The sky over Valmair was ablaze.
Crimson flames licked the heavens as the once-proud banners of the kingdom were reduced to ash. Screams echoed through the capital, Valios, as steel clashed and buildings crumbled beneath the weight of betrayal. Jyn Argren, son of King Alric, stood at the center of the chaos, the broken hilt of the legendary sword Elthan clenched tightly in his hand.
His silver hair was matted with soot and blood, his breath ragged as he ran through the smoke-filled streets. All around him, soldiers of the kingdom were being cut down — not by foreign invaders, but by traitors from within.
"To the citadel!" someone shouted.
But Jyn knew it was already too late. The outer gates had fallen within hours, and the enemy — led by the once-trusted general Kilma Krauss — now marched unchallenged toward the throne.
Jyn turned a corner and saw it — the keep, its towers burning. And at its foot, his father, King Alric, standing atop the stairs, holding Elthan… until the blade shattered in a burst of dark energy.
They called it the Sword of Will — Elthan. A blade that only the true heir of Valmair could wield. For generations, it had protected the realm. And now, it lay in pieces.
Jyn staggered forward, the weight of failure pressing on his chest. Beside the king, the royal guards fell one by one, overwhelmed by shadowed knights in blackened armor. Kilma Krauss stood among them, his own sword glowing with a strange, red light.
"You're too late, boy," Kilma spat, stepping over the body of a fallen knight. "Your father's reign ends tonight."
"No," Jyn whispered. He raised the broken sword. "Valmair… still stands."
With a cry, he charged — but the broken Elthan was no match. Krauss blocked his strike effortlessly and knocked Jyn back with a single blow. He hit the stone hard, blood dripping from his forehead.
"Run," Alric rasped. "This isn't your battle. Not yet."
"But Father—"
"Live… and reclaim the flame."
The explosion tore the sky asunder.
Jyn awoke hours later, buried beneath rubble, his ears ringing. The flames had died down, but smoke still choked the sky. He pulled himself free and looked around. Valios was gone. His home, his family — destroyed.
And in his hand, still, the broken hilt of Elthan.
He remembered his father's words. The sword was never just a weapon. It was a key. One of seven.
Long ago, before the kingdom was united, seven swords were forged by ancient hands — each imbued with a strange and terrible power. Elthan, the Sword of Will, was one. The others had been lost to time, scattered across the warring kingdoms.
Now, Jyn knew what he had to do.
He buried his father with trembling hands beneath a charred tree — one of the few still standing. He left no grave marker, no crown. Just the piece of Elthan pressed into the soil.
Then he walked away — from the ruins, from the past — toward exile, vengeance, and the swords.
But the road was not empty.
A shadow watched him from a crumbled tower, one eye gleaming beneath a dark hood. The figure vanished before Jyn could spot him, disappearing into the night.
The hunt had begun.
Far from Valios, deep in the forests of Eldren Vale, a campfire crackled. Around it sat three strangers — a thief with quick hands, a mercenary with blood on his boots, and a woman whose eyes glowed faintly with power.
They spoke of a boy carrying a broken sword.
"Think he's still alive?" the thief asked.
"If he is," the woman said, "the world just changed."
The path to the swords would not be straight.
Each kingdom guarded its blade — not only with armies but with ancient trials, forgotten magic, and leaders unwilling to give up their power. And each sword came at a cost. To wield its power, one had to pay.
Pain. Memory. Blood. Or worse.
Jyn would need allies. He would need strength beyond steel. And he would need to resist the darkness growing within him.
For each sword whispered not only power — but madness.
The sky tore like cloth as a massive shadow descended — not a dragon, not a beast — but a cloaked figure mounted on something twisted by dark sorcery. Its presence silenced the battlefield. Even the bravest knights faltered.
Jyn looked up, frozen. The figure raised a black staff toward the keep. A surge of dark energy blasted the highest tower — the king's hall — into rubble.
"No!" Jyn screamed, sprinting toward the stairs.
Through the smoke, he found his father bleeding beneath stone and flame. The crown rolled from Alric's head and clinked beside Elthan's shattered hilt — now cracked in two.
Alric's breath was shallow. "The sword… It chose you, Jyn…"
Tears mixed with ash on Jyn's face as he knelt beside his dying father.
"You must run… Find the others… The swords… They were meant to be together."
"Father—"
"Live, Jyn. Carry Valmair's will."
Then the king's eyes dulled, and his hand fell.
Jyn took the broken sword and ran — not away from the fire, but toward a future unknown. Toward the legend that would one day be called:
The Banner of Shame.