The great hall of Valeryn's royal keep was a cavern of stone and shadow, its arched ceiling ribbed with blackened beams, banners swaying faintly in the early morning draft. Firelight from twin hearths at either end did little to warm the cold bite in the air. It smelled faintly of wet wool, iron, and the resinous smoke of pitch torches.
King Kaelen sat upon the high throne—a seat of carved obsidian set upon a dais of three steps, its back shaped like a rising sun, inlaid with gold threads that caught the flames when he shifted. He wore his crown of blacksteel, light compared to his father's, yet it felt to him heavier than the fortress walls.
The heavy oaken doors at the far end slammed open, echoing through the hall. A man stumbled inside, his cloak soaked through, boots crusted with mud the colour of bloodied earth. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his face pale beneath streaks of grime.
"Your Majesty!" The messenger's voice cracked, the words almost a gasp. He fell to one knee so quickly that droplets from his cloak spattered across the polished flagstones.
Kaelen's knuckles tightened on the armrests. "Speak."
The man lifted his head, and in the firelight, Kaelen saw the wild fear in his eyes. "Ironridge… the eastern fortress… is under attack. There are demons, my king. They came before dawn—raiders, swift as shadow, cutting down our outposts before the horns could be sounded. The garrison holds the main gate, but… they won't last till nightfall."
The hall, until then filled only with the muted crackle of fire, erupted into low murmurs. Lords and retainers exchanged glances, some pale-faced, others with hard, calculating eyes.
Kaelen rose from the throne in a swift motion, the movement drawing the hall's attention back to him. The torchlight painted sharp lines across his young face—cheeks still holding some of their boyish smoothness, but jaw clenched with iron resolve.
"Summon the council," he ordered, voice ringing against the vaulted stone. "At once."
The council chamber was smaller than the throne room, yet no less imposing—a round table of dark mahogany dominating the center, engraved with an ancient map of Valeryn and its surrounding realms. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting the kingdom's victories: knights raising bloodied banners, citadels wreathed in flame, demons impaled upon spears of light.
Lord Veylan, draped in silks of deep burgundy and heavy gold chains, was the first to speak. His voice was smooth, almost oily. "Your Majesty, Ironridge is three days' ride. By the time you arrive, the fortress may already be in ruin. Better to send a relief force and remain here, where your presence ensures stability."
Duke Mornas, clad in a weathered steel breastplate still bearing old dents, leaned forward, his scarred hands braced on the table. "The boy wants to prove himself," he growled, his voice like gravel. "But this is not the time for heroics. A king's place is in the capital, not bleeding out on some frozen wall."
Kaelen's gaze swept the table. Lady Selvine sat opposite, her eyes sharp as a hawk's, lips curved in a smile too slight to be called friendly. She said nothing, only tapped her fingers against the arm of her chair in an irregular rhythm, studying Kaelen as though weighing his worth in coin.
"I will not sit in safety while my soldiers die," Kaelen said, voice steady. "I will ride to Ironridge. Assemble the royal guard. The men will fight harder knowing their king stands beside them."
Lord Veylan's brows furrowed. "A fine sentiment, Majesty. But if you fall, it would be more than a lost fortress—it would be the realm itself."
The young king's jaw tightened. "If I never stand on a battlefield, the realm will be lost to hesitation long before it's lost to demons."
Mornas snorted but did not argue further. Selvine only inclined her head, the ghost of that thin smile lingering, as though amused by the brewing storm.
The courtyard of the keep bustled with the clang of armor, the stamp of hooves, and the bark of orders. The dawn was bleak and grey, frost still clinging to the edges of the cobblestones.
Kaelen emerged from the armory wearing a suit of blackened steel, the plates chased with faint silver runes that shimmered when caught by the light. The armor was lighter than a full war harness, designed for speed. His sword, Dawncleaver, rested in a black scabbard at his hip, the hilt wrapped in deep blue leather.
Captain Rhal, a grizzled veteran with a salt-and-iron beard, approached. "Fifty of the royal guards ride with you, Majesty. All mounted, all sworn to the last." His weathered face bore no trace of fear, though his eyes searched Kaelen's as though measuring the weight of the decision.
Kaelen nodded. "We ride hard and no longer halts than the horses demand."
Rhal's lips twitched in something that might have been approval. "Then Ironridge will see her king before the next moonrise."
From the battlements above, courtiers and servants watched as the king swung into the saddle of a tall black destrier. The beast's breath steamed in the cold, and its barding gleamed faintly beneath a thin layer of frost. The great gates creaked open, the road beyond stretching into the mist-shrouded east.
The first day's ride was through the lower valleys, where the mountain wind howled between ridges and sent banners snapping like whips. The land was scarred by the remnants of older wars: collapsed watchtowers, pitted stones bearing faded ward runes, long-forgotten graves marked only by weather-worn spears.
Villages along the road emptied at the sight of the royal party. Peasants bowed low, their faces a mixture of awe and fear—fear for their king, and for what his journey portended.
At night, the campfires burned low and close to the ground, smoke kept thin so as not to signal their passing. The guards murmured of what the messenger had described—beasts with eyes like molten gold, claws that could shear steel, voices that whispered in the minds of men.
Kaelen listened, saying little, but every story carved the urgency deeper into his resolve.
By the third nightfall, the fortress of Ironridge loomed ahead—a black silhouette against a burning sky. The mountains rose like jagged teeth around it, the narrow pass leading up to the gates slick with ice and stained dark where blood had melted the snow.
The sound hit first: the clash of steel, the guttural roars of inhuman throats, the cries of men dying. Then the smell—burned flesh, sulfur, and the copper tang of spilled blood so thick it clung to the back of the throat.
Kaelen urged his destrier forward, the royal guard fanning out to meet the press of chaos. Demons swarmed at the base of the wall, some hulking brutes with mottled grey hides and bone-spiked shoulders, others lean and fast, their limbs too long, their jaws lined with needle-teeth.
The king's first kill came swiftly—a spear thrust clean through the eye of a demon scrambling up the wall's rubble. Its shriek was high and piercing, cut short as it crumpled to the frozen earth.
He drew Dawncleaver, the blade's silver edge catching the light of the burning watchtower above. Then the fighting swallowed him.
Kaelen's destrier crashed into a knot of demons, hooves shattering bone. He swung low, Dawncleaver biting through a scaled neck, hot blood spraying his armor. A guard beside him took a claw to the chest, falling with a strangled cry—Kaelen wheeled his horse, cutting down the beast before it could lunge again.
Archers on the wall loosed volley after volley, arrows tipped with rune-etched steel. Some demons fell writhing, the magic burning through their flesh; others tore the shafts free and kept coming.
One brute—nearly twice Kaelen's height—charged, wielding a jagged cleaver of black iron. The young king slid from the saddle, boots crunching on ice, and met the blow head-on. The impact jarred his arms, the strength behind it monstrous. He twisted, letting the blade glance off his pauldron, and drove his sword up beneath the brute's chin. The body collapsed with a shudder that rattled the stones.
And still they came.
By the time the last demon fell, the sky was the black of burnt embers, and the snow was more red than white. Kaelen stood breathing hard, steam rising from his armor. Around him, the royal guard gathered, bloodied but alive.
The fortress gates creaked open, and Captain Brask of Ironridge emerged, face streaked with soot. He saluted, exhaustion heavy in every line of him.
"You came," Brask said simply.
Kaelen looked over the bloodied field. "And I will come again, if they return."
Above them, the mountains loomed, their peaks lost in swirling black clouds. Somewhere beyond those ridges, the Demonlands brooded—and Kaelen knew this had been only the first taste.
To be continued…