The night was bleeding.
Not from the sky —
but from the kingdom itself.
Rain fell in thin sheets, washing blood across cracked stone and mud.
Torches guttered low. Smoke drifted from shattered windows.
Somewhere in the distance, bells tolled —
not in warning, but in mourning.
A lone knight ran.
His armor was dented. His cloak was torn.
In his arms, wrapped in thick linen and trembling against his chest, was a crying infant.
A boy.
Behind him, footsteps thundered.
Fast. Silent. Relentless.
The assassins were close.
The knight sprinted through narrow streets slick with rain and mud.
His armored boots splashed through puddles
He dashed between abandoned carts.
Lantern light flickered across the dark steel plates of his armor, revealing deep dents and scratches earned in a recent battle.
The infant in his arms cried weakly, Its small fingers clutching at the soaked linen cloth.
Steel scraped against stone as the knight turned sharply into a narrow alley.
Dead end.
A high stone wall blocked his path.
No doors. No windows. No escape.
His breath came in ragged gasps. His legs trembled. His vision blurred.
Still, he did not look back.
He looked down.
At the child.
The baby's eyes, a deep and vibrant purple. Were wide. Unknowing. Innocent.
Catching the torchlight like tiny stars.
The knight knelt. Slowly. Carefully.
From beneath his armor, he drew a small bundle.
A pendant. Silver. Polished. Etched with the sigil of a royal house.
Beside it, folded in wax-sealed parchment,
lay a royal decree.
He pressed both gently into the infant's blanket.
He whispered softly:
"Live. Even if I cannot."
The baby stilled, as if he understood.
Rain slid down the knight's helmet.
Dripped from the edge of his visor.
Torchlight flickered across the polished silver pendant now resting beside the child, its royal sigil briefly glowing before darkness swallowed the reflection.
Footsteps echoed closer.
Metal whispered from sheaths.
The assassins had found him.
The knight rose.
He drew his sword.
Once.
No hesitation. No fear. Only duty.
He stepped forward.
The alley was narrow.
The tall stone walls trapping shadows and rain alike.
At the far end, dark figures emerged from the mist.
Five assassins cloaked in black.
Their movements smooth and predatory.
They came like wolves.
The alley erupted into violence.
One leapt forward.
The knight's sword flashed upward.
Steel met flesh in a brutal arc, cutting the attacker from the air before he even touched the ground.
Blood splashed against the alley wall.
Another rushed from the side.
A blade slid between the knight's armor plates and pierced his side.
He roared — a sound of pain and fury.
And drove his sword straight through the attacker's throat.
A third assassin threw a dagger.
It struck his shoulder with a dull thud.
His armor split under repeated strikes.
Ribs cracked beneath blows meant to break him.
Still, the knight did not slow.
The assassin lunged.
The knight answered with iron.
His armored fist shot forward.
The heavy gauntlet smashed into the assassin's skull.
The man collapsed instantly, crumpling against the wet stone.
Another attacker lunged.
The knight caught him by the collar.
Slammed his head against the alley wall.
The impact echoing sharply through the narrow passage.
Time vanished.
Only the clash of steel remained.
And the sound of dying men.
Then silence claimed the alley.
When the battle ended, the alley had become a grave.
Three assassins lay dead in twisted shapes across the mud.
Two more crawled away through the rain.
Broken and bleeding.
The knight stood alone.
Barely.
His sword slipped from his fingers and clattered against the stones.
He dropped to one knee.
Then to both.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the corner where the infant lay hidden beneath cloth and shadow.
A faint sound reached him.
Breathing.
Alive.
A small smile touched the corner of his lips.
Then his eyes went dark.
The knight collapsed against the cold stone wall.
Rain slowly washing the blood from his armor.
Dawn came quietly, hesitant, as if ashamed of what it revealed.
Hours later, a small caravan approached the ruined street.
Merchants, wagons, and a handful of guards traveling the muddy road.
At their head rode a tall knight clad in worn steel armor and a dark blue cloak.
Sir Gavin Soulbane.
Even seated on horseback.
He was imposing.
Nearly two meters tall, broad-shouldered.
Built like a veteran warrior.
He carried the weight of decades of battle on his frame.
His armor was darkened from years of use, its surface scarred with dents and scratches that no blacksmith had bothered to fully repair.
Beneath his open helm was a weathered face. Short dark hair streaked with gray clung to his head.
A rough stubble beard framed his jaw.
Thin scars crossed his skin.
One across his brow.
Another along his cheek.
Reminders of blades that had once come too close.
His sharp blue eyes scanned the street ahead.
He raised a gauntleted hand.
"Halt."
The caravan stopped.
Bodies lay scattered across the road ahead.
Too many.
Too organized.
Too deliberate.
"This wasn't bandits," Gavin muttered.
He dismounted and stepped forward alone.
The smell hit first — iron, rot, smoke.
He knelt beside the fallen knight in the alley.
His eyes widened.
"Kingsguard..."
The armor bore the unmistakable insignia of the royal guard —
a symbol reserved for only the most trusted protectors of the crown.
Why was one dead here?
Why alone?
Why hidden?
Gavin searched the alley slowly.
Then he heard it.
A tiny sound.
Crying.
He followed it deeper into the shadows.
He pushed aside broken crates.
There, curled among the ruins, was a baby.
Cold. Shaking. Alive.
Gavin froze.
He lifted the child carefully into his arms.
The infant was small and pale.
Its face red from crying.
Gavin wrapped the child gently in his cloak to warm him.
Then he noticed the objects tucked within the blanket.
The silver pendant.
The sealed decree.
He read the royal seal.
His breath caught.
"Valeris…?"
He glanced back toward the dead Kingsguard.
Understanding dawned.
"You died for him," Gavin whispered.
Behind him, the merchants whispered nervously.
"I heard the King fled the palace..."
Gavin's jaw tightened.
"Nobles fighting among themselves again...
no wonder the streets run red tonight," he muttered.
"A child," Gavin said softly.
"Abandoned and alone. We can't leave him."
He looked down at the boy in his arms, rain dripping from the edge of his beard.
"A kingdom that abandons its children has already lost its honor."
No one argued.
Gavin mounted his horse again.
The infant safely wrapped against his chest.
He looked once toward the ruined city.
"No... too dangerous to return now."
"If assassins came for him once,
they will come again."
He adjusted the cloak around the boy.
And in that moment, Sir Gavin Soulbane made a decision that would change both of their lives forever.
That night, beside a small fire beneath the open sky, Gavin looked down at the sleeping infant in his arms.
The decree lay unfolded beside him.
The royal seal was real.
The pendant glinted softly in the firelight.
Both would one day guide the child's path.
Gavin folded the decree carefully and hid it within his armor.
"If they want you," he murmured quietly,
"they'll never find you."
He looked down at the boy.
And gave him a name.
Elyvar.
One day, the boy would learn the truth.
That the blood spilled in the streets that night...
was only the beginning.
Somewhere beyond the kingdom's borders, powerful enemies had already set their plans in motion.
And the child sleeping peacefully in Gavin's arms...
was the one they had come to kill.
End of Prologue