Written by: Chris Chret © 2026
The castle of Ashkar echoed with metal and breath.
In the inner courtyard, under the open sky, King Kael of Ashkar trained without pause. Sweat flowed down his forehead and chest, soaking his clothes. His breathing was heavy, irregular. His knees trembled, but he did not stop.
The spear swung again.
And again.
And again.
His arms burned. His muscles screamed for rest.
The doors opened.
"Kael," a deep voice said. "Enough."
Varyn stepped inside, looking at the king with concern.
"You will collapse if you continue like this. Rest at least a little."
Kael did not answer. He only swung even harder. The strike was brutal, desperate.
"I have something I must show you," Varyn continued.
At that moment, strength left Kael. The spear slipped from his hand. He fell onto his back, staring at the sky, completely exhausted.
"I will… come… now," he muttered.
Varyn approached him, handed him a cloth and water. Kael took it, drank greedily, and wiped himself. For a few moments he lay in silence.
Then he extended his hand.
Varyn grabbed it and pulled him up.
Together they headed toward the library.
"What are we looking for here?" Kael asked as they walked between the tall shelves.
"It is time for you to start learning," Varyn said. "About things that happened before you. About mistakes that must not be repeated."
He took out a large, old book. The covers were worn. The pages—yellowed.
"The history of Ashkar," he said. "Everything is written here… but it is not finished."
Several pages at the end were blank.
Varyn flipped through the book, skipping a large part, and stopped at a certain place.
"Here," he said and handed it to him.
Kael began to read.
It wrote about his grandfather—a king who ruled with fear. Powerful. Merciless. He stood at the peak of war and did not yield. He destroyed everything before him. Blood and fire were his path.
But at forty-five years of age—something changed.
Reason came to him. After his wife died, only his son remained, and he began to think about his child. About the future. He offered peace to the other kingdoms.
And they accepted it.
All gathered. They signed an agreement—that they would help each other, that there would be no wars between them, that if someone made a mistake, that person would be judged, not the entire kingdom.
For a long time there was peace and unity. Ashkar was strong, but softened.
The king died of old age. A natural death.
Then his son—Zahir—followed the path of his father when he was young. He broke the agreement. He demanded that everyone kneel to him. To rule over everything.
Some refused.
And the war opened again.
The agreement became nothing.
Kael closed the book.
His hands remained on the covers longer than they should have. His chest was tight. Not from exhaustion—but from the realization that struck him harder than any blow.
For a moment, in the words about Zahir, he did not see only his father. He saw himself. The same blood. The same power. The same chance to make a mistake.
His stomach turned at the thought.
No, he thought. I will not be like him.
He did not close the book because he finished reading—but because he saw where that path led, and he was afraid he could walk it if he was not careful.
"I will read this whole thing," he said. "There is much more about my grandfather… and my father."
Varyn nodded. His goal was clear.
To show him what happens to kings who choose the wrong path.
At that moment, Azran Al-Raqem entered.
"King," he said. "They are gathered. They are waiting for you."
The great hall was full.
Representatives from all the cities and villages of Ashkar. The entire kingdom gathered once again.
Kael sat at the head.
The voices began.
The people from the village of Dustmere spoke first.
"Last time we gathered there," they said. "That is where the plan was forged. That is where King Zahir died."
Another continued:
"The plan was to gather all the knights. To take the civilian men as well. They would be in the front lines. We would train them for a few months, and then attack the north with full force. To bring it down."
Kael raised his hand.
Silence.
But not complete.
Looks moved through the hall. Someone leaned toward another. A quiet whisper was lost among the stone walls. Doubt, impatience, hunger for war.
Some did not look pleased. Others—relieved.
Kael noticed them all.
"For now—we remain still," he said calmly. "I will gather you again when the time comes. Then this matter will be discussed."
Varyn smiled because he thought the king was becoming wise.
Kael looked at them all.
"Thank you for the information. And for serving Ashkar. You are free."
Far from there…
The border trade city of Dunemar.
A city of smuggling. A market of goods and weapons. A refuge for refugees and criminals.
A child with dark red hair, shortly shaved on the sides, ran through the narrow streets. He was thirteen years old. He had no parents.
In his hands—stolen food.
Behind him—three people.
"Catch him!"
The child disappeared into the forest.
When they reached him, something fell from the tree behind them.
A woman.
Short orange hair. Black armor. In her hand—a double-bladed axe, sharp and bloody even before it struck.
"You are far from home," she said.
"A woman and a child?" one laughed. "Funny—"
He did not finish.
Blood flowed from his mouth like a fountain. On his back—a dagger.
He fell.
The other two froze.
The child smiled coldly.
The smell of blood was familiar to him. Heavy, metallic, warm. It filled his nose and did not repel him—it calmed him. His heart did not race. His hands did not tremble.
This was not the first time.
The sound of the body falling behind him was the same as always—dull, empty. Like meat falling, not a person.
A swing was heard.
The head of one of the traders flew. Blood splashed the last one.
He fell, crawling backward, trembling.
The child watched him without emotion. The fear of others did not disturb him. It bored him.
"Is it not funny anymore?" the woman asked.
The child cut off his ear.
The woman struck him with the handle of the axe and knocked him unconscious. Then—without hesitation—she crushed his head.
A man appeared from the shadows.
"The goods are stolen," he said. "The other two are taken care of."
"Clean the bodies," she replied.
She smiled.
"This is only the beginning."
End of Chapter 12