The royal summons arrived at the guild just before sunset, carried by armored messengers who spoke to no one except Vesa.
The seal bore the crest of the crown.
Vesa broke it in the middle of the hall. His expression did not change as he read, but the room grew quieter.
"The King requests the guild's presence," he said. "A classified matter. National importance. We are to depart at once."
"Requests?" Ark muttered. "That's a pleasant word for a king."
"It is not a request," Noctryx said calmly from the window. "It is a test."
Vesa folded the letter neatly. "Prepare."
—
The throne chamber gleamed with calculated grandeur. Gold-lined arches. Polished marble. Nobles whispering behind jeweled sleeves.
At the center of the chamber hovered a sword suspended above a white pedestal.
Ancient runes spiraled along its blade. Frost-blue light pulsed faintly through the engravings, like a heartbeat beneath steel.
The King rose slowly from his throne.
"This," he declared, "is the blade of the First Hero. The man who saved this kingdom thousands of years ago."
The court murmured reverently.
"It has remained dormant for centuries," the King continued. "Until recently. It has begun reacting. To an enemy."
The blade flickered.
Eira stepped forward without thinking.
The sword exploded with light.
A violent surge of icy radiance burst outward, cracking the marble pedestal and sending a shockwave through the chamber. Frost laced across the floor in branching veins.
The nobles staggered back in alarm.
The King did not move.
His gaze fixed directly on Eira.
"How curious," he said softly.
Noctryx's eyes darkened.
The Snow Goddess, hood drawn low beside them, stood completely still.
Vesa stepped slightly forward, positioning himself just enough to block the King's line of sight.
"What enemy," Vesa asked evenly, "does Your Majesty believe this blade senses?"
The King smiled.
"An old one."
—
That night, inside a sealed chamber within the guild, the Snow Goddess lowered her hood.
The air cooled instantly.
"The story they tell of that sword," she said quietly, "is not the truth."
Eira's jaw tightened. "Then tell it."
She nodded.
And began.
—
Thousands of years ago, dragons were not myths.
They filled the skies. They nested in forests. They soared over mountains.
They were not owned.
They chose.
A dragon's bond could not be forced. It was sacred.
The one history now calls the First Hero was not a conqueror. He was not born into royalty. He was a guardian of a small mountain clan that lived in harmony with dragons.
He was blessed by the Snow Goddess not because he sought power — but because he wished to protect his people.
His Snow Dragon chose him freely.
And together, they were extraordinary.
The King of that era, however, saw only imbalance.
The Hero was admired. Loved. Powerful. Chosen by a dragon.
The King was not.
Jealousy began quietly.
At first, the King praised dragon-bonded warriors and invited them into royal service "for the protection of the kingdom."
Then came contracts.
Then mandatory registration.
Then a decree: any person chosen by a dragon must serve the crown.
"For national safety."
In truth, it was control.
When some resisted, disappearances began.
Dragons went missing.
Riders died in "accidents."
The King acquired a forbidden artifact — one capable of allowing a single human to resonate with multiple dragons.
It was unnatural.
It tore at the will of dragons and bent them.
The King used it to bind dragons against their choice.
Those that refused him were hunted in secret.
Slaughtered.
All while proclaiming himself protector of the realm.
The Hero opposed him.
Openly at first.
Then carefully, as allies began vanishing.
The King declared sudden border wars. Neighboring nations were accused of plotting invasion. The Hero was sent away to lead campaigns — long, brutal wars that drained his strength and scattered dragon riders loyal to him.
Wasteful bloodshed.
Manufactured conflict.
While the Hero fought for a kingdom he still believed worth saving, the King tightened his grip at home.
Dragon-bonded individuals were forced into slave contracts disguised as military oaths.
Powerful nobles adjusted quickly. Wealth increased. Privileges expanded. Silence became profitable.
When the Hero finally returned, he found a nation comfortable in corruption.
Dragons were fewer.
Fear was greater.
And people had accepted it.
He began planning rebellion.
Only a few knew.
Including his closest friend — a warrior blessed by the Forest.
That friend betrayed him.
He revealed the Hero's plans to the King in exchange for favor.
The final battle erupted within the capital itself.
Dragons clashed in the skies.
Fire and frost tore through the streets.
The King wielded the artifact and forced multiple dragons to his command.
The Hero realized too late that trust had become impossible.
To protect what remained of his clan and the last free dragons, he made a choice.
He sealed his own sword.
He tore open a dimensional rift with the Snow Dragon's aid and sent the blade — and those loyal to him — into a hidden realm beyond the King's reach.
Among them was the Snow Dragon's mother, gravely wounded, guarding the sealed dimension.
The Hero stayed behind.
He fought alone.
He was killed by a blade forged to counter divine descent — a sword designed to react to the presence of the Snow Goddess herself.
That is the blade now displayed in the palace.
After his death, the King rewrote history.
He called himself savior.
He called the Hero traitor.
And over generations, the truth was buried.
The Snow Goddess's voice grew quieter.
"The kings who rule now," she said, "believe their ancestor was righteous. They call him Hero. They worship that sword."
Noctryx's expression hardened. "And the blade reacts now because—"
"Because I have descended again," she said. "And because his power has awakened in you."
She looked at Eira.
"That sword was made to kill those blessed by me."
Silence filled the room.
Outside, the guild buzzed with normal life — unaware that history itself had just shifted.
Vesa stood still for a long moment.
"So the King believes the sword is warning him of an enemy," he said slowly.
"Yes," the Snow Goddess replied.
"And in his version of history," Noctryx added quietly, "we are the villains."
Eira exhaled slowly.
The past had not disappeared.
It had waited.
And now, after thousands of years, the blade had begun to sing again.