PROLOGUE: GOLD REMAINS ON BLOOD
The crystal chandelier in the main hall trembled gently, along with the muffled laughter echoing throughout the room.
That hall was the Hall of a Thousand Oaths, built three generations ago when the Western Empire fell and the Kingdom of Aranthir rose from the ashes of civil war. Its marble pillars were carved with the reliefs of ancestors who once conquered the northern plains and controlled the gold route from the Karsen Sea. On its ceiling hung the emblems of the twelve great families—and the Vaelor emblem was closest to the wall, almost hidden in shadow.
In the center of the vast dance floor, seven-year-old Aldric Vaelor stood frozen. His small hands were clenched at his sides, brushing against the seams of his itchy velvet trousers.
Before him, his father and mother bowed. They were not paying respect; rather, they were swallowing humiliation.
The Vaelor family had once been the Gatekeepers of the East, holders of the hereditary rights to Karsthal Fortress—a black stone fort guarding the only entrance from the Stepa Federation. But three border wars and suffocating royal taxes had eroded their lands and troops.
"Vaelor… a lineage that was once grand, now cannot even send a single platoon to the border without whining about expenses," a rotund nobleman's voice broke, followed by the high-pitched laughter of the women around him.
Among the nobles stood envoys from three neighboring empires—Imperium Solvaris in the south, Dominion Nordhelm in the north, and the Tharuun Confederation in the east—all observing Aranthir's weakness like wolves circling a limping deer.
Aldric looked up.
On the throne, far above everyone's heads, the King sat, his fat spilling over the golden chair. The throne was forged from Edrasil gold, a symbol of prosperity now beginning to wane from war and court corruption. The King did not laugh. He only stared at Aldric with narrow eyes full of hatred, then curled a thin smile that felt like the slash of a knife.
Behind the King hung the royal banner: a winged lion clutching a sword, a symbol of glory that increasingly felt like a hollow legend to the starving populace.
Aldric felt small. So small he wanted to vanish into the shadow of the pillars.
Yet behind that smallness, he felt something more dangerous: the awareness that in a hall this vast, what was respected was not blue blood—but power and gold.
---
The Day of Return
The next day, the aroma of last night's feast was replaced by the smell of rust and dust.
Aranthir's capital, Valdros, stood upon the great river that served as the lifeblood of central continent trade. Grain ships from the west and steel from the north usually filled its docks, but in recent months, those sails were increasingly rare. The Third Border War had drained the royal treasury and emptied the village granaries.
Aldric stood at the edge of the main street, squeezed among the crowd of citizens who cheered weakly.
"They're back!" someone shouted.
The city gates opened.
The gates, fifteen spears high, reinforced with black steel from an old trade agreement with Nordhelm. Above them, guards stood with long spears, the emblem of the winged lion fluttering weakly in the autumn wind.
The soldiers marched wearily. Their leather armor torn, eyes vacant staring at the asphalt, shoulders slumped as if carrying the weight of mountains. They were the remnants of defeat.
They came from the Seventh Eastern Regiment—a unit once nicknamed "Karsthal's Shield"—now halved after being annihilated in the Skarn Valley by the Stepa Federation cavalry.
Behind them, the knights still urged their horses forward, backs straight, faces rigid behind steel helmets, yet their aura was colder than ice.
These knights were members of the Argentum Order, a holy military order sworn directly to the crown. Trained from the age of ten, forged in duels, strategy, and blood oaths. To the people, they were symbols of hope. On the battlefield, they were machines of discipline.
Suddenly, an elderly man broke through the ranks. He grabbed the cloak of a passing infantry soldier.
"Where is my son?!" he roared. His voice hoarse, full of tears. "You said he would be a hero! Where is he?!"
The soldier remained silent, head bowed lower.
"You are useless! Idiots! Why do we pay taxes if all you bring back are corpses?!" The old man started beating the soldier's chest with trembling hands.
Aldric saw the knight at the front row stop.
The knight dismounted.
The sound of his boots clinking on the asphalt was heavy in the thick silence.
He removed his leather gloves, reached into a worn leather pouch, and handed it to the old man along with a dented silver badge.
The badge was a small shield engraved with a winged lion—the mark that the old man's son had fallen as part of the Eastern Regiment.
"This is his death benefit. And this is the badge of honor for your son," the knight said. His voice heavy, emotionless, yet realistic—the voice of a man who had done this too many times.
"Gold? You think gold can replace a life?!" The old man threw the pouch to the ground, scattering the coins, but the knight did not react.
The coins came from the people's taxes—from wheat fields, village blacksmiths, river fishermen—all returning in the form of coffins.
He merely glanced at the coins, then remounted his horse without a single word.
Aldric shivered.
In the books he read, knights were flawless heroes. But before his eyes, they were merely machines returning from failure.
He was afraid.
He did not want to be part of a row that was scolded.
Yet in a corner of his heart, he also understood one thing: in a world like this, only those who wear steel and hold swords decide who scolds and who bows.
---
The Darkest Night at the Vaelor Mansion
Months passed, and Aldric's fear turned into a worse reality.
The Vaelor Mansion stood in the eastern district of Valdros, far from the palace center. Its walls were high but not as high as other great families. Guards were few, since most of the family's troops had been sent to fulfill wartime duties for the crown.
"Asik, not in her room!"
His mother's shout broke the night's silence at the Vaelor Mansion.
The main hall became chaotic. His father ran out, cursing the guards who stood bewildered in front of the gate.
Since the Eastern Regiment's defeat, the kidnapping of noble children became a common political tactic. Ransom, pressure, or just a threatening message. In Aranthir, war did not only happen at the border—it happened in dining rooms and bedrooms.
"How could you not know?! One child kidnapped from her room, and you just stand there like statues?!" his father yelled, his face red with panic and anger.
Aldric stood in the dark corridor corner.
He stared at the guards with sharp eyes. Right, he thought coldly. They were useless. Just like the soldiers at the market.
Tok. Tok. Tok.
Heavy knocking at the front door stopped all the chaos inside.
Aldric's father grabbed the decorative sword from the wall, slowly opened the door.
Standing there was a man in worn armor, carrying a little girl who was sound asleep in his arms. It was Asik.
The armor was not the gleaming palace steel, but battle-worn armor—the type worn by those who fight more than they party.
"Asik!"
His mother ran and snatched her daughter, hugging her as if her world had just been restored.
His father lowered his sword, breathing heavily. "Who are you? How…?"
"I was just doing my duty," the knight replied briefly. Aldric recognized him. He was the knight who gave the old man gold at the market. Up close, his face looked much older, covered with scars not yet fully healed.
On his shoulder was engraved the Argentum Order emblem—but the silver line had faded, a mark of a veteran knight more often on the front lines than in the palace hall.
"Thank you… for God's sake, thank you," his mother sobbed.
The knight only nodded slightly.
He turned to leave, but just before the door fully closed, he glanced toward the corridor shadow—right where Aldric stood.
The old man gave a thin smile to Aldric. Not the sarcastic smile like the King's, but a smile that seemed to say: This world is rotten, boy. What will you do?
Outside the gate, Valdros' night bells rang twelve times—a sign of the changing guard and the end of the day in a city that was never truly safe.
Brak.
The door closed.
Aldric sat on the edge of his bed, not lighting a lamp.
Outside the window, the moon hung above the palace tower of Aranthir, reflecting pale light on the city rooftops that held ambition, betrayal, and fear.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his own small hands.
"Knight," he whispered softly.
The fear that had haunted him all this time slowly evaporated, replaced by something harder and sharper.
If he became strong—if he became a knight who could truly take control—then the King could not smile at him sarcastically. The nobles would not dare insult his father. And no one could touch his sister.
Yet deep in his mind, a new understanding was born: in Aranthir, power was not just swords—it was control over gold, over troops, over human fear.
He recalled the mocking faces at the feast one by one.
He would ensure that one day, they would all bow to him, whether out of respect or fear.
And when that day came, the winged lion on the royal banner would no longer symbolize the crown—it would symbolize him.