Written by: Chris Chret © 2026
The night lay heavy, thick, and silent over the castle of Dravion.
In the deepest darkness, bound by cold chains, sat Nocten Thornevald, son of King Riven Thornevald. After the clash with his father, after the words that sealed his fate, he had been sentenced to death. He awaited judgment, yet he knew—the end was coming.
Footsteps.
Quiet. Careful. As if someone feared even their own shadow.
Nocten straightened as much as the chains allowed. His heart quickened. A silhouette emerged from the darkness—a man wearing a black hood and cloak, fully concealed. A key clicked softly. The door opened.
Nocten raised himself into a guard stance.
They've come for me, he thought.
The man removed his cap and stepped toward the moonlight that fell through the small window. The face was finally revealed.
Aurel Thornevald.
His twin brother.
"Hello, brother," he said quietly.
In the same instant, Nocten lunged at him with all the strength he had, even bound in chains. Aurel barely managed to step aside.
"WHY?!" Nocten shouted. "Why did you do nothing when we fought with our father? When he was wrong?! Why did you stay silent when they arrested me? Why didn't you rebel?!"
Aurel remained silent. He offered him food and water. He took a deep breath.
"What do you think," he said quietly, "if I had rebelled… would I be here now to save you? Or would we both have ended behind these walls?"
Nocten said nothing.
"I have a plan," Aurel continued. "But I'm not ready to carry it out without knowing if you're with me. If you don't want to die…"
"I'm listening," Nocten said.
"At dawn, when the sun rises, I'll free you. You'll have a boat. Food. Everything you need to disappear."
Nocten looked at him with eyes full of rage.
"How long will we run from our father? How far do you think we'll get like this?"
Then he added coldly,
"Instead of a boat, prepare weapons. You and I. We'll face him eye to eye."
Aurel remained silent for a long moment. Then he tossed the key to the chains at Nocten's feet and left without a word.
As he walked out of the dungeon, his heart told him one thing—his reason another. Still, he prepared the boat and made ready supplies for the journey…
Dawn.
The door opened.
Aurel stood there—holding a sword. He handed it over without a word.
The two of them moved forward.
Not toward their father.
But toward a monster—perhaps the strongest man in the land.
Aurel's hands trembled with every step.
Nocten, on the other hand, fed on rage.
There were no guards before the door. Riven never allowed them. To be protected by others was weakness to him.
They entered.
Riven lay sleeping. Or at least, that was how it seemed.
"So… you've finally arrived," Riven spoke without opening his eyes. "Once again, we're all gathered. Only the uncles are missing for all the traitors to be complete."
Nocten attacked first.
Aurel froze.
But Riven was unrealistically fast. In a single motion, he avoided the strike and smashed Nocten in the chest, sending him several steps backward. The air was knocked from his lungs.
Aurel began to tremble and step back.
"So the princes have finally become men," Riven sneered.
Nocten clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on the sword.
"Today, you fall. And with you—the darkness this people have lived in."
He attacked again. Again, Riven evaded. A punch struck his face—his nose burst with blood. Riven grabbed his head and began to squeeze, as if to crush his skull.
Aurel screamed and moved with unreal speed, reaching his father and driving the sword into his back.
Riven showed no pain. With a single blow, he struck Aurel in the head and hurled him onto the bed. With his left hand, he seized Nocten and slammed him into the wall with full force—the stone cracked. Blood ran down his face from his head, and he could not breathe.
Riven took up his enormous sword and advanced toward Aurel.
Without thinking, Aurel charged and stabbed him in the stomach. But the skin was too thick—the wound was not fatal. Riven kicked him hard in the chest and sent him flying, gasping for air.
He planted his foot on Aurel's chest and pressed down.
Then—Nocten.
He lunged forward and stabbed Riven in the neck from the right side.
Riven roared and charged like a bull, slamming Nocten aside with all his strength. He crashed into a cabinet—wood exploded—his ribs shattered.
Aurel, barely breathing, forced himself upright. Riven paid no attention to his back.
Aurel swung and pierced his knee.
Riven fell to one knee.
Nocten charged and drove his sword through Riven's chest and out his back.
Riven struck Aurel, sending him to the ground, then stood, pulled the blade from his body, and hurled it out the window.
He grabbed his massive sword and attacked Aurel.
They clashed. With superhuman force, Aurel severed Riven's hand. The sword fell and rolled toward Nocten.
Riven continued with his fists. He broke Aurel and mounted him, striking without mercy.
Nocten barely stood on shattered bones and seized the massive sword—one no ordinary man could lift. With both hands, barely holding it, he charged and tore open Riven's back.
Riven screamed deeply and turned toward Nocten.
One more strike.
His chest was split open.
Riven dropped to his knees.
Blood poured out. His eyes clouded.
His final words escaped like a breath:
"As I took the throne… so I lost it."
He fell silent—and bled out.
The brothers survived—broken, bloodied.
Nocten moved to Aurel and sat beside him against the shattered wall.
"We survived," Nocten whispered.
Aurel smiled and extended his hand.
"Brothers to the end," Aurel replied.
Nocten grasped his hand and echoed, "Brothers to the end."
They emerged before the people—barely standing, clinging to each other, bones broken, dried blood on their faces. They announced the king's death. They admitted they had killed their father because he had brought only fear and darkness. They declared they would rule together.
Some accepted. Some feared. Some shouted that without the Iron Prince they were vulnerable and refused to accept them.
Nocten stepped forward.
"Whoever opposes the crown—speak now. Before all."
The crowd fell silent.
In Nocten, they recognized the same fear they once saw in his father.
Aurel stared at him, stunned by his action.
In the great hall of the castle of Ashkar, beneath arches darkened by smoke and old iron, all the lords had gathered. The table was surrounded by men whose voices and gazes carried weight.
At the head sat the King of Ashkar, only fifteen years old, yet upright, his eyes showing no hesitation. Beside him stood:
Varyn Thornevald,
Iskra Azhara,
Azran Al-Raqem,
and several other lords and knights.
The silence was heavy.
Iskra broke it first.
"The city is divided," she said, tracing the map with her finger. "Citizens and knights who refuse to recognize you are already gathering. They betrayed the throne before it ever fell."
Varyn nodded.
"All of them wear armor. When the fighting starts, there will be no way to tell who is a citizen, who is a knight, and who is a traitor."
Azran looked at the king.
"Stay in the castle. If you fall, everything falls with you."
The king remained silent.
Iskra laid out the plan—clear and cold.
"First—the archers. From the walls. They clear the close targets and open the exit.
Then—the infantry with shields and spears to hold the first charge.
Behind them—the knights with swords.
And finally—the cavalry. They seal the city's exit. No one escapes."
The king lifted his head.
"I will go out as well."
Azran turned sharply.
"No! That's madness."
"How will they follow me," the king replied calmly, "if I hide behind walls? If I don't stand before them today—tomorrow they won't stand behind me."
Iskra allowed a brief smile.
"This will be your harshest training."
Trumpets sounded.
The castle gates opened.
The archers unleashed hell first—arrows raining down, clearing the frontline. The passage opened.
Then came the shields and spears, row after row, pushing forward.
But from the city—chaos erupted.
Citizens and knights who rejected the king—all armored. Faces hidden. They shouted, charged, fell. There was no distinction between rebel and commoner.
The knights with swords surged from the castle and collided with them. Steel struck steel. Blood painted the streets.
Then—betrayal.
From within the king's ranks, several knights turned.
They struck from behind.
Panic.
The lines broke. Men fell. The royal force was outnumbered four to one.
The king stepped forward.
His spear moved without hesitation. Every enemy before him fell. His voice cut through the noise. The people saw him. Fear shifted—from him to those who opposed him.
But the numbers were against them.
Just as defeat seemed inevitable—
trumpets in the distance.
From the gates and roads leading to Ashkar, armies arrived from other cities and villages. Banners rose. Reinforcements.
Varyn stood calmly. Iskra was not surprised—this had been planned in secret, knowing traitors were among them. Yet the greater credit belonged to Varyn.
The traitors were caught in a pincer. The battle turned.
Rebel knights fell one by one. Citizens were forced to their knees.
When the dust settled, there was no way to tell who had been what. All were armored. All were bloodied.
The king stepped forward.
"I did not come to slaughter you," he said. "But to lead you. Together, we will conquer the world."
He gave them a choice.
Death—or a future with him.
One by one—they knelt.
That night, Ashkar did not gain only a victory.
It gained a king people chose to follow.
And somewhere in a dark street stood a man in black, who had not taken part in the battle—only withdrawn.
End of Chapter 9
Three crowns rose—two born in blood, one in vision—while the world unknowingly stepped closer to destruction.