Chapter 1 - stone-faced knight

  Ryn tasted ash on his tongue. Around him, the dead lay like draped cloth; to anyone else, he looked no different. His arm hung useless, almost severed, fractured bones sticking out. Every breath a searing, stabbing struggle. Ribs ground against lungs that felt like they were collapsing.

  Still, he was breathing.

  He hauled himself up on the sword planted in the earth and set his stance. It was a bad stance: knees shaking, every bone protesting, every thought painful. He knew that this time it might be the end. Still, if this was how it ended, he would make it count.

  He spat blood, shoved himself forward, and charged—He was slammed aside.

  Bones cracked again. Black hair plastered with blood, he tasted iron and ash. He forced himself up and charged once more.

  Blows rained down, clean, yet non-lethal, instead of death, they felt almost casual, as if the enemy were toying with him. The difference tightened inside him like a wire.

  The thought made him flinch. He was going to fail, fail again, like last time, and for the first time, his fingers slipped on the hilt. He was going to die. Plain, cold certainty: there would be nothing after, and if he fell, the two behind him would follow.

  He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't.

  He hauled himself up, sword digging into the ground for purchase.

  I don't want to die.

  He was terrified.

  Not of dying, but failing.

  Failing again…

  Then something absurd happened.

  He laughed.

  He pushed his hair back with his nearly severed hand; nerves screamed as if lit on fire, yet in that instant, Ryn felt no pain.

  He couldn’t explain why he laughed. No, that was a lie—He knew why.

  The flames danced around him, painting the battlefield in shifting reds and golds. Ash clung to his lips, blood dripped from his jaw. Grip finding the hilt again, he drew himself up and charged one last time, a single, furious motion that had nothing to do with skill and everything to do with not giving in.

  And then finally

  There was light.

  ***

  — Months earlier —

  Ariel was motionless—or at least, she tried to be. Her shoulders trembled despite her effort to hold them steady. Every breath came shallow, uneven. But she straightened, forcing herself upright.

  She would try again.

  Her father said her light should have come easily, that it should have come years ago.

  But every blessing demanded something in return, and hers had taken nothing yet.

  Her long golden hair spilled forward, catching in the soft morning wind. Her features were delicate, proud, almost elfin. Though her bearing was noble, her brows were drawn tight in fierce concentration. A silvery mantle clung to her shoulders, its edge lifting with each slow breath, the fabric flickering like a banner in the pale light. Her formal white garments, wrinkled and slightly loosened at the seams, moved faintly with her trembling arms.

  She stood in the center of the secluded sol temples, one of the few still open here.

  Light poured through stained glass, breaking across the marble in shifting hues of crimson and gold. Dust floating like embers in the air.

  Ariel whispered, the words faint and uneven, fragments of a prayer. The sound quivered as though the air itself resisted her.

  Then it happened, the space around her changed.

  A flicker of white light ignited above her palm, no brighter than a candle’s flame. It wavered, unsteady, as if alive but weak. The air pulled toward it, strands of her hair lifting in its glow.

  Her hand shook. Sweat beaded along her temple. The white light dimmed once, flared, then sputtered.

  “Come on…!” she hissed under her breath, voice trembling. Her jaw clenched, and she drew in a sharp, desperate breath. The light responded, just barely, flickering once more before collapsing into smoke.

  The sudden silence was deafening.

  Ariel’s arm dropped. Her body followed. She sank to her knees, chest heaving, her skin slick with sweat. The soft glow from the stained glass caught in her hair, painting her in fractured light, exhausted.

  For a moment, she stayed that way, one hand pressed to the floor, the other trembling in her lap, her golden eyes fixed on the faint trail of smoke curling upward. The silence that followed was almost cruel.

  And then, through clenched teeth, barely audible,

  “…again.”

  ***

  Elsewhere, beneath the same morning light, down the sunlit streets of outer Solvara, a small patrol of knights made their rounds.

  The city gleamed beneath morning light, silver-white stone carved into sweeping towers, banners catching the wind. Every rooftop curved with deliberate grace, streets mirroring the sky.

  Brann was the first to break the quiet.

  “Outer patrol again?” he groaned, stretching his arms behind his head with a grin. “Doesn’t it ever get dull watching these roads over and over?”

  Kael, walking beside him, gave a short snort. The sun glinted off his dark skin and polished chestplate. “Dull’s better than cleaning up the mess when it’s not,” he said, voice even.

  Brann laughed. “You’d think they’d trust us with something exciting.”

  “Excitement gets people killed,”

  Brann grinned. “Yeah? So does boredom.”

  Behind them, Sara’s short reddish hair stirred in the wind. “You say that now,” she murmured, “but you’d complain just as much if something actually did happen.”

  Ryn didn’t join in. His gaze wandered over the horizon.

  Noticing that familiar, distant look on Ryn’s face, Brann turned toward him with a crooked grin.

  “How’s guard duty treating you, Ryn?”

  He didn’t answer at first, his eyes fixed ahead on Solvara’s white roads and the shimmer of towers in the distance.

  Brann nudged him lightly with an elbow. “Definitely not what you expected, huh? Especially not as our ace swordsman.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I expected,” Ryn said, giving brann a sidelong stare. “It’s the job I was given.”

  Brann groaned. “Gods, you’re impossible. Tell me, does anything make you smile? A good meal? victory? Me?”

  “Definitely not you.”

  Brann groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “I liked it better when you didn’t talk,”

  Sara, walking a few paces behind, let out the faintest laugh.

  They walked for a while longer, boots tapping faintly against the marble streets, their banter flowing easily between them.

  Children darted between stalls, chasing wooden hoops that clattered along the jade white cobbles. Vendors called out their prices from beneath bright canopies, the air rich with the scent of fresh bread. Sunlight caught the banners overhead, painting fleeting colors across white stone walls. A bard strummed a lute near the fountain square, his tune half-lost in the noise of the crowd.

  Solvara was alive.

  “Oh well.” Brann broke through the noise of the crowds, glancing back over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “Guess this is where our patrol paths part ways.”

  Kael adjusted his hilt, giving a small nod. “We’ll see you at the barracks, Ryn.”

  He only nodded, watching as the three of them turned down a side street. Their laughter drifted faintly behind them until it was lost in the hum of the city.

  He continued on alone, weaving through the calmer streets of Solvara. The crowds thinned as he walked, the merchants’ cries fading, the scent of spices and steel giving way to the faint hush of old stone.

  The sunlight caught on Ryn’s dark hair as he moved, his expression unreadable. He was young, too young.

  With each step, the city’s pulse quieted. The chatter dimmed. By the time he reached the edge of his route, the streets were nearly silent, lined with shuttered windows and worn marble paths overrun with stray grass.

  This was the last stop of his patrol, an older quarter once home to Solvara’s most devoted followers of the Sun God. The remnants of their temples still stood here, scattered and hollow.

  When the King had relocated the great churches to the heart of Solvara, this place had been left behind; it was quiet… forgotten.

  And yet, somehow, Ryn never minded ending his patrol here.

  As he searched the broken white streets and vine-covered buildings, Ryn’s gaze drifted towards one of the few temples dedicated to Sol that still stood mostly intact. Its roof sagged beneath the weight of ivy and pale beams of sunlight.

  He slowed. The air here felt different, still reverent, almost heavy.

  Then, from within, came a sudden noise.

  A dull thud. Followed by a sharp, stifled groan.

  Ryn froze. His hand instinctively fell to the hilt at his side as his eyes flicked toward the half-open door of the temple. The sound hadn’t been loud, but in the quiet of this abandoned quarter, it cut through everything.

  Another small sound followed, the scrape of stone, the faint rustle of fabric against marble. Someone was inside.

  Ryn moved toward the entrance, steps light, cautious. As he drew closer, a soft voice drifted out, low and strained, one he didn’t recognize, yet something about it carried the weight of frustration.

  He paused at the doorframe, fingers brushing against the worn wood before pushing it open with a soft creak.

  And there, bathed in a column of fractured sunlight, was the last person he expected to find.

  The princess.

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  The princess of Solvara.

  On her knees, breathing hard, one hand clutching at her chest. A wisp of white smoke curled from her open palm.

  Ryn froze. For a second, he just… stood there, unsure of what to do.

  Then she turned. Her gold eyes snapped to him, sharp, bright, and tired all at once.

  “What are you staring at?” she shot back immediately. Her voice wasn’t regal or graceful—it was defensive.

  The princess looked at the knight, who seemed no older than she was.

  His armor was clean but worn at the edges, the mark of someone who worked more than he spoke. He was lean and tall, taller than her at least, Dark hair fell over a calm, flat expression, and though his posture was rigid, his eyes were quiet, steady. Too steady for someone his age.

  It annoyed her, somehow.

  Ryn straightened on instinct, boots clicking together, and bowed. “I didn’t mean to intrude, Your Highness.”

  “Then why are you still here?”

  For a heartbeat, there was silence

  He blinked once, tilting his head slightly. “...Because you asked me a question?”

  That only seemed to annoy her more. She stood, brushing the dust from her skirts, trying and failing to look composed.

  She let out a quiet, controlled breath that didn’t quite hide the tremor in her shoulders.

  “Do all soldiers wander these parts without purpose, or is this your idea of duty?” she muttered.

  “My patrol route passes through here, princess. I just didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  The silence that followed was awkward. The wind tugged softly at her golden hair, scattering light through the strands like threads of fire.

  Ryn rose a little straighter, uncertain whether to speak again. She turned slightly, eyes burning despite the fatigue beneath them.

  “Do you plan to stand there and gawk all afternoon?”

  Ryn opened his mouth, but she didn’t give him the chance.

  She clicked her tongue and brushed past him, her silver mantle flaring in the wind as she strode toward the exit. Her steps were sharp, but the faint unsteadiness in them didn’t escape him.

  “Go back to your patrol, knight,” she said, her voice low but still carrying that stubborn pride. “And forget what you saw.”

  Just as she was about to leave the ruined temple, Ryn took a quiet step forward. His hand reached out, not forcefully, but enough to catch lightly around her arm.

  “Your Highness,” he said, his tone measured. “You seem tired. Allow me to escort you back to the palace.”

  She paused, glancing down at his hand, then flicked her wrist sharply, freeing herself from his grasp without even turning to face him. Her voice, when it came, was colder now.

  “If I needed help, I would’ve asked for it.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she walked past him, her footsteps quick and uneven on the stone.

  Ryn lowered his hand, watching her disappear into the morning light. His jaw tightened slightly in thought.

  He stood there for a moment, watching the last trace of her mantle disappear beyond the archway.

  He let out a slow breath, eyes tracing the faint footprints she left behind.

  “…Guess I should’ve kept quiet,” he muttered, almost to himself.

  Then he straightened and turned back to his route

  By the time he was finishing his patrol and making his way to the barracks, the afternoon was waning, the sky slowly dimming to the soft gold of evening.

  Ryn made his way through the streets of Outer Solvara, the city beginning to settle into its evening rhythm. The air was cooler now, carrying the faint scent of smoke and spice from closing market stalls. Merchants packed away their wares beneath awnings of fading color, and the chatter of the crowd softened into a low, steady murmur. Lanterns flickered to life along the streets, their amber glow painting ripples of light across the cobblestones. Night guards marched their rounds, and distant bells marked the passing of another day.

  As he continued, he caught the many stares of the city’s common folk. Whether it was due to his haggard look, his current armament, or the simple fact that he was a royal knight striding through the markets alone, he didn’t bother to guess.

  By the time he arrived at his destination, the royal knight barracks, the last light of day was fading away, behind the city’s walls. Overhead, the moon had already risen, fractured faintly along its surface.

  The knight barracks stood tall and strong; the banners bearing Solvara’s crest snapping in the wind. Like all the architecture of Solvara, it was built of silver-white stone and free from any visible mortar. it looked as though the entire structure had been carved from a single, unbroken block.

  He pushed the doors open, and the quiet outside was immediately replaced by noise. Laughter. The clatter of mugs. The sound of armored boots against wood.

  “B–Boy!” came the slurred voice, followed by a half–burp. “How’s guard duty treatin you?”

  Eldric’s arm dropped heavily around his shoulders. The older knight smelled of alcohol, his grip firm despite the sway in his stance. His beard was thick and uneven, streaked with ash and silver; his hair, tied back loosely, had long since escaped its knot. His cloak hung off one shoulder, half his buttons undone like he’d fought and lost a battle with his own uniform.

  Ryn spoke, unamused. “You’re insufferable.”

  Eldric laughed loudly, eyes narrowing beneath his messy fringe.

  “Ryn! Over here!”

  Brann waved from across the room, his chair tilted dangerously on its back legs. Kael sat beside him, arms crossed, his expression halfway between patience and exasperation. Sara, seated at the end, was calmly oiling the edge of her blade—ignoring the chaos the way only she could.

  Ryn made his way over, weaving between crowds of knights and discarded armor pieces. Brann grinned as he leaned forward, letting the front legs of his chair thud back onto the floor.

  “Done patrolling that creepy stretch again?” Brann said, giving Ryn a light punch on the shoulder. “I swear, there’s a reason the king moved the temples from there. ‘Structural reasons,’ my ass.”

  Kael gave a short laugh, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s exactly what the report said. Old foundations, too unstable to maintain.”

  “Unstable, sure,” Brann muttered. “Bet it’s crawling with spirits.”

  Sara, sitting opposite, didn’t look up from the blade in her hands. “You’re scared of a few old stones now, Brann?”

  “I’m not scared,” Brann said, indignant. “Just... appropriately cautious.”

  Kael sighed, shaking his head. Sara gave the faintest smirk. The noise of the barracks hummed around them, boots on stone, low chatter, the clink of armor.

  Ryn sat beside them.

  Kael leaned forward. “So, how was patrol?”

  Ryn shrugged. “Quiet.”

  “No aberrations? No ghosts?” Brann asked, leaning closer.

  Ryn didn’t look up. “None that I saw.”

  Sara’s lips curved faintly. “You sound disappointed.”

  Brann raised his cup. “He’s sad that even the ghosts ignored him.”

  That earned a few small laughs around the table, though Ryn didn’t join them. He only leaned back into his chair.

  After a pause, he said, almost absently,

  “...Oh. The princess was there, I guess.”

  The words fell quiet among the noise.

  Brann’s chair stopped rocking. Kael’s arms froze mid-cross. Sara’s hand hovered above her blade.

  One by one, the three of them turned toward him, their expressions a slow, dawning mix of disbelief and alarm.

  Ryn blinked once, not quite sure what he’d said wrong.

  Before any of the three knights could inquire further about Ryn’s chance encounter, the sharp clink of metal and a loud clap echoed through the hall.

  Every head turned.

  In the center of the room stood Eldric, his beard uneven, cloak half-draped, and face flushed a deep crimson from drink. His grin was crooked.

  “Alright, lads!” he bellowed, voice slurring just enough win a few laughs. “In celebration of, uh…”

  He paused, swaying slightly, gaze flicking toward the ceiling as though divine inspiration might strike him.

  Silence stretched. Then, with a proud nod, he declared, “—of course, Yes our new recruits!”

  Not this again… Ryn thought to himself.

  Beside him, Kael only shook his head, long past surprise. Sara muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience.

  Brann, of course, leaned forward eagerly.

  Eldric raised a finger, almost solemnly. “I’ll perform… a trick!”

  “A-A gift from my god,”

  A few of the younger knights, new recruits who hadn’t yet seen one of his infamous performances, exchanged confused glances. The older ones just grinned, settling back to watch.

  The air shifted as Eldric reached into his cloak and pulled out a small amber gem, no larger than a coin. It caught the light of the hanging lanterns, glowing with faint orange fire.

  He flipped it lazily between his fingers. Once. Twice.

  Then, with a fluid motion belied by his drunkenness, he tossed it into the air.

  For a heartbeat, the gem hung there, spinning. The orange glow intensified, then burst outward in a gentle flare, light washing over the hall like molten sunlight.

  Gasps rippled through the crowd. The gem floated midair, suspended in a quiet hum. From its surface, faint lines of script shimmered, curling and twisting like living flame before dissolving into sparks.

  Someone whispered, “A Blessing…”

  At once, the glow erupted outward. Threads of golden light streamed from the gem, twisting and curling like molten ribbons that fanned across the ceiling. The barracks filled with a rain of shimmering sparks, not hot, but warm, clinging softly to armor and skin before fading into nothing.

  The orange lanterns reflected the glow until the entire hall seemed gilded.

  Ryn looked up from his seat, eyes narrowing slightly. He’d seen it before—once, maybe twice—but it still caught him off guard. The way the air itself seemed to bend around Eldric, the warmth that brushed against the skin.

  Brann let out a low whine. “Every time, old man. You just have to show off.”

  Eldric grinned, catching the gem again and bowing with an exaggerated flourish. “Someone has to remind you lot what a favour from divinity looks like!”

  The room erupted in cheers and laughter. Tankards slammed against tables, orange lanterns flickered brighter, the barracks felt alive, golden and loud and full of warmth.

  Kael leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, his voice low enough for only Ryn to hear. “You’d never guess that man’s the strongest knight here.”

  Ryn didn’t answer. His eyes lingered on the faintly glowing gem in Eldric’s hand.

  Even through the noise and laughter, its light stood apart, steady, alive.

  Among all of Solvara’s knights, only Eldric carried that gift.

  For all his swagger, he’d endured that…

  Ryn couldnt help but wonder… what he’d had to sacrifice.

  He exhaled softly through his nose and looked away. It wasn’t his place to think about such things.

  Outside, the last rays of daylight died beyond the horizon, leaving the city bathed in soft amber glow.The moon had climbed into view, fractured and radiant, its golden seams threading the night like molten light.

  Inside the barracks, laughter carried long into the evening.

  The sparks of light still drifted lazily through the air, flickering like fireflies in the lantern glow.

  As the light began to settle, Eldric’s voice boomed again, loud enough to make the rafters tremble.

  “Now for the grand finale!”

  Without hesitation, Kael and Sara ducked beneath the table in perfect sync.

  Ryn sighed, already bringing an arm up to shield his eyes.

  Brann didn’t move; he only leaned forward, a grin tugging at his lips.

  Eldric lifted the gem high, light pooling in its center like a tiny sun. The air around him shimmered, threads of gold sparking from his fingertips.

  “Behold! The brilliance of Jeyr’s blessing—”

  The gem detonated.

  A burst of radiant light filled the hall, swallowing everything in white. The sound hit next, a deep thoom that rattled mugs, sent helmets clattering off tables, and shook the banners on the walls.

  Heat rippled through the air as shards of glowing dust rained down like molten snow. The orange lanterns flickered wildly, their flames bending in the gust that followed. Everything slowed. For a heartbeat, it almost looked beautiful, like the whole barracks had been caught in a golden storm.

  Then came the crash.

  One of the side tables flipped over, tankards spilling ale across the floor. Knights stumbled from their seats, blinking and cursing. A few chairs caught fire.

  From under the table came Kael’s muffled voice. “He did it again!”

  Sara groaned, “Eldric, you lunatic! You’re gonna set the barracks on fire!”

  Eldric stood in the center of it all, smoke curling gently from his beard, eyes half–lidded with satisfaction.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said proudly, as if the chaos were deliberate.

  Brann was doubled over laughing, slapping the table.

  Ryn exhaled, leaning back in his chair.

  A few seconds later, the hall was a flurry of motion, older and younger knights alike rushing to smother the little flames Eldric’s “spectacle” had left behind. Bits of cloth and half–filled mugs were thrown over glowing embers while Eldric himself barked orders, coordinating the cleanup like he wasn’t the cause of it in the first place.

  “Careful with that one! Don’t scratch the floor !” he called, waving a tankard around

  Laughter rippled again through the hall, the noise rising as the last embers dimmed.

  Then, from near the entrance, a young recruit froze mid–stride, eyes wide.

  “...Sir Eldric,” he said quietly, voice cracking a little. “The door.”

  The words were soft, but they spread faster than flame. One by one, heads turned.

  The great doors of the barracks creaked open, the noise slicing through the warmth and chatter like a blade. The hall fell still.

  A figure stepped inside, tall, composed, every line of his posture measured. The gold insignia on his cloak caught the lantern light as he crossed the threshold. The sound of his boots echoed through the silence.

  Sylvas, Captain of the Royal Guard.

  His sharp gaze swept the hall once. Every knight straightened in unison, armor clattering as they saluted. Even Eldric froze mid–gesture, his gem dimming instantly in his hand.

  “The king,” Sylvas said, his tone steady and cold enough to still the air, “has called for us.”

  The words lingered like the toll of a bell, steady, heavy, and final.

  And just like that, the laughter was gone.

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