The Quiet Before

The three days they were granted before departure felt like a bubble in time—three heartbeats caught between history and oblivion. In the Eldorian palace, luxury had become limbo. The five adventurers were ensconced in guest wings hung with velvet tapestries and polished bronze, but no amount of opulence could soften the weight pressing in from the outside. Each sunrise was a reminder that the Demon Lord Varic waited at the edge of the world like a thunderhead. Each night closed around them like a closing gauntlet.

The capital itself vibrated with a nervous hum. Couriers ran between barracks and supply depots. Masons reinforced old walls. Priests spoke hushed blessings over shipments of weapons and medicine. And somewhere, in the heart of the city, a war council plotted the impossible—five strangers who had become the kingdom’s last gambit.

Inside that strange stillness, each of them found their own ritual.

Ronan, the shieldbearer, turned the royal forge into his sanctuary. Its cavernous belly glowed with the orange heart of the furnace. Sparks erupted in sprays as his hammer rose and fell. He wasn’t making a new blade or reforging his shield; he was restoring them, coaxing them back into perfect readiness. He pressed out dents with the patience of a sculptor, honed the edge of his axe until it caught the forge light like a line of molten silver. Sweat rolled down his shoulders, and with every strike of metal against metal he was speaking an old language—discipline as prayer, steel as confession.

Across the palace grounds, Nira vanished into a far corner of the royal archery range. Dawn after dawn, she stood in the grey light, loosing arrow after arrow at distant targets. Her movements were as fluid as running water. The bowstring whispered; the arrows struck with a low, satisfying thump a hundred paces away. She wasn’t practicing; she was subtracting herself—peeling away fear, hesitation, ego—until only instinct remained. Every shaft she loosed was an invocation of focus, and with each one she seemed less like a person and more like an inevitability.

Cyras, in contrast, disappeared into the Royal Library’s labyrinth of shelves. The archivists whispered of his endurance; he did not emerge until the moon was high. Among scrolls and tomes bound in cracked leather, he hunted for answers. He read of Varic’s first campaigns, of ancient necromantic pacts, of cursed swords and forgotten saints. His lantern burned low and his fingers were stained with ink, but his eyes gleamed. He believed—quietly, fiercely—that within some neglected footnote lay a key that could turn the Demon Lord’s own power against him.

Catherine’s vigil was quieter still. In the Grand Cathedral of Eldoria, light fell through stained glass like liquid gemstones, painting her armor in shifting blues and reds. She knelt before the towering statue of Freyja, head bowed. The scent of incense hung heavy in the nave. Her lips moved silently—not in pleas for victory, but for strength to heal, courage to endure, and grace for the countless souls caught in Varic’s grasp. Her faith was not a weapon but a lighthouse, and she was tending its flame in the storm.

And Kael—Kael chose the shadows. He trained in the royal yard only after the knights had retired, when the moonlight pooled silver over the flagstones. He preferred the silence, the cool night air, the absence of eyes. On the third and final night, he stood before a battered practice dummy, his long coat stirring in the breeze. In his hand, his sword glimmered faintly, a pale corona pulsing at the edge of its blade.

That was when Leora found him.

She had tried to sleep, tried to drown her thoughts in a thousand small duties, but the weight of command refused to let her rest. Drawn by the faint light, she slipped from the palace corridors into the open yard, her slippers whispering over stone. For a moment she only watched. Kael was perfectly still, eyes shut, the silver light of his blade swelling and fading like breath.

Then, impossibly, a second sword lifted itself from a rack nearby, floating upward as though pulled by unseen tides. It began to orbit him in a slow spiral, a second sun caught in his gravity. Both blades pulsed in harmony, tracing a pale circle of light around his still figure.

“I’ve never seen anyone train like that before,” she said at last, her voice hushed but steady.

The second sword clattered to the stones, the light dying in an instant. Kael’s eyes snapped open. He turned, shoulders stiff, as though bracing for an accusation. “Your Highness.”

“Please,” she said, stepping forward, “just Leora.” Her voice had lost its regal steel, softened into something more human. “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. “Every time I close my eyes I see the faces of those I’ve sent to their deaths. And now… you five.”

His gaze flickered—not toward her, but toward the dark silhouette of the city walls. “It’s a soldier’s risk,” he said quietly.

“You don’t have to risk it,” she pressed, her tone walking the edge between command and plea. “You wield a power that could crown you. Instead you’ve chosen to march toward a battle most believe unwinnable. Why?”

Kael hesitated. He could have deflected—had done so a hundred times before. But standing there under twin moons, with her eyes fixed on him not as a princess but as another soul carrying too much weight, the deflection felt hollow.

“I come from a place already dead,” he said at last. The words tasted like a confession, strange and brittle in the night air. “Another war. A quieter one. I lost.”

She didn’t ask for details. She only took a step closer, the hem of her cloak brushing the stones. “Is that where you learned to do what I just saw?”

“It wasn’t something I learned,” he answered, meeting her gaze at last. “It was something I was given. After everything worth having was gone.”

The wind stirred between them, carrying the faint scent of her hair—a scent of cedar and rain. For a heartbeat, Kael thought he saw a flicker in her eyes, a glint of something warmer than admiration.

“The world expects a hero in shining armor,” she said softly. “But I think it needs someone different. Someone who knows what it’s like to lose everything, and still stands back up.” Her voice faltered just a little. “You’re… different from anyone at court.”

He blinked at her, unsure what to do with the gentleness in her tone.

“Be careful, Kael,” she went on, almost whispering now. “Varic is a monster, but he was once a man. Don’t let his despair become your own.”

“I won’t,” Kael said, and though it was a simple statement it carried the weight of a vow.

For a moment, neither moved. The air between them felt charged, full of unspoken things. Then Leora drew a slow breath, steadying herself, and the spell broke. She offered him a faint, almost shy smile. “Goodnight, Kael.”

He inclined his head. “Goodnight… Leora.”

As she walked back toward the palace, she realized her pulse was a little quicker, her chest a little tight. She told herself it was just nerves, just the burden of command. But in the quiet of her chambers later, she found herself seeing not Varic’s armies but Kael’s eyes in the moonlight—steady, unflinching, but haunted.

Left alone in the yard, Kael flexed his hand around his sword hilt. The mission was madness. The odds were a mockery of hope. Yet for the first time since he had agreed to this suicidal venture, it didn’t feel like an empty contract. He could picture her face, her quiet strength, and in that picture he found a reason more solid than duty or coin.

Dawn began to bleed across the city’s towers, washing the marble rooftops in rose-gold. Their three days were over. Ahead lay the road to Ironfall and whatever waited beyond it. Kael exhaled, the silver light flickering once more around his blade.

For the first time, fighting for a dying world felt personal.