The doors to the vault were not meant to impress—no gilding, no carved saints or roaring beasts—only iron-bound oak, their grain darkened by centuries. Two guards in black-and-silver stood motionless on either side. They did not speak as Kaelen approached; they only lowered their halberds in silent recognition.
Inside, the air was heavy—thick with the musk of old stone and the faint bite of rust. Dust motes drifted like lazy fireflies in the shaft of light that spilled through a narrow slit high in the wall. The Vault of Crowns was more crypt than treasury, its shelves lined with the possessions of kings who had ruled before Kaelen was born, before even his grandfather's grandfather had drawn breath.
Each relic was shrouded in time's neglect—velvet wrappings frayed to threads, silver dulled to ash-gray, wood blackened with age. No courtier came here unless ordered; no servant lingered longer than duty demanded.
Kaelen stepped between the shelves with measured tread. His eyes roamed over the relics—scepters with cracked jewels, armor too ornate to have ever seen battle, scrolls whose seals had crumbled to powder.
And there, resting on a stand of blackwood, lay the Sunborn Sword.
Its blade was long, its metal pale as moonlight even beneath centuries of dust. Along the fuller, faint runes coiled like vines—so worn they seemed ready to vanish if one stared too hard. The crossguard was shaped like outstretched wings, the pommel a small sunburst worked in tarnished gold. Time had not dulled its dignity; if anything, it looked as though it had been sleeping, waiting.
Kaelen reached out, his fingers brushing the grip. The leather, though cracked, was still supple. A faint shiver ran through him—no heat, no cold, but a sense of something ancient recognizing him.
"Your Majesty?"
The voice broke the moment. Renic stood in the doorway, helm under his arm, the scent of rain clinging to his cloak.
"A letter from the eastern watch," Renic said, holding out a wax-sealed scroll. "The rider collapsed in the courtyard. Said he rode three days without stopping."
Kaelen took it, the seal snapping with a sharp crack.
The parchment was stiff with cold and damp, but the ink within was legible:
To His Majesty, Kaelen Valerius, King of Saerath
The eastern forts report increased demon activity beyond the Black Ranges. Scouts claim to have sighted a warhost—numbers unknown—bearing the banner of the Demon Lord himself. These are not raids. They move as an army. Refugees have begun to cross the passes. The fortress at Ironridge remains weakened from the last siege; repairs are still incomplete and without reinforcement, it will fall.
—Signed, Captain Darion Vey, Commander of the Eastern Watch
Kaelen folded the letter slowly, then looked to Renic. "Summon the council tonight."
The Council Chamber was a half-moon of black oak tables, polished so fine they mirrored the candlelight. Each seat bore the sigil of its holder's office—lion for the Lord Marshal, open book for the Chancellor, sunburst for the High Priest's representative. The vaulted ceiling soared so high it disappeared into shadow, the beams carved into winged gryphons, their talons clutching the weight of the roof as if it were prey.
Kaelen stood at the head, his cloak still damp from the courtyard rain. The map of the east lay unfurled on the central table, its edges weighted with brass wolf-head paperweights. The inked lines of the Saerath Empire's borders twisted like rivers of blood under the flickering light.
Lord Marshal Hadrien, broad-shouldered and steel-bearded, planted both hands on the table.
"Sire, we've known the demons would test our eastern forts again—but in these numbers? You'll be stripping the heartland to defend the border."
Chancellor Merov's thin lips pressed together like a miser closing a coin purse.
"The treasury bleeds faster than the soldiers, Your Majesty. Walls and swords do not sprout from stone. I urge—restraint."
Across the table, High Priest Althar's envoy, a lean man in white-gold vestments, folded his hands in patient disdain.
"The Faith warns that in chasing war, one may lose the favor of the Sun God. If the eastern lands fall, perhaps it is His will they be cleansed."
The words drew a few dark glances, but no one dared interrupt.
Kaelen's gaze was level, his fingers tracing the demon markers on the map—black iron tokens shaped like claws, thirty-seven of them now in a slow march toward Saerath's border. He let the murmurs fade before speaking.
"If the east falls, they will not stop at the riverlands. They will come here to your cities, to your churches and also to your coffers."
Renic leaned forward, gauntleted hand braced on the table.
"The fortress wall at Ironridge is still fractured from the last siege. The demons will head for it first. If they breach it, they'll pour through the mountain passes like rot through an open wound."
Kaelen nodded. "Then we rebuild that wall before they arrive."
What followed was a swirl of maps, ink, and arguments.
Lord Marshal Hadrien demanded immediate deployment of three legions to the east. Chancellor Merov balked, claiming the harvest levy was already straining the farmers. The High Priest's envoy hinted that the Faith could supply coin—but only if the King swore to honor the Faith's role in choosing the eastern garrison commanders.
Kaelen's jaw tightened. That was a chain around his neck he would not wear.
"The command stays with my officers," he said, cutting short the bargain.
Renic suggested using the river fords to funnel the enemy into narrow killing grounds. His finger tapped a point on the map where two tributaries met at a choke-point fortress named Stoneveil. "It's old, but its foundations are true. If we set traps along the ridges—fire oil, collapsing palisades—we could cut their numbers before they ever see the walls."
Kaelen's eyes lit faintly at the idea. "Mark it. We'll make them pay for every step."
Still, unease lingered. Even in the candlelight, Kaelen saw sweat bead at the Chancellor's temple, saw the High Priest's envoy tapping a gold ring against the table in restless cadence. None of them wanted to believe what the map showed: war, not skirmishes, was coming.
Hours later, the council dismissed, Kaelen found himself alone in the Map Vault—a narrow, windowless chamber where the scent of parchment and lamp oil clung to the air like dust in sunlight.
The eastern map was spread before him again, but now no voices argued over it, no fingers pointed. The silence was thick enough that he could hear the faint hiss of the oil lamp's wick.
He studied the black tokens marking the demon advance. His hand rested on one in particular, set apart from the others—a vanguard symbol, smaller but positioned far ahead of the main army.
Why was it so far ahead? A scouting party? A distraction?
He picked up the letter again—and noticed something. The parchment had two folds, not one.
Flattening it carefully, he brought it close to the lamplight. A faint shimmer appeared along the crease—writing so fine it was almost invisible, as if written in powdered pearl.
"Not all who march under the Demon Lord's banner do so willingly. Watch the cliffs when the moon bleeds, and you will know your ally."
Kaelen's pulse quickened. Was this from the spy… or from someone else entirely? The tone was different—personal, urgent.
Moon bleeds, or an eclipse? Or something more arcane?
He remembered the masked figure in the mountain pass months ago—eyes like lanterns through fog—watching but not striking.
Outside, the bells of Valeryn tolled the hour. From the palace balcony, Kaelen looked eastward. The horizon was invisible in the night, but in his mind he saw the black tide moving—an army of claws and teeth, a shadow rolling toward Saerath.
Renic joined him, silent for a moment before speaking.
"Orders are in motion, Sire. Stoneveil will be fortified within the fortnight."
Kaelen nodded but kept his gaze fixed on the dark.
"Fortify the wall, Renic… but keep riders in the passes. If the cliffs have eyes, I want to know whose they are before they're staring down our throats."
Far beyond the city lights, a wolf howled—too distant to be a real threat, but close enough to stir the same tension in Kaelen's gut that the letter had left there.
Somewhere out there, an ally—or an enemy pretending to be one—was waiting for the moon to bleed.
To be continued…