I felt the echo of Raelan long before his carriage rolled into sight.
Men like him always leave a mark on the world around them. Not divine, not godborn, not Dreamborn yet carved so sharply by will and destiny that even I feel their presence as a hum in the air.
When Raelan Dravos, the King's knight, reached the Sanctuary of Torvas, every head turned.
The horses slowed to a halt, breath steaming. The carriage door swung open.
Raelan stepped down.
He was not as tall as Kaelar had been, nor as broad as the generals of Torvas's armies but every knight and trainee felt the weight of his presence. A strength that had nothing to do with divine blessing. It was the strength of resolve that had been honed to a blade's edge through war, oath, and sacrifice.
The Sanctuary fell briefly silent.
Eyes tracked him from the wounded who sat with bandaged limbs to the young trainees who still bore the dust of digging graves for comrades they'd known only for months.
Even the mountain wind seemed to pause.
Raelan looked over the courtyard. Over the scorched stone from Kaelar's final fire. Over the hastily rebuilt doors and the piles of armor stacked near the graves. His jaw tightened, though his face gave away no surprise.
He had seen destruction before.
But not here.
Not at Torvas's seat of strength.
"I request audience with the High Priest," Raelan said, voice steady.
One of the priests thin, pale from exhaustion and long hours in prayer stepped forward and bowed.
"This way, Sir Knight."
Raelan followed him through the inner halls. He walked with the soundless stride of someone trained to move in armor as if it were skin. Even in the Sanctuary, where many carried divine blessings or years of martial discipline, his presence drew quiet respect.
They reached the High Priest's chamber.
The priest pushed the door open silently.
Raelan entered alone.
Inside, the High Priest of Torvas sat slumped in his seat, one hand covering his face. His robes once immaculate were smudged with ash, blood from tending wounded men, and faint traces of chalk from drawing burial symbols.
He looked smaller than he had days ago.
But grief does that to mortals.
The door's creak made him lift his head.
Raelan dropped to one knee immediately, fist pressed to the floor in respect. The royal crest flashed briefly on his gauntlet.
"High Priest," he said, bowing his head. "I bring the seal of the king."
He extended a hand, offering the small iron-bound case. Its clasp bore the symbol of the royal family an eagle carrying a flame.
The High Priest stared at it for a long moment.
Then he rose slowly and accepted the seal with both hands.
"Does the King summon me?" he asked, voice tired.
"Yes," Raelan replied. "Within five days' time. He requests your presence at the capital to discuss the fall of Aramoor and the threat that now rises."
The High Priest looked down at the seal again.
His grief flickered beneath the surface, but now something else moved behind his eyes.
Resolve.
"This," he said softly, "will show me whether the crown still stands with Torvas."
"It will," Raelan replied. "The King stands ready to act. He has sent me as his hand."
The High Priest nodded once. "Then I will go."
Raelan bowed, placed his hand over his heart, and backed from the room.
As he walked through the Sanctuary's hallways, he felt it once more the weight in the air. Heavy. Grieving. Quiet, yet furious beneath the surface.
He passed priests whose eyes were rimmed red. Trainees who could not bear to look at the courtyard. Knights who stood guard over fresh graves with trembling fingers clenched around spear-shafts.
Finally, Raelan stopped a few paces from the burial ground, scanning the faces.
He turned to a young trainee whose hands were still streaked with dirt.
"You," Raelan said.
The boy snapped to attention.
"Why does the Sanctuary mourn so deeply?" Raelan asked. "Why such sorrow among warriors trained for loss?"
The trainee hesitated only a breath, then swallowed hard.
"Sir… the Blade of Torvas has fallen."
Raelan did not move at first.
But the air around him shifted.
His shoulders tightened. His fingers curled slightly around the hilt of his sheathed sword. His jaw clenched once.
Then
"Where is he?" Raelan asked quietly.
"In the inner hall, Sir," the trainee said. "They placed his body beneath the stone arch."
Raelan walked.
Every step echoing like a drumbeat in the silent Sanctuary.
Through the corridors he strode, past flickering candles and priests murmuring prayers over wounded survivors. Past the hall where Torvas's armor once hung in ritual order. Past the etched walls where names of past Blades gleamed faintly in torchlight.
He found the chamber.
Kaelar lay upon a long slab of polished stone, covered by a ceremonial cloth patterned in crimson flame. His sword rested atop his chest, placed carefully by those who had loved him.
His face was calm.
More peaceful than it had been during life.
The door closed behind Raelan.
He was alone.
Only then did his armor shift.
Only then did he let the breath leave him in a violent, shaking exhale.
Raelan stepped forward until he stood at the edge of the stone platform.
He stared down at Kaelar's face.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then
"You idiot," Raelan whispered.
His voice cracked.
"You stubborn, reckless" His throat tightened. "You knew. You knew you were the only one who could match me."
His hand trembled once before he slammed it against his own chestplate, as if to steady the tremor.
"You were the only one who could make me try," Raelan said, more softly. "The only one who fought me without fear. Who stood equal."
A single tear slid down his cheek.
He didn't brush it away.
"I should have been here," Raelan said. "You didn't have to face that alone."
He bowed his head deeply over the fallen Blade's body.
"I'll carry the weight you left behind," he whispered. "I swear it."
The chamber door creaked.
Raelan turned sharply.
A boy stood there.
Erias.
Small. Lean. Dirt still smudged on his cheek, sword at his side, eyes wide not with fear but with recognition of something greater.
Raelan straightened immediately, posture snapping into soldier-sharp lines.
"Who are you?" Raelan demanded, though not unkindly.
Erias swallowed but did not back away.
"My name is Erias," he said, voice steadier than his shaking hands. "And… I was chosen. Kaelar chose me to take the mantle. To train. To become the next Blade of Torvas."
Raelan studied him.
Every flicker of emotion. Every tremble. Every ounce of conviction.
He saw a boy.
He saw a spark.
He saw potential the way a seasoned warrior sees the first glint of steel in raw ore.
Finally, Raelan nodded once.
"You carry something rare," he said. "Whether you can carry more will depend on how fast you grow."
He stepped closer.
Erias did not flinch.
"When you become stronger," Raelan said, "come find me. I will test you myself."
The boy's eyes widened.
Raelan turned away then, because he knew if he looked at Kaelar again he might not leave.
Outside, he mounted his horse.
He did not look back at the Sanctuary as the gates opened.
But he felt it behind him the mourning, the resolve, the threads of fate tightening as a new mantle sought its bearer.
The carriage and escort rode out.