The battlefield was quiet for a breath, save for Gareth's trembling sobs. His sword shook in his grip, his tears cutting lines through the dust and blood on his face.
Yet, he stood.
Captain Ryn, battered and bleeding, glanced at him with weary eyes that burned with something more than pain — pride.
Shalkeer tilted his head, dark helm reflecting the crimson eclipse he had chained above. For the first time, his voice carried a trace of curiosity.
"So, even the trembling ones dare to stand. Tell me, boy… what are you fighting for?"
Gareth's lips quivered, but he lifted his blade higher.
"…Because if I run again, I'll never forgive myself."
Shalkeer chuckled, a low sound like iron grinding against stone.
"Resolve built from guilt? Hmph. Let us see how long it burns."
With that, the warrior of demons surged forward — and the battle truly began.
The battlefield was silent for a single breath. Dust floated like ash. Dozens of Sunstead soldiers lay broken, their blood soaking into the earth. Only three figures still stood — Gareth, Captain Ryn, and Shalkeer.
Gareth's body shook. His knees screamed to collapse, his lungs burned, and tears blurred his sight. But still, he raised his blade.
"I… I mean something," Gareth whispered, voice cracking, but his words echoing louder than the clash of steel that had raged moments ago.
Ryn, bloodied and leaning on his sword, managed the faintest smile.
"…Then stand with me, student."
Shalkeer tilted his head, black helm glinting in the light of the crimson eclipse he had chained in the sky. His voice was curious, almost amused.
"So, the boy bleeds resolve. Tell me, what drives a trembling hand to face certain death?"
Gareth swallowed, his eyes wide with fear, but he did not look away.
"…Because I ran before. Because I left them to die. If I run again… I'll never forgive myself."
For a long moment, the battlefield seemed to hold its breath. Then Shalkeer chuckled — a low, resonant sound, like stone grinding against iron.
"Resolve built from guilt… fragile, yet burning. Let us see if it can survive the weight of truth."
With a blur, Shalkeer moved. His blade descended like a storm. Gareth raised his sword with both trembling hands, barely parrying the blow. The force hurled him backwards, his boots carving trenches in the earth.
"Too slow," Shalkeer muttered, stepping forward, each strike deliberate, merciless.
But Ryn was there. Despite his wounds, he intercepted the next blow, his blade sparking as it clashed with Shalkeer's.
"Stand your ground, Gareth! Fear means nothing if you don't move through it!"
The boy gritted his teeth, charging back into the fray. His attacks were sloppy, desperate, but for the first time, he wasn't backing away. Every swing carried the weight of his tears, his guilt, his longing to be more.
Shalkeer deflected the strikes with ease, yet something in his stance shifted. His voice grew quieter, almost thoughtful.
"You cry, you falter, yet you press forward. Why? What do you think you will change, boy?"
"I don't know!" Gareth shouted, tears flying from his face. "But running never changed anything! This time… I'll stand!"
The air itself seemed to tremble.
For the first time, Shalkeer pushed harder. Dark energy surged through his blade, a magic older than the sun itself. With a sweep, he carved a fissure in the ground, the earth itself groaning under the weight of his power.
Gareth stumbled, staring at the abyss cut before him. Ryn coughed blood, yet kept his stance firm.
"Do not falter, Gareth. If you mean something… show it. To me. To yourself."
And so Gareth did. His scream tore from his throat as he charged into Shalkeer's shadow, tears streaking down his face, fear twisting in his chest — yet his blade struck true, a spark cutting through the dark.
The blow did not pierce Shalkeer's armor, but it forced him a single step back.
Silence.
Then, for the first time, Shalkeer's voice carried not mockery… but recognition.
"…A spark."
Gareth's sword rattled in his hands from the recoil of the clash. His arms screamed, his vision swam, but still he stepped forward.
Shalkeer tilted his head. "You cannot even scratch me, boy. Yet you advance. Why?"
"Because… because if I stop, I'll never move again!" Gareth shouted, rushing forward with another clumsy strike.
The blade was parried with effortless precision. Shalkeer's counter cut grazed Gareth's cheek, spilling blood. The boy staggered—then surged forward again.
Again and again, his strikes fell. Again and again, they were knocked aside. His body faltered, his knees buckled, but he refused to fall.
Ryn watched, chest heaving, sweat and blood dripping down his brow. For the first time in years, something stirred in him — pride.
"…That's it, Gareth. Break yourself if you must, but don't stop."
Shalkeer's strikes came heavier now, not out of cruelty but as if testing the boy. Each swing rang like thunder, shaking Gareth's fragile arms. His shoulders tore, his fingers split open on the hilt, yet still he raised his weapon.
"Why do you persist?" Shalkeer demanded, his voice echoing across the empty battlefield. "Your body betrays you. Your fear consumes you. You have no hope of victory. So tell me—why fight a war already lost?"
"I don't need hope!" Gareth screamed, blood and tears mixing on his face. "I just need to keep going!"
He charged once more, his sword dragging sparks across the earth before he leapt, swinging wildly. Shalkeer blocked, but this time Gareth's force pushed him back another step.
A silence fell, broken only by Gareth's ragged breathing. His legs trembled violently, ready to collapse. Yet in his eyes burned something raw, untamed — a refusal to break.
For the first time, Shalkeer paused. His stance shifted, ever so slightly, as though acknowledging the boy. His voice, low and heavy, slipped out like a confession.
"…Perhaps you are more than ash after all."
Gareth raised his sword again, chest heaving. His voice cracked, but he roared through the tears:
"I'll fight again! As many times as it takes! Until I stand for something more!"
And with that, he threw himself into Shalkeer's shadow once more, battered and broken — yet unyielding.
The battlefield shook as Shalkeer swung his blade down with crushing force. Gareth raised his sword, but his arms failed him—his knees buckled and he was driven into the dirt.
"Still standing," Shalkeer muttered, peering down with cold, almost curious eyes. "But only barely. You are not enough."
Gareth's body screamed in agony. His fingers barely clung to the hilt. His chest burned with each breath. His vision blurred—Captain Ryn's broken figure, the crimson-soaked ground, the towering shadow of Shalkeer.
He wanted to quit. Every instinct begged him to collapse.
But then a memory cut through the haze—Ryn standing before him like an unmovable wall, shielding him with his own battered body.
"Break yourself if you must, but don't stop."
Gareth's teeth clenched. His lips bled as he whispered:
"I… mean… something…"
Shalkeer raised his weapon, a dark gleam flashing as he prepared the final strike. But just as the blade descended—
—something snapped. No, not snapped. Awakened.
A surge erupted from Gareth's chest, raw and untamed. His sword, moments ago a dull hunk of steel, flared with searing light. The ground beneath him cracked, winds whipping in a spiral.
Ryn's eyes widened. "Magic…?"
Shalkeer halted mid-strike, his burning gaze narrowing. "So the flame stirs after all."
Blue fire licked across Gareth's blade, unstable, flickering wildly as though born from desperation itself. His trembling hands steadied—not because the pain vanished, but because something deeper held him up.
Gareth screamed as he swung upward, his sword carving a blazing arc that forced Shalkeer to step back. For the first time, the warrior's expression shifted — not mockery, not disdain, but acknowledgment.
The flames roared, reflecting in Gareth's tear-filled eyes.
"I'll fight until I burn away!" he cried, his voice breaking. "Because if I fall now, then Ryn's shield… those three I abandoned… it will all mean nothing!"
Shalkeer blocked, sparks and fire exploding between their blades. He pushed Gareth back but the boy held, the raw magic pouring out like a flood threatening to drown them both.
And with a low, rumbling tone, Shalkeer spoke words no one expected:
"…Good. Show me whether your flame is enough to scar the dark."
The battlefield erupted once more, steel and fire clashing against unyielding shadow.
Each clash rang louder than the last. Gareth's sword—once fragile, once unremarkable—now blazed with fire so fierce it scorched the air itself.
At first, the flames sputtered, wild and erratic. But as Gareth's heartbeat quickened, as his screams of pain became roars of defiance, the magic began to obey. It surged down his arms, wrapping him in a storm of light and heat.
Shalkeer grinned—his first true grin in centuries. "Stronger… Yes. STRONGER!"
He slammed his great blade down, expecting Gareth to crumble. Instead, the boy caught it, sparks bursting like lightning as their weapons locked. Gareth's feet dug trenches into the earth, but he did not fall. His magic howled in response, flaring brighter.
Ryn, half-conscious, looked on with tears in his eyes. That's it… That's what I wanted to see.
The longer Gareth fought, the more the fire fused with his body. His exhaustion turned into fuel. His fear sharpened into focus. Every scar, every failure, every regret ignited within him, until his sword blazed like a second sun.
"Not yet!" Gareth roared, pressing Shalkeer back. "Not until I've paid back the lives I left behind!"
The ground quaked. The sky rippled. His magic bled outward in waves—first fire, then bursts of light, then raw energy that shattered stone. He was growing, not in steps, but in leaps, each moment stronger than the last.
Shalkeer's blows came heavier, faster, but Gareth answered each one, rising to meet him, until the battlefield was nothing but fire and shadow clashing endlessly.
For the first time, Shalkeer's voice held weight, not mockery:
"You may actually become the one who can kill me."
And Gareth, flames tearing through his sword arm, eyes wet but unyielding, spat back:
"Then I'll keep fighting until I am." Wait I'm joking".
The fire around Gareth blazed brighter than ever, his sword burning like a pillar of dawn itself. His breaths came ragged, his body screaming to collapse, but still he pressed forward. For a moment, it seemed as if his defiance would never break.
Then, with a blur too sharp for mortal eyes, Shalkeer slipped past his guard. Steel kissed flesh.
"—Ahh!"
Gareth staggered, blood spilling as a savage cut tore across his back, deep and burning. He fell to one knee, his flames flickering wildly. Before Shalkeer could follow through, his blade arcing to finish the boy, Captain Ryn's battered body moved on instinct. His own sword clashed against Shalkeer's with a thunderous crack.
The impact flung Ryn back several steps, but it was enough. Gareth's flame guttered, then died. The wild magic that had shaken the battlefield burned out like a star consumed by its own fire. The sky above trembled as the false eclipse began to fade, the moon pulling free from Shalkeer's grasp. Light returned—pale, broken, but real.
Shalkeer lowered his sword. His murderous aura dimmed. He stepped back, the battlefield littered with blood and ash. For the first time, his voice softened—not in mercy, but in certainty.
"I guess I have more to learn."
He turned his back, cloak dragging across the ruined ground. As he walked into the fading shadows, his final words hung heavy in the air:
"Next time… is death."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Gareth clutched his bleeding back, trembling not from fear, but from the unbearable truth: even with his flames, even with Ryn's shield—he was not yet enough.
The battlefield reeked of iron and smoke. When Shalkeer vanished into the fading eclipse, only silence remained. But silence was cruel—it left Gareth with nothing but the sound of his own ragged breath and the sight of the fallen who would never rise again.
Days later, the funeral was held in the heart of Dawncrest. Black banners fluttered in the wind, their shadows stretching over rows of coffins draped in white cloth. Gareth stood among them, his back still bound in blood-soaked bandages, his eyes refusing to meet the faces of grieving families.
They died because of me.
The thought gnawed at him, sharper than Shalkeer's blade. He clenched his fists as the priests began their chant. Then came the final act of tradition.
High mages of the kingdom raised their staffs toward the heavens. With solemn voices, they wove ancient incantations. One by one, the coffins lifted into the air, wrapped in radiant magic. Gareth's breath caught as he watched the bodies rise higher, higher still, their forms igniting into streams of light.
The sun caught them, swallowing their sacrifice in a blaze of gold. To return to the Sun was the kingdom's oldest rite—an eternal honor, a vow that their spirits would shine upon the living forever.
Gareth's tears blurred his vision. His chest tightened, not from pain, but from shame. Why am I still here, when they are not?
Captain Ryn placed a hand on his shoulder, steady despite his wounds.
"Because you still have a path to walk," he said quietly.
When the rites were complete, the king's envoys stepped forward. Gareth, still trembling, was summoned before the court. His defiance against Shalkeer had not gone unnoticed. Though raw and broken, he had awakened something rare.
"You will be taken to the Royal Academy," the envoy declared. "There, you will learn of the world… of history, of power, and of magic. The path you choose from here will decide not only your fate, but the fate of all."
Gareth bowed his head, guilt and determination warring inside him. He thought of the fallen, of the flames that had burst from him, of Shalkeer's eyes that had marked him as prey.
And quietly, he swore—
I will not waste this life they gave me.
The kingdom of Dawncrest was unlike any other city Gareth had seen. It was not merely the capital of Highwarden's might—it was a living testament to ambition, sacrifice, and legacy.
Towering spires of marble glimmered under the returning sun, their tips crowned with banners embroidered in gold. Wide avenues ran like veins through the city, paved with stone polished smooth by centuries of footsteps.
Here, every street told a story. Monuments to past wars lined the squares, statues of heroes frozen in eternal battle, their names etched into obsidian plates. Around them bustled the heartbeat of the kingdom.
War heroes lived among the people, scarred but honored, carrying themselves with quiet pride as children followed them with wide eyes.
Wealthy merchants from across the districts filled the markets, their caravans laden with silks, spices, and precious gems. Their voices rang with bargains and laughter, echoing against the stone walls.
Artisans worked tirelessly in their forges and workshops, hammering iron into blades, weaving thread into garments, and pouring soul into every craft.
And among them, the middle-class folk filled the taverns, the academies, the guildhalls—neither poor nor noble, but proud, the lifeblood of the city.
It was said that Dawncrest was where the light of the Sun first touched the earth—a city born of radiance, where ambition burned as bright as the morning star. But beneath its brilliance, shadows lingered: political intrigue, unspoken rivalries, and the ever-present scars of war.
As Gareth stood in the grand square for the funeral rites, surrounded by these people—the honored, the wealthy, the skilled, and the common—he felt smaller than ever. Their eyes were on him, whispering of the boy who had stood against Shalkeer, of the survivor marked by both flame and failure.
He clenched his fists tighter.
If this city is built on sacrifice, then I will add my name to it. Not as a coward, but as someone who earned the right to stand among them.
The coffins rose, the Sun claimed the fallen, and Dawncrest bore witness.
And when the summons came, Gareth did not resist. He would walk the path laid before him—to the Royal Academy, and into a world far greater than he had ever imagined.
The funeral ended, and Dawncrest shone with solemnity. Yet amid the chanting priests and the fire of the Sun swallowing the fallen, whispers spread like plague.
"They died because of him."
"He attracts disaster… every battle he touches ends in blood."
"A calamity in the form of a boy."
The words were sharp, louder than the hymns. Mothers pulled their children back when Gareth walked past. Merchants sneered, warriors looked at him with pity or disdain. Even the artisans who had once admired the courage of soldiers muttered beneath their breath.
The brand across Gareth's back still burned where Shalkeer's blade had carved him. But this—this rejection—cut deeper. His eyes stayed downcast as stones of accusation were hurled not by hands, but by voices.
Captain Ryn's hand landed on his shoulder, steady, firm. "Ignore them. They don't understand."
But Gareth did understand. To them, he wasn't a survivor—he was a herald of ruin. Wherever he stood, blood followed.
And though the Academy's summons would soon take him away, that brand would never leave. Not the scar on his back. Not the name whispered in the streets.
"Walking Calamity."
He clenched his fists until his nails dug into flesh.
If they will hate me… then I'll rise so high they'll have no choice but to look up at me.
The Day of Ascension bathed Dawncrest in brilliance. Golden banners rippled across marble streets, incense smoke curled above jubilant crowds, and hymns of triumph echoed from the cathedral bells. Children ran with painted masks, merchants gave out sweetbread, and warriors raised their cups to honor the Sun.
But amid the laughter and music, one figure sat in silence.
Gareth stood at the edge of the festivities, apart from the dancing and the cheers. His eyes traced the lanterns floating skyward, each glowing ember swallowed by the heavens. To him, they looked like distant promises, unreachable no matter how much he longed for them.
He thought of Aurensport. Of Garric's booming voice and steady hand. Of Aelina's teasing smile, her warmth that could cut through any storm. They were alive, safe, probably celebrating beneath the same sky in their own way. And yet to Gareth, they felt impossibly far.
He clenched his fists. They were his family here, the only ones who had ever chosen him without hesitation. And now, he was alone in Dawncrest—branded a calamity, shunned even in celebration.
Around him, people's whispers carried sharper than the music:
"Why is he here?"
"The boy who brings ruin…"
"…a curse walking among us."
Their voices sank into him like blades. Gareth lowered his head, shoulders trembling, and whispered into the noise of the festival:
"I just… I just want to see them again."
Above, the fireworks thundered, scattering light across the city. But none of it reached him.
The fireworks faded into the night, but Gareth remained unmoving, staring at the lanterns as though they were drifting further and further from him. The laughter and songs behind him felt distant, like they belonged to another world entirely.
He turned away, choosing the quiet alleys instead of the crowded streets. Each step echoed with a heaviness he couldn't shake. If even celebration feels empty, then what do I have left?
For the first time, Gareth admitted the truth to himself:
I don't need to be strong for their approval. I need to be strong because… I mean something. Because I choose to.
That thought struck deeper than any blade. For the first time since Aurensport, Gareth felt the faint spark of a path—not of destiny, but of choice.
A voice interrupted his solitude.
"You walk like a ghost, boy," rasped Captain Ryn.
Gareth turned sharply. Ryn emerged from the shadows, limping, his uniform torn and his body bandaged. Scars fresh and raw lined his arms, but his eyes still carried the fire of an unbroken warrior.
"Captain…" Gareth muttered.
Ryn studied him, then shook his head. "Standing here sulking while the world celebrates—what good will that do? You're not cursed, Gareth. You're just… a boy carrying too much weight too soon."
Gareth lowered his gaze. "They all hate me. I can hear it in their voices."
Ryn grunted. "Let them talk. Words don't raise children, or hold swords at the front, or keep the sky from falling. You know what does? Choosing to fight. Choosing to stay human, no matter the scars."
He stepped closer, placing a rough, scarred hand on Gareth's shoulder. His grip was steady, like a father's.
"Come with me," Ryn said, softer now. "You've seen enough shadows. It's time you see a little light. My daughters won't let you sit alone. You'll eat, laugh, and remember that family isn't just blood—it's who you choose to keep beside you."
For a long moment, Gareth couldn't speak. His throat tightened, eyes stinging again—but this time, not from fear. Slowly, he nodded.
Together, the wounded captain and the boy walked back toward the glow of the city. And for the first time, Gareth wasn't walking alone.
"Thank you captain"