Something was born… and yet, fate did not bend.
The tremor spread across creation. Palaces, fortresses, and hidden halls where only the most powerful dared to dwell felt it.
And then—
A letter appeared.
Not carried. Not delivered. Not written by mortal hand. It simply was.
Parchment woven of shadow and light, sealed with an ancient mark. When touched, it spoke in a voice that was not a voice at all:
"You have been summoned.
The Umbral Blades are called.
Will you attend?
Yes, or no."
In the kingdom of Araveth, lightning tore across the sky as soldiers flooded the great hall. A parchment floated in front of the throne — burning itself to dust before the king's eyes.
The man who sat there rose slowly. His aura rolled like a storm, shaking the stone walls until torches flickered and tapestries fell.
"So… the Veythar Empire dares to stir again."
A captain knelt before him, head low.
"Yes, my lord. And I've heard that the Nine Blades of Velrath are gathering."
The king's hand clenched around the armrest of his throne. His voice deepened. "I see. Is there more?"
The captain hesitated.
"Yes. They attacked one of our border outposts… twenty minutes ago."
The king's eyes narrowed. The torches dimmed as the pressure of his power filled the room. Cracks formed along the marble floor, and lightning coiled through the air like living veins.
He stood fully, his cloak snapping from the surge of energy.
"Tell Araveth to come back to the land." His voice thundered through the hall. "Send word to every division. If the Blades of Velrath move, we will meet them head-on."
The air trembled as golden light burst from his body. His power filled the hall, cracking marble and bending steel. Guards struggled to breathe, faces pale under the pressure.
When the storm subsided, the ruler's eyes glowed like molten gold. "Go."
The captain fled, boots echoing down the hall.
Far beyond Araveth, in the kingdom of Reseten — a city of towering spires built from black marble and silver veins — silence fell as the same letters appeared before every throne. The rulers of ten nations received the same call.
Each parchment bore the same mark: a blade piercing through a ring of eclipse.
The summons of The Umbral Blades.
Reseten was chosen as the meeting ground — a neutral fortress where no army dared to draw its weapon. Its walls shimmered with runes that swallowed all sound and light from the outside world.
Inside the great hall, ten thrones formed a circle around a black table. Candles burned with blue fire, casting their glow on figures cloaked in power. Some wore crowns, others masks, but all bore the same weight — rulers of nations bound by secrecy and fear.
They had gathered only once before in recorded history. And now, once again, the call had come.
Then, the chamber doors creaked open once more.
No servant entered.
A shadowed figure stepped inside — tall, calm, every motion deliberate. One hand rested behind his back. The other lay across his chest, gloved, as he bowed slightly — the ancient gesture of the old eastern kingdoms. His head lowered just enough to show respect, but not submission.
"Your Majesty," his voice was deep, steady, almost melodic. "Thank you… for allowing me to hold this meeting within your kingdom."
He straightened, his golden eyes catching the torchlight, then turned toward the circle of rulers seated around the obsidian table.
"And to you all… thank you for coming."
The hall was silent. Every ruler watched the faint red glow of the blade at his hip.
Then, one of them whispered—
"That sword… it cannot be…"
The blade glimmered dark red, black steel veined with crimson light — jagged, alive, as though it had bitten through gods themselves.
"That is Nerthul, the Severed Fang," one ruler whispered. "There are only two such blades in existence."
The man said nothing. His calm was unsettling, his presence heavier than any aura released that night. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
The King of Araveth leaned forward. "You carry that blade, yet your face is unknown to me. Tell me, stranger — who are you?"
The figure's golden eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Names are temporary," he said quietly. "What matters… is purpose."
He stepped closer to the table. The light shifted around him, bending slightly, as though refusing to touch his form.
"The purpose," he continued, "is why you're all here."
Every ruler tensed. None dared speak first.
He looked around the table — from the Stormlord to the Warden of Ice, from the God-King's empty seat to the masked sovereigns of distant lands.
"War," he said at last. "The balance has shifted again. And if The Umbral Blades remain divided… everything you rule will burn."
No one answered. Only the hum of blue fire filled the room.
Outside, thunder rolled over Reseten.
End of Chapter 3