The Kingdom of Lionheart was a land of rolling golden fields and towering stone castles, where knights rode with banners high and nobles feasted in halls of polished oak. In the small town of Eldwick, nestled at the edge of a crumbling keep, the Sev family manor stood on a low hill, its walls weathered but proud.
Inside, nineteen-year-old Klaus Sev lounged in a velvet chair, his boots propped on a table carved with lions. He was the youngest son of Baron Alric Sev, a minor noble whose name outshone his wealth.
Klaus had his father's sharp jaw and dark, wavy hair, but his green eyes carried a lazy glint that made servants scurry and nobles whisper.
"Wine!" Klaus called, snapping his fingers at a maid hovering near the door. She was young, barely sixteen, with hands that shook as she gripped a silver pitcher. A drop of red wine splashed onto the tablecloth, missing his goblet.
"Clumsy fool," Klaus said, his voice sharp but tinged with a smirk. "Spill on my boots, and you'll be mucking stables till winter.
The maid, Lila, blushed and stammered, "Sorry, my lord." She wiped the table with a rag, her movements quick and nervous, before fleeing the room.
Klaus chuckled, sipping the sour wine. He didn't care about her name or her fear. Servants were meant to obey. That was how the world worked.
The manor's dining hall was quiet, save for the crackle of a fire in the hearth. Tall windows let in the afternoon sun, casting light across tapestries of knights slaying dragons—tales Klaus had heard a hundred times and ignored.
Why bother with stories of heroes when he was a noble? People bowed to him, even if their smiles hid contempt. The townsfolk called him the "lazy lord" behind his back. He'd overheard it once, from a baker's boy, and laughed. Let them talk. His title made him untouchable.
Outside, Eldwick's market buzzed with life. Merchants shouted about fresh apples and woven cloth, while children chased a stray dog through the dirt. Klaus yawned, bored. Another dull day in a dull town.
His father was at a council meeting, likely begging the duke for more land or coin. His older brother, Torren, was training with the knights, swinging swords like the perfect son.
Klaus had no interest in swords or councils. Life was easy. Why work when the world already bent to his name?He was about to call for another bottle when the ground shook. A low rumble, like a giant's growl, rolled through the manor.
The wine in his goblet rippled, and a plate slid off the table, shattering on the stone floor. Klaus sat up, frowning.
"What in the blazes—?"Another quake hit, stronger this time.
The chandelier swayed, its candles flickering wildly. Shouts erupted outside, sharp and panicked. Klaus stood, brushing crumbs off his fine blue tunic, and strode to the window. The market had frozen. People stood like statues, their faces turned upward, eyes wide with fear.
High above, the sky was breaking. The clouds didn't part—they tore, as if a blade had slashed them open. A red glow pulsed through the gap, bright and angry, like blood spilling from a wound. Klaus's mouth went dry. He'd seen storms, even ones that split trees with lightning, but this was different. This was wrong.
"Guards!" he shouted, his voice cracking. No one answered. The manor felt empty, the air heavy with a strange heat. Klaus grabbed his cloak from a chair and stormed toward the door, his boots echoing on the stone. He didn't know what was happening, but he wasn't going to sit and wait.
The market square was chaos. People ran, shoving each other, their baskets of bread and fruit abandoned in the dirt. A horse galloped past, its rider thrown, its eyes wild with terror. Klaus pushed through the crowd, his heart pounding.
"Move!" he snapped, elbowing a merchant who stumbled into him. The man didn't argue—he was too busy staring at the sky.
"What's happening?" Klaus grabbed a butcher, his apron stained with blood. The butcher's face was pale, his eyes fixed upward.
"The sky, my lord!" he stammered, pointing.
"It's… it's alive!"
Klaus looked up. The red glow had spread, painting the clouds scarlet. Shapes moved within it—massive, impossible shapes.
One was a winged creature, its feathers glowing like molten gold, its body radiating light. Another was a hulking beast, its skin wreathed in black flames, with horns that curved like scythes. Their roars shook the earth, louder than any thunder Klaus had ever heard.
He stumbled back, his arrogance gone. This wasn't a storm. This was a war.
The air crackled with power. A golden beam shot from the winged creature, slicing through the sky like a spear. The horned beast roared and swung a claw the size of a barn, sending a wave of fire crashing toward its foe.
The flames missed, but they hit the hills beyond Eldwick, and the ground exploded in a shower of earth and smoke. The heat slammed into Klaus, stinging his face like a whip. He ducked behind a cart, his breath ragged, his fine cloak now dusted with ash.
"Gods…" he whispered. Were these gods? Demons? Archangels? His tutors had droned about such beings—myths of cosmic battles and divine wrath. Klaus had rolled his eyes, thinking them stories for fools.
But now, watching the sky burn, he wasn't sure. These creatures weren't myths. They were real, and they were tearing the world apart.
Screams filled the square. A woman ran, clutching a child, only to trip as another quake shook the ground. A stray bolt of light from the sky struck the blacksmith's shop, and it erupted in flames. Wood and iron flew like arrows, and Klaus dove behind the cart again, shielding his face as debris rained down. The air smelled of smoke and scorched stone.
He should run. Every part of him screamed it. His legs trembled, urging him to flee to the manor, to hide like a child. But he couldn't move. The battle above was terrifying, yes, but also… incredible.
The power those creatures wielded was beyond knights, beyond kings, beyond anything human. Klaus's heart raced, not just with fear, but with something new. Envy. If he had that power, no one would dare mock him. No one would whisper "lazy lord" or laugh behind his back.
A shadow fell over the square, heavy and cold. Klaus looked up and froze. The black-winged creature was descending, its body like cracked stone, its wings blotting out the sun. Its eyes—burning coals—locked on him. He felt it, like a blade piercing his chest. Those eyes saw everything: his laziness, his arrogance, his uselessness. The shame burned hotter than the fire in the sky, sharper than any insult.
He wanted to scream, to beg, to run. But before he could, the golden-winged creature dove from the clouds, its body blazing with light. It slammed into the black-winged beast, and their clash sent a shockwave through Eldwick.
Roofs collapsed, sending tiles crashing to the ground. Trees snapped like twigs. Klaus scrambled behind a stone wall, his hands shaking, his breath coming in gasps.
The two creatures fought above the town, their blows shaking the earth. The golden one wielded a spear of light, each thrust splitting the air with a crack like thunder. The black-winged beast countered with claws and fire, its roars so loud they made Klaus's ears ring.
The sky churned, red and gold mixing in a storm of power. Below, Eldwick burned. Houses crumbled, and the screams of the townsfolk grew fainter as more fled toward the gates.
Klaus crawled through the smoke, his fine tunic torn, his hands scraped raw from the cobblestones. He wasn't brave—he knew that. He'd never been the hero in anyone's story. But he wasn't stupid either. Staying here meant death.
He staggered to his feet, dodging a falling beam, and ran toward the edge of the square. The manor was too far, its walls likely crumbling like the rest. His only chance was the forest beyond the town walls, where the trees might shield him.
The streets were a maze of chaos. People pushed past him, their faces streaked with soot and tears. A child sat crying beside a broken cart, but Klaus didn't stop. He couldn't.
His chest burned, his legs ached, but he kept running until the cobblestones gave way to dirt and the forest loomed ahead. The trees were tall and gnarled, their branches forming a dark canopy. Klaus stumbled inside, collapsing against an oak, his breath ragged.
The sky was still visible through the leaves, flashes of gold and red lighting the horizon. The roars of the creatures echoed, but they were fainter now, as if the battle was moving away. Klaus sat there, his body shaking, his cloak smeared with mud and ash. He was alive. Barely.
He closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart. The shame from that creature's gaze lingered, like a splinter under his skin. All his life, people had looked at him the same way. The baker's boy who called him lazy. The knights who smirked when he skipped training.
Even his father, whose sighs carried disappointment. Klaus had laughed it off, hiding behind his title. But those creatures in the sky didn't care about titles. They were power, raw and untouchable. And they'd seen him for what he was: nothing.
As he sat there, a strange heat bloomed in his chest—not fear, not shame, but something else. His vision blurred, and for a moment, the forest faded. Glowing runes, golden and sharp, appeared in his mind's eye, floating like embers. A voice, deep and resonant, echoed in his head, not his own:
[The Mark of Ascendancy awakens. The Path of the Unbowed begins.]
Klaus gasped, clutching his chest. The runes vanished, and the voice fell silent, but his heart pounded harder. What was that? A hallucination? A trick of fear? He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the words lingered. The Path of the Unbowed. They felt heavy, like a promise or a curse. He didn't understand, but they stirred something in him—a hunger he'd never felt before.
He stood, wiping blood from his scraped hands onto his cloak. The forest was quiet now, the air cool against his sweat-soaked skin. The battle in the sky was fading, the red glow dimming to a faint ember.
Whatever those creatures were—gods, demons, archangels—they were leaving. But they'd left something behind. That voice, those runes… they were part of him now.
Klaus clenched his fists, the cuts on his hands stinging. The shame still burned, but so did a new fire. He wanted that power—the kind those creatures had, the kind that made the world tremble. He wanted to make every noble, every knight, every god bow to him. The thought was wild, impossible, but it gripped him like a fever.
He'd heard stories of cultivation, whispered in taverns and written in dusty scrolls. Men and women who trained their bodies and minds to wield magic, to become stronger than steel, faster than wind. Lionheart was full of such tales, though Klaus had dismissed them as nonsense for peasants and dreamers.
Now, he wasn't so sure. If gods could fight in the sky, maybe he could rise to meet them. Maybe this Mark of Ascendancy was the key.
The forest path led back to Eldwick, but Klaus didn't hurry. The town would be in ruins, his father probably raging, his brother playing the hero. Let them.
Klaus didn't care about their approval anymore. He'd find a way to grow stronger—teachers, magic, secrets, whatever it took. The world would know his name, not as the lazy son of a minor noble, but as a force no one could ignore.
He stepped out of the forest, his boots crunching on the dirt. The first stars appeared in the sky, faint against the fading glow of the battle. Eldwick lay ahead, its smoke rising like a dark promise.
Klaus straightened, his green eyes sharp with purpose. The voice in his head was silent now, but he felt its weight. The Path of the Unbowed had begun, and he would walk it, no matter the cost.