his presence strong but serene — spoke gently.
"Young master, you cannot go."
The boy turned. "Why not, Aradan?"
"Because your mother is with child," the man said quietly. "She will give birth soon. You must be here when it happens."
The boy hesitated, then smiled. "Okay… I'm not going this year. Only if you let me choose the baby's name."
Aradan's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. He rested a hand on the boy's head, gently ruffling his dark hair.
"Come on, Aradan," the boy said, pouting. "I'm not a child anymore."
Aradan chuckled softly and lowered his hand, placing it instead on the boy's shoulder.
"You're right, young master," he said, his tone both proud and gentle. "You're not a child anymore… and soon, you'll be a big brother."
The boy blinked, surprise melting into a small, shy smile. "A big brother…" he whispered.
"Yes," Aradan said. "Your mother will be proud. And your father… even prouder."
The letter dissolved into ash, its light fading into the wind.
And so it was decided. Some laughed. Some cursed. Some refused. Some smiled.
But thirteen voices answered yes.
The Umbral Blades would gather once more.
And though none dared say it aloud, all who received the summons felt the same truth pressing upon their souls.
This was no ordinary meeting.
This was the beginning of something greater.
End of Chapter 3 – The Summons