The day after Alexander met Lyra in the abandoned attic, the castle stirred earlier than usual. Bells tolled across the capital—deep, urgent sounds that hadn't rung since the last war. A sharp tension thickened the air as guards sprinted across stone corridors and messengers rode out from the castle gates with haste written on their faces.
That morning, before the sun could fully climb above the misty hills, a series of explosions echoed from the eastern wall. Black smoke curled into the sky as a small squad of unidentified assailants breached the outer district near the market. They wore no banners and moved with eerie precision, their faces covered, their movements silent as shadows. It was not an army—it was something far more calculated.
Alexander, who had returned to his chambers, watched from his window as plumes of smoke rose in the distance. Minutes later, urgent knocking came to his door, followed by a castle page delivering orders: "The city is under attack. Stay in your quarters unless summoned."
But it wasn't just a random assault.
By noon, the attackers had vanished as quickly as they came, leaving behind burned stalls, fallen soldiers, and strange symbols drawn in ash on the walls—symbols that hadn't been seen in decades.
When the Council convened later that night in the king's war chamber, the atmosphere was grim. Captain Helion reported that survivors spoke of unnatural strength and sorcery used by the enemy—abilities long thought forbidden. One symbol found scrawled in the dust was unmistakable.
An elder mage, Master Thalen, stood trembling as he examined the mark. "This is the crest of Ashborn," he whispered. "The dark sorcerer… has returned."
The room fell silent. Some councilmen gasped, others dismissed it as superstition, but King Edric knew better. He had faced Ashborn once in his youth—barely survived the last war. And now, it was happening again.
"Ashborn's soul must have found a vessel," Thalen continued, his voice low and fearful. "The signs are clear. This wasn't just an attack. It was a message."
King Edric stood from his high-backed throne, eyes scanning the council. "Then we must prepare. The darkness stirs once more."
After hours of discussion, the council agreed on the need for a specialized unit—a team trained beyond standard regiments, one that could respond swiftly to threats, adapt in the field, and stand against unnatural foes. It would not be built from nobles or decorated soldiers. It would be chosen from the youth—those untainted by fear and tradition, trained in all aspects of combat, strategy, and leadership.
The First Response Squad would be born.
And from that moment, everything began to change.