The Weight of Lanterns

Morning in Caelbrim began with the bells. Their peal rolled down the hilltops and ito the waking city, a low bronze hum that stirred the streets as surely as the sun. From the highest terrace of the Marek palace, Michael could hear them blending with the layered voices of merchants already setting up stalls, servants calling to one another, and the sound of iron gates creaking open.

The bells were meant to be a promise: that life would continue as it had yesterday, that nothing of the chaos in Ashveil would breach the safety of their walls. But Michael had learned to hear the strain in them. They were rung too early when bad news came in from the roads, too long when the council had quarreled deep into the night. Today, they rang neither too long nor too early — but he knew better than to think that meant peace.

He sat in the northern garden, cross-legged beneath the silver-white boughs of a moon-elm, its bark glimmering faintly in the morning light. The tree had been planted centuries ago by the first priests of Ishim to bless the palace, and people said it thrived because its roots had sunk into one of the last untainted streams in all Brimil. The leaves shimmered like molten glass in the sun, shedding a calm that Michael could never quite absorb.

Children of the servants darted across the courtyard, wooden swords clattering as they fought imaginary foes. Their laughter carried through the morning air, a melody that seemed too delicate for the times. Michael watched them with quiet envy, not for their games, but for the ease with which they lived unburdened. He had not felt that ease since childhood — if he ever had at all.

“Your posture will betray you before your sword does.”

Michael turned to see his father. Daniel Marek, king of Eryndor, stood with two practice blades in his hands, wearing simple training robes. He looked less like a monarch here and more like a soldier who had never put down his discipline.

Michael stood and dusted the dirt from his trousers. “So we begin again.”

Daniel handed him a blade. “We never stop.”

The practice yard’s earth bore the scars of countless drills, every gouge in the dirt a memory of some forgotten sparring match. Michael squared his stance, the wooden blade cool against his palms. Daniel faced him, stern but not unkind.

Their strikes rang out sharp and measured. Daniel pressed forward with steady precision, each swing controlled. Michael blocked and deflected, but his arms ached. His father was stronger, quicker, tempered by years of necessity.

“You hesitate,” Daniel said as their blades locked.

“I calculate,” Michael replied, breath short.

Daniel pressed harder, forcing Michael back. “Hesitation kills more than steel ever will.”

Michael gritted his teeth and lunged, pushing beyond his weariness. For a heartbeat their blades locked in perfect balance, father and son meeting at the edge of exhaustion. Then Daniel stepped back and lowered his weapon.

“Better,” he said. His voice carried neither praise nor comfort, only fact.

Michael wiped sweat from his brow. “You always want more than I can give.”

Daniel’s eyes softened, though only slightly. “I want you to be ready. The world doesn’t ask permission before it tests you.”

Later that day, Michael walked through Caelbrim with Ivo Marek — not blood-kin, but bound to him by a friendship forged in the archives. Ivo carried a satchel so stuffed with maps and journals it threatened to tear at the seams. His hair was a mess of curls, his words tumbling faster than his steps.

“They’re saying three caravans never reached Riverbend Outpost,” Ivo muttered. “One carried moon-elm saplings. Another, glass from Ashveil — real glass, tempered in its corrupted heat. And the third—” He lowered his voice. “Grain. Whole wagons of it.”

Michael frowned. “People speak of it as if it’s only trade. But those were lives.”

Ivo shrugged, though his expression darkened. “To the High Order, coin and lives weigh the same — whichever tips the ledger faster. That’s why we need people like us.” He nudged Michael. “I with knowledge, you with… whatever it is you’re meant to be.”

Michael smiled faintly. “You think too highly of me.”

“And you not enough.”

They stopped by a herbalist’s stall. The air was thick with the scent of dried duskroot and crushed fireblossoms. A woman argued desperately with the vendor over the price of ash-moss, prized for its ability to draw out infection. The vendor gestured helplessly at his dwindling supply.

“These plants should grow wild along Ashveil’s ridges,” Ivo murmured. “But hunters can’t reach them now. Not with Abyssal Kin roaming the paths. Every herb, every blossom is another life snatched from the roads.”

The woman finally pressed her last coin into the vendor’s palm. She left clutching the moss like a lifeline.

Michael stared after her, jaw tight. The luxury of normalcy — markets, trade, gossip — felt thinner every day, a veil stretched to breaking.

Back at the palace, he found Lina waiting in the courtyard. Her auburn hair caught the late sun, and she leaned against the fountain as though she had every right to linger there. She was the daughter of a smith, bold where others were deferential.

“You missed supper,” she said, tossing him a half-smile.

“Training,” Michael answered simply.

“With your father, I assume. Did he remind you again that you carry the weight of all Eryndor on your back?”

Michael let out a short laugh. “Something like that.”

Lina studied him for a moment, then softened. “You take it too seriously. Sometimes carrying a weight means learning to set it down.”

He wanted to believe her. But he thought of Daniel, of caravans lost, of maps marked red with failure. He thought of how every word his father spoke seemed both command and confession.

That night, in the council chamber, Daniel stood over those same maps. The red markings spread like veins across the parchment.

“The caravans are being targeted,” he said. “Not by chance. By design. The Oathbound will intervene soon, but they’re stretched thin. The High Order is whispering shortages.”

Michael stepped closer. “What do you want of me?”

Daniel looked at him long, his face heavy with both expectation and fear. “To see the truth for yourself. To learn what it means to carry more than your own life. You will accompany the Oathbound.”

Michael felt the words root in him like stone. His throat tightened. He wanted to argue that his life was his own. But when he met his father’s eyes, he saw something deeper than command: the brittle fear of a man who had sacrificed everything and could not stop demanding more.

Later, standing on the terrace, Michael pressed the whistle at his chest to his lips. Its soft note floated into the dark garden below. A lantern flickered in response, and he thought — just for a moment — that maybe he could still be his own man.

But the shadows at the edge of Caelbrim pressed closer.Morning in Caelbrim began with the bells. Their peal rolled down the hilltops and ito the waking city, a low bronze hum that stirred the streets as surely as the sun. From the highest terrace of the Marek palace, Michael could hear them blending with the layered voices of merchants already setting up stalls, servants calling to one another, and the sound of iron gates creaking open.

The bells were meant to be a promise: that life would continue as it had yesterday, that nothing of the chaos in Ashveil would breach the safety of their walls. But Michael had learned to hear the strain in them. They were rung too early when bad news came in from the roads, too long when the council had quarreled deep into the night. Today, they rang neither too long nor too early — but he knew better than to think that meant peace.

He sat in the northern garden, cross-legged beneath the silver-white boughs of a moon-elm, its bark glimmering faintly in the morning light. The tree had been planted centuries ago by the first priests of Ishim to bless the palace, and people said it thrived because its roots had sunk into one of the last untainted streams in all Brimil. The leaves shimmered like molten glass in the sun, shedding a calm that Michael could never quite absorb.

Children of the servants darted across the courtyard, wooden swords clattering as they fought imaginary foes. Their laughter carried through the morning air, a melody that seemed too delicate for the times. Michael watched them with quiet envy, not for their games, but for the ease with which they lived unburdened. He had not felt that ease since childhood — if he ever had at all.

“Your posture will betray you before your sword does.”

Michael turned to see his father. Daniel Marek, king of Eryndor, stood with two practice blades in his hands, wearing simple training robes. He looked less like a monarch here and more like a soldier who had never put down his discipline.

Michael stood and dusted the dirt from his trousers. “So we begin again.”

Daniel handed him a blade. “We never stop.”

The practice yard’s earth bore the scars of countless drills, every gouge in the dirt a memory of some forgotten sparring match. Michael squared his stance, the wooden blade cool against his palms. Daniel faced him, stern but not unkind.

Their strikes rang out sharp and measured. Daniel pressed forward with steady precision, each swing controlled. Michael blocked and deflected, but his arms ached. His father was stronger, quicker, tempered by years of necessity.

“You hesitate,” Daniel said as their blades locked.

“I calculate,” Michael replied, breath short.

Daniel pressed harder, forcing Michael back. “Hesitation kills more than steel ever will.”

Michael gritted his teeth and lunged, pushing beyond his weariness. For a heartbeat their blades locked in perfect balance, father and son meeting at the edge of exhaustion. Then Daniel stepped back and lowered his weapon.

“Better,” he said. His voice carried neither praise nor comfort, only fact.

Michael wiped sweat from his brow. “You always want more than I can give.”

Daniel’s eyes softened, though only slightly. “I want you to be ready. The world doesn’t ask permission before it tests you.”

Later that day, Michael walked through Caelbrim with Ivo Marek — not blood-kin, but bound to him by a friendship forged in the archives. Ivo carried a satchel so stuffed with maps and journals it threatened to tear at the seams. His hair was a mess of curls, his words tumbling faster than his steps.

“They’re saying three caravans never reached Riverbend Outpost,” Ivo muttered. “One carried moon-elm saplings. Another, glass from Ashveil — real glass, tempered in its corrupted heat. And the third—” He lowered his voice. “Grain. Whole wagons of it.”

Michael frowned. “People speak of it as if it’s only trade. But those were lives.”

Ivo shrugged, though his expression darkened. “To the High Order, coin and lives weigh the same — whichever tips the ledger faster. That’s why we need people like us.” He nudged Michael. “I with knowledge, you with… whatever it is you’re meant to be.”

Michael smiled faintly. “You think too highly of me.”

“And you not enough.”

They stopped by a herbalist’s stall. The air was thick with the scent of dried duskroot and crushed fireblossoms. A woman argued desperately with the vendor over the price of ash-moss, prized for its ability to draw out infection. The vendor gestured helplessly at his dwindling supply.

“These plants should grow wild along Ashveil’s ridges,” Ivo murmured. “But hunters can’t reach them now. Not with Abyssal Kin roaming the paths. Every herb, every blossom is another life snatched from the roads.”

The woman finally pressed her last coin into the vendor’s palm. She left clutching the moss like a lifeline.

Michael stared after her, jaw tight. The luxury of normalcy — markets, trade, gossip — felt thinner every day, a veil stretched to breaking.

Back at the palace, he found Lina waiting in the courtyard. Her auburn hair caught the late sun, and she leaned against the fountain as though she had every right to linger there. She was the daughter of a smith, bold where others were deferential.

“You missed supper,” she said, tossing him a half-smile.

“Training,” Michael answered simply.

“With your father, I assume. Did he remind you again that you carry the weight of all Eryndor on your back?”

Michael let out a short laugh. “Something like that.”

Lina studied him for a moment, then softened. “You take it too seriously. Sometimes carrying a weight means learning to set it down.”

He wanted to believe her. But he thought of Daniel, of caravans lost, of maps marked red with failure. He thought of how every word his father spoke seemed both command and confession.

That night, in the council chamber, Daniel stood over those same maps. The red markings spread like veins across the parchment.

“The caravans are being targeted,” he said. “Not by chance. By design. The Oathbound will intervene soon, but they’re stretched thin. The High Order is whispering shortages.”

Michael stepped closer. “What do you want of me?”

Daniel looked at him long, his face heavy with both expectation and fear. “To see the truth for yourself. To learn what it means to carry more than your own life. You will accompany the Oathbound.”

Michael felt the words root in him like stone. His throat tightened. He wanted to argue that his life was his own. But when he met his father’s eyes, he saw something deeper than command: the brittle fear of a man who had sacrificed everything and could not stop demanding more.

Later, standing on the terrace, Michael pressed the whistle at his chest to his lips. Its soft note floated into the dark garden below. A lantern flickered in response, and he thought — just for a moment — that maybe he could still be his own man.

But the shadows at the edge of Caelbrim pressed closer.Morning in Caelbrim began with the bells. Their peal rolled down the hilltops and ito the waking city, a low bronze hum that stirred the streets as surely as the sun. From the highest terrace of the Marek palace, Michael could hear them blending with the layered voices of merchants already setting up stalls, servants calling to one another, and the sound of iron gates creaking open.

The bells were meant to be a promise: that life would continue as it had yesterday, that nothing of the chaos in Ashveil would breach the safety of their walls. But Michael had learned to hear the strain in them. They were rung too early when bad news came in from the roads, too long when the council had quarreled deep into the night. Today, they rang neither too long nor too early — but he knew better than to think that meant peace.

He sat in the northern garden, cross-legged beneath the silver-white boughs of a moon-elm, its bark glimmering faintly in the morning light. The tree had been planted centuries ago by the first priests of Ishim to bless the palace, and people said it thrived because its roots had sunk into one of the last untainted streams in all Brimil. The leaves shimmered like molten glass in the sun, shedding a calm that Michael could never quite absorb.

Children of the servants darted across the courtyard, wooden swords clattering as they fought imaginary foes. Their laughter carried through the morning air, a melody that seemed too delicate for the times. Michael watched them with quiet envy, not for their games, but for the ease with which they lived unburdened. He had not felt that ease since childhood — if he ever had at all.

“Your posture will betray you before your sword does.”

Michael turned to see his father. Daniel Marek, king of Eryndor, stood with two practice blades in his hands, wearing simple training robes. He looked less like a monarch here and more like a soldier who had never put down his discipline.

Michael stood and dusted the dirt from his trousers. “So we begin again.”

Daniel handed him a blade. “We never stop.”

The practice yard’s earth bore the scars of countless drills, every gouge in the dirt a memory of some forgotten sparring match. Michael squared his stance, the wooden blade cool against his palms. Daniel faced him, stern but not unkind.

Their strikes rang out sharp and measured. Daniel pressed forward with steady precision, each swing controlled. Michael blocked and deflected, but his arms ached. His father was stronger, quicker, tempered by years of necessity.

“You hesitate,” Daniel said as their blades locked.

“I calculate,” Michael replied, breath short.

Daniel pressed harder, forcing Michael back. “Hesitation kills more than steel ever will.”

Michael gritted his teeth and lunged, pushing beyond his weariness. For a heartbeat their blades locked in perfect balance, father and son meeting at the edge of exhaustion. Then Daniel stepped back and lowered his weapon.

“Better,” he said. His voice carried neither praise nor comfort, only fact.

Michael wiped sweat from his brow. “You always want more than I can give.”

Daniel’s eyes softened, though only slightly. “I want you to be ready. The world doesn’t ask permission before it tests you.”

Later that day, Michael walked through Caelbrim with Ivo Marek — not blood-kin, but bound to him by a friendship forged in the archives. Ivo carried a satchel so stuffed with maps and journals it threatened to tear at the seams. His hair was a mess of curls, his words tumbling faster than his steps.

“They’re saying three caravans never reached Riverbend Outpost,” Ivo muttered. “One carried moon-elm saplings. Another, glass from Ashveil — real glass, tempered in its corrupted heat. And the third—” He lowered his voice. “Grain. Whole wagons of it.”

Michael frowned. “People speak of it as if it’s only trade. But those were lives.”

Ivo shrugged, though his expression darkened. “To the High Order, coin and lives weigh the same — whichever tips the ledger faster. That’s why we need people like us.” He nudged Michael. “I with knowledge, you with… whatever it is you’re meant to be.”

Michael smiled faintly. “You think too highly of me.”

“And you not enough.”

They stopped by a herbalist’s stall. The air was thick with the scent of dried duskroot and crushed fireblossoms. A woman argued desperately with the vendor over the price of ash-moss, prized for its ability to draw out infection. The vendor gestured helplessly at his dwindling supply.

“These plants should grow wild along Ashveil’s ridges,” Ivo murmured. “But hunters can’t reach them now. Not with Abyssal Kin roaming the paths. Every herb, every blossom is another life snatched from the roads.”

The woman finally pressed her last coin into the vendor’s palm. She left clutching the moss like a lifeline.

Michael stared after her, jaw tight. The luxury of normalcy — markets, trade, gossip — felt thinner every day, a veil stretched to breaking.

Back at the palace, he found Lina waiting in the courtyard. Her auburn hair caught the late sun, and she leaned against the fountain as though she had every right to linger there. She was the daughter of a smith, bold where others were deferential.

“You missed supper,” she said, tossing him a half-smile.

“Training,” Michael answered simply.

“With your father, I assume. Did he remind you again that you carry the weight of all Eryndor on your back?”

Michael let out a short laugh. “Something like that.”

Lina studied him for a moment, then softened. “You take it too seriously. Sometimes carrying a weight means learning to set it down.”

He wanted to believe her. But he thought of Daniel, of caravans lost, of maps marked red with failure. He thought of how every word his father spoke seemed both command and confession.

That night, in the council chamber, Daniel stood over those same maps. The red markings spread like veins across the parchment.

“The caravans are being targeted,” he said. “Not by chance. By design. The Oathbound will intervene soon, but they’re stretched thin. The High Order is whispering shortages.”

Michael stepped closer. “What do you want of me?”

Daniel looked at him long, his face heavy with both expectation and fear. “To see the truth for yourself. To learn what it means to carry more than your own life. You will accompany the Oathbound.”

Michael felt the words root in him like stone. His throat tightened. He wanted to argue that his life was his own. But when he met his father’s eyes, he saw something deeper than command: the brittle fear of a man who had sacrificed everything and could not stop demanding more.

Later, standing on the terrace, Michael pressed the whistle at his chest to his lips. Its soft note floated into the dark garden below. A lantern flickered in response, and he thought — just for a moment — that maybe he could still be his own man.

But the shadows at the edge of Caelbrim pressed closer.Morning in Caelbrim began with the bells. Their peal rolled down the hilltops and ito the waking city, a low bronze hum that stirred the streets as surely as the sun. From the highest terrace of the Marek palace, Michael could hear them blending with the layered voices of merchants already setting up stalls, servants calling to one another, and the sound of iron gates creaking open.

The bells were meant to be a promise: that life would continue as it had yesterday, that nothing of the chaos in Ashveil would breach the safety of their walls. But Michael had learned to hear the strain in them. They were rung too early when bad news came in from the roads, too long when the council had quarreled deep into the night. Today, they rang neither too long nor too early — but he knew better than to think that meant peace.

He sat in the northern garden, cross-legged beneath the silver-white boughs of a moon-elm, its bark glimmering faintly in the morning light. The tree had been planted centuries ago by the first priests of Ishim to bless the palace, and people said it thrived because its roots had sunk into one of the last untainted streams in all Brimil. The leaves shimmered like molten glass in the sun, shedding a calm that Michael could never quite absorb.

Children of the servants darted across the courtyard, wooden swords clattering as they fought imaginary foes. Their laughter carried through the morning air, a melody that seemed too delicate for the times. Michael watched them with quiet envy, not for their games, but for the ease with which they lived unburdened. He had not felt that ease since childhood — if he ever had at all.

“Your posture will betray you before your sword does.”

Michael turned to see his father. Daniel Marek, king of Eryndor, stood with two practice blades in his hands, wearing simple training robes. He looked less like a monarch here and more like a soldier who had never put down his discipline.

Michael stood and dusted the dirt from his trousers. “So we begin again.”

Daniel handed him a blade. “We never stop.”

The practice yard’s earth bore the scars of countless drills, every gouge in the dirt a memory of some forgotten sparring match. Michael squared his stance, the wooden blade cool against his palms. Daniel faced him, stern but not unkind.

Their strikes rang out sharp and measured. Daniel pressed forward with steady precision, each swing controlled. Michael blocked and deflected, but his arms ached. His father was stronger, quicker, tempered by years of necessity.

“You hesitate,” Daniel said as their blades locked.

“I calculate,” Michael replied, breath short.

Daniel pressed harder, forcing Michael back. “Hesitation kills more than steel ever will.”

Michael gritted his teeth and lunged, pushing beyond his weariness. For a heartbeat their blades locked in perfect balance, father and son meeting at the edge of exhaustion. Then Daniel stepped back and lowered his weapon.

“Better,” he said. His voice carried neither praise nor comfort, only fact.

Michael wiped sweat from his brow. “You always want more than I can give.”

Daniel’s eyes softened, though only slightly. “I want you to be ready. The world doesn’t ask permission before it tests you.”

Later that day, Michael walked through Caelbrim with Ivo Marek — not blood-kin, but bound to him by a friendship forged in the archives. Ivo carried a satchel so stuffed with maps and journals it threatened to tear at the seams. His hair was a mess of curls, his words tumbling faster than his steps.

“They’re saying three caravans never reached Riverbend Outpost,” Ivo muttered. “One carried moon-elm saplings. Another, glass from Ashveil — real glass, tempered in its corrupted heat. And the third—” He lowered his voice. “Grain. Whole wagons of it.”

Michael frowned. “People speak of it as if it’s only trade. But those were lives.”

Ivo shrugged, though his expression darkened. “To the High Order, coin and lives weigh the same — whichever tips the ledger faster. That’s why we need people like us.” He nudged Michael. “I with knowledge, you with… whatever it is you’re meant to be.”

Michael smiled faintly. “You think too highly of me.”

“And you not enough.”

They stopped by a herbalist’s stall. The air was thick with the scent of dried duskroot and crushed fireblossoms. A woman argued desperately with the vendor over the price of ash-moss, prized for its ability to draw out infection. The vendor gestured helplessly at his dwindling supply.

“These plants should grow wild along Ashveil’s ridges,” Ivo murmured. “But hunters can’t reach them now. Not with Abyssal Kin roaming the paths. Every herb, every blossom is another life snatched from the roads.”

The woman finally pressed her last coin into the vendor’s palm. She left clutching the moss like a lifeline.

Michael stared after her, jaw tight. The luxury of normalcy — markets, trade, gossip — felt thinner every day, a veil stretched to breaking.

Back at the palace, he found Lina waiting in the courtyard. Her auburn hair caught the late sun, and she leaned against the fountain as though she had every right to linger there. She was the daughter of a smith, bold where others were deferential.

“You missed supper,” she said, tossing him a half-smile.

“Training,” Michael answered simply.

“With your father, I assume. Did he remind you again that you carry the weight of all Eryndor on your back?”

Michael let out a short laugh. “Something like that.”

Lina studied him for a moment, then softened. “You take it too seriously. Sometimes carrying a weight means learning to set it down.”

He wanted to believe her. But he thought of Daniel, of caravans lost, of maps marked red with failure. He thought of how every word his father spoke seemed both command and confession.

That night, in the council chamber, Daniel stood over those same maps. The red markings spread like veins across the parchment.

“The caravans are being targeted,” he said. “Not by chance. By design. The Oathbound will intervene soon, but they’re stretched thin. The High Order is whispering shortages.”

Michael stepped closer. “What do you want of me?”

Daniel looked at him long, his face heavy with both expectation and fear. “To see the truth for yourself. To learn what it means to carry more than your own life. You will accompany the Oathbound.”

Michael felt the words root in him like stone. His throat tightened. He wanted to argue that his life was his own. But when he met his father’s eyes, he saw something deeper than command: the brittle fear of a man who had sacrificed everything and could not stop demanding more.

Later, standing on the terrace, Michael pressed the whistle at his chest to his lips. Its soft note floated into the dark garden below. A lantern flickered in response, and he thought — just for a moment — that maybe he could still be his own man.

But the shadows at the edge of Caelbrim pressed closer.Morning in Caelbrim began with the bells. Their peal rolled down the hilltops and ito the waking city, a low bronze hum that stirred the streets as surely as the sun. From the highest terrace of the Marek palace, Michael could hear them blending with the layered voices of merchants already setting up stalls, servants calling to one another, and the sound of iron gates creaking open.

The bells were meant to be a promise: that life would continue as it had yesterday, that nothing of the chaos in Ashveil would breach the safety of their walls. But Michael had learned to hear the strain in them. They were rung too early when bad news came in from the roads, too long when the council had quarreled deep into the night. Today, they rang neither too long nor too early — but he knew better than to think that meant peace.

He sat in the northern garden, cross-legged beneath the silver-white boughs of a moon-elm, its bark glimmering faintly in the morning light. The tree had been planted centuries ago by the first priests of Ishim to bless the palace, and people said it thrived because its roots had sunk into one of the last untainted streams in all Brimil. The leaves shimmered like molten glass in the sun, shedding a calm that Michael could never quite absorb.

Children of the servants darted across the courtyard, wooden swords clattering as they fought imaginary foes. Their laughter carried through the morning air, a melody that seemed too delicate for the times. Michael watched them with quiet envy, not for their games, but for the ease with which they lived unburdened. He had not felt that ease since childhood — if he ever had at all.

“Your posture will betray you before your sword does.”

Michael turned to see his father. Daniel Marek, king of Eryndor, stood with two practice blades in his hands, wearing simple training robes. He looked less like a monarch here and more like a soldier who had never put down his discipline.

Michael stood and dusted the dirt from his trousers. “So we begin again.”

Daniel handed him a blade. “We never stop.”

The practice yard’s earth bore the scars of countless drills, every gouge in the dirt a memory of some forgotten sparring match. Michael squared his stance, the wooden blade cool against his palms. Daniel faced him, stern but not unkind.

Their strikes rang out sharp and measured. Daniel pressed forward with steady precision, each swing controlled. Michael blocked and deflected, but his arms ached. His father was stronger, quicker, tempered by years of necessity.

“You hesitate,” Daniel said as their blades locked.

“I calculate,” Michael replied, breath short.

Daniel pressed harder, forcing Michael back. “Hesitation kills more than steel ever will.”

Michael gritted his teeth and lunged, pushing beyond his weariness. For a heartbeat their blades locked in perfect balance, father and son meeting at the edge of exhaustion. Then Daniel stepped back and lowered his weapon.

“Better,” he said. His voice carried neither praise nor comfort, only fact.

Michael wiped sweat from his brow. “You always want more than I can give.”

Daniel’s eyes softened, though only slightly. “I want you to be ready. The world doesn’t ask permission before it tests you.”

Later that day, Michael walked through Caelbrim with Ivo Marek — not blood-kin, but bound to him by a friendship forged in the archives. Ivo carried a satchel so stuffed with maps and journals it threatened to tear at the seams. His hair was a mess of curls, his words tumbling faster than his steps.

“They’re saying three caravans never reached Riverbend Outpost,” Ivo muttered. “One carried moon-elm saplings. Another, glass from Ashveil — real glass, tempered in its corrupted heat. And the third—” He lowered his voice. “Grain. Whole wagons of it.”

Michael frowned. “People speak of it as if it’s only trade. But those were lives.”

Ivo shrugged, though his expression darkened. “To the High Order, coin and lives weigh the same — whichever tips the ledger faster. That’s why we need people like us.” He nudged Michael. “I with knowledge, you with… whatever it is you’re meant to be.”

Michael smiled faintly. “You think too highly of me.”

“And you not enough.”

They stopped by a herbalist’s stall. The air was thick with the scent of dried duskroot and crushed fireblossoms. A woman argued desperately with the vendor over the price of ash-moss, prized for its ability to draw out infection. The vendor gestured helplessly at his dwindling supply.

“These plants should grow wild along Ashveil’s ridges,” Ivo murmured. “But hunters can’t reach them now. Not with Abyssal Kin roaming the paths. Every herb, every blossom is another life snatched from the roads.”

The woman finally pressed her last coin into the vendor’s palm. She left clutching the moss like a lifeline.

Michael stared after her, jaw tight. The luxury of normalcy — markets, trade, gossip — felt thinner every day, a veil stretched to breaking.

Back at the palace, he found Lina waiting in the courtyard. Her auburn hair caught the late sun, and she leaned against the fountain as though she had every right to linger there. She was the daughter of a smith, bold where others were deferential.

“You missed supper,” she said, tossing him a half-smile.

“Training,” Michael answered simply.

“With your father, I assume. Did he remind you again that you carry the weight of all Eryndor on your back?”

Michael let out a short laugh. “Something like that.”

Lina studied him for a moment, then softened. “You take it too seriously. Sometimes carrying a weight means learning to set it down.”

He wanted to believe her. But he thought of Daniel, of caravans lost, of maps marked red with failure. He thought of how every word his father spoke seemed both command and confession.

That night, in the council chamber, Daniel stood over those same maps. The red markings spread like veins across the parchment.

“The caravans are being targeted,” he said. “Not by chance. By design. The Oathbound will intervene soon, but they’re stretched thin. The High Order is whispering shortages.”

Michael stepped closer. “What do you want of me?”

Daniel looked at him long, his face heavy with both expectation and fear. “To see the truth for yourself. To learn what it means to carry more than your own life. You will accompany the Oathbound.”

Michael felt the words root in him like stone. His throat tightened. He wanted to argue that his life was his own. But when he met his father’s eyes, he saw something deeper than command: the brittle fear of a man who had sacrificed everything and could not stop demanding more.

Later, standing on the terrace, Michael pressed the whistle at his chest to his lips. Its soft note floated into the dark garden below. A lantern flickered in response, and he thought — just for a moment — that maybe he could still be his own man.

But the shadows at the edge of Caelbrim pressed closer.Morning in Caelbrim began with the bells. Their peal rolled down the hilltops and ito the waking city, a low bronze hum that stirred the streets as surely as the sun. From the highest terrace of the Marek palace, Michael could hear them blending with the layered voices of merchants already setting up stalls, servants calling to one another, and the sound of iron gates creaking open.

The bells were meant to be a promise: that life would continue as it had yesterday, that nothing of the chaos in Ashveil would breach the safety of their walls. But Michael had learned to hear the strain in them. They were rung too early when bad news came in from the roads, too long when the council had quarreled deep into the night. Today, they rang neither too long nor too early — but he knew better than to think that meant peace.

He sat in the northern garden, cross-legged beneath the silver-white boughs of a moon-elm, its bark glimmering faintly in the morning light. The tree had been planted centuries ago by the first priests of Ishim to bless the palace, and people said it thrived because its roots had sunk into one of the last untainted streams in all Brimil. The leaves shimmered like molten glass in the sun, shedding a calm that Michael could never quite absorb.

Children of the servants darted across the courtyard, wooden swords clattering as they fought imaginary foes. Their laughter carried through the morning air, a melody that seemed too delicate for the times. Michael watched them with quiet envy, not for their games, but for the ease with which they lived unburdened. He had not felt that ease since childhood — if he ever had at all.

“Your posture will betray you before your sword does.”

Michael turned to see his father. Daniel Marek, king of Eryndor, stood with two practice blades in his hands, wearing simple training robes. He looked less like a monarch here and more like a soldier who had never put down his discipline.

Michael stood and dusted the dirt from his trousers. “So we begin again.”

Daniel handed him a blade. “We never stop.”

The practice yard’s earth bore the scars of countless drills, every gouge in the dirt a memory of some forgotten sparring match. Michael squared his stance, the wooden blade cool against his palms. Daniel faced him, stern but not unkind.

Their strikes rang out sharp and measured. Daniel pressed forward with steady precision, each swing controlled. Michael blocked and deflected, but his arms ached. His father was stronger, quicker, tempered by years of necessity.

“You hesitate,” Daniel said as their blades locked.

“I calculate,” Michael replied, breath short.

Daniel pressed harder, forcing Michael back. “Hesitation kills more than steel ever will.”

Michael gritted his teeth and lunged, pushing beyond his weariness. For a heartbeat their blades locked in perfect balance, father and son meeting at the edge of exhaustion. Then Daniel stepped back and lowered his weapon.

“Better,” he said. His voice carried neither praise nor comfort, only fact.

Michael wiped sweat from his brow. “You always want more than I can give.”

Daniel’s eyes softened, though only slightly. “I want you to be ready. The world doesn’t ask permission before it tests you.”

Later that day, Michael walked through Caelbrim with Ivo Marek — not blood-kin, but bound to him by a friendship forged in the archives. Ivo carried a satchel so stuffed with maps and journals it threatened to tear at the seams. His hair was a mess of curls, his words tumbling faster than his steps.

“They’re saying three caravans never reached Riverbend Outpost,” Ivo muttered. “One carried moon-elm saplings. Another, glass from Ashveil — real glass, tempered in its corrupted heat. And the third—” He lowered his voice. “Grain. Whole wagons of it.”

Michael frowned. “People speak of it as if it’s only trade. But those were lives.”

Ivo shrugged, though his expression darkened. “To the High Order, coin and lives weigh the same — whichever tips the ledger faster. That’s why we need people like us.” He nudged Michael. “I with knowledge, you with… whatever it is you’re meant to be.”

Michael smiled faintly. “You think too highly of me.”

“And you not enough.”

They stopped by a herbalist’s stall. The air was thick with the scent of dried duskroot and crushed fireblossoms. A woman argued desperately with the vendor over the price of ash-moss, prized for its ability to draw out infection. The vendor gestured helplessly at his dwindling supply.

“These plants should grow wild along Ashveil’s ridges,” Ivo murmured. “But hunters can’t reach them now. Not with Abyssal Kin roaming the paths. Every herb, every blossom is another life snatched from the roads.”

The woman finally pressed her last coin into the vendor’s palm. She left clutching the moss like a lifeline.

Michael stared after her, jaw tight. The luxury of normalcy — markets, trade, gossip — felt thinner every day, a veil stretched to breaking.

Back at the palace, he found Lina waiting in the courtyard. Her auburn hair caught the late sun, and she leaned against the fountain as though she had every right to linger there. She was the daughter of a smith, bold where others were deferential.

“You missed supper,” she said, tossing him a half-smile.

“Training,” Michael answered simply.

“With your father, I assume. Did he remind you again that you carry the weight of all Eryndor on your back?”

Michael let out a short laugh. “Something like that.”

Lina studied him for a moment, then softened. “You take it too seriously. Sometimes carrying a weight means learning to set it down.”

He wanted to believe her. But he thought of Daniel, of caravans lost, of maps marked red with failure. He thought of how every word his father spoke seemed both command and confession.

That night, in the council chamber, Daniel stood over those same maps. The red markings spread like veins across the parchment.

“The caravans are being targeted,” he said. “Not by chance. By design. The Oathbound will intervene soon, but they’re stretched thin. The High Order is whispering shortages.”

Michael stepped closer. “What do you want of me?”

Daniel looked at him long, his face heavy with both expectation and fear. “To see the truth for yourself. To learn what it means to carry more than your own life. You will accompany the Oathbound.”

Michael felt the words root in him like stone. His throat tightened. He wanted to argue that his life was his own. But when he met his father’s eyes, he saw something deeper than command: the brittle fear of a man who had sacrificed everything and could not stop demanding more.

Later, standing on the terrace, Michael pressed the whistle at his chest to his lips. Its soft note floated into the dark garden below. A lantern flickered in response, and he thought — just for a moment — that maybe he could still be his own man.

But the shadows at the edge of Caelbrim pressed closer.Morning in Caelbrim began with the bells. Their peal rolled down the hilltops and ito the waking city, a low bronze hum that stirred the streets as surely as the sun. From the highest terrace of the Marek palace, Michael could hear them blending with the layered voices of merchants already setting up stalls, servants calling to one another, and the sound of iron gates creaking open.

The bells were meant to be a promise: that life would continue as it had yesterday, that nothing of the chaos in Ashveil would breach the safety of their walls. But Michael had learned to hear the strain in them. They were rung too early when bad news came in from the roads, too long when the council had quarreled deep into the night. Today, they rang neither too long nor too early — but he knew better than to think that meant peace.

He sat in the northern garden, cross-legged beneath the silver-white boughs of a moon-elm, its bark glimmering faintly in the morning light. The tree had been planted centuries ago by the first priests of Ishim to bless the palace, and people said it thrived because its roots had sunk into one of the last untainted streams in all Brimil. The leaves shimmered like molten glass in the sun, shedding a calm that Michael could never quite absorb.

Children of the servants darted across the courtyard, wooden swords clattering as they fought imaginary foes. Their laughter carried through the morning air, a melody that seemed too delicate for the times. Michael watched them with quiet envy, not for their games, but for the ease with which they lived unburdened. He had not felt that ease since childhood — if he ever had at all.

“Your posture will betray you before your sword does.”

Michael turned to see his father. Daniel Marek, king of Eryndor, stood with two practice blades in his hands, wearing simple training robes. He looked less like a monarch here and more like a soldier who had never put down his discipline.

Michael stood and dusted the dirt from his trousers. “So we begin again.”

Daniel handed him a blade. “We never stop.”

The practice yard’s earth bore the scars of countless drills, every gouge in the dirt a memory of some forgotten sparring match. Michael squared his stance, the wooden blade cool against his palms. Daniel faced him, stern but not unkind.

Their strikes rang out sharp and measured. Daniel pressed forward with steady precision, each swing controlled. Michael blocked and deflected, but his arms ached. His father was stronger, quicker, tempered by years of necessity.

“You hesitate,” Daniel said as their blades locked.

“I calculate,” Michael replied, breath short.

Daniel pressed harder, forcing Michael back. “Hesitation kills more than steel ever will.”

Michael gritted his teeth and lunged, pushing beyond his weariness. For a heartbeat their blades locked in perfect balance, father and son meeting at the edge of exhaustion. Then Daniel stepped back and lowered his weapon.

“Better,” he said. His voice carried neither praise nor comfort, only fact.

Michael wiped sweat from his brow. “You always want more than I can give.”

Daniel’s eyes softened, though only slightly. “I want you to be ready. The world doesn’t ask permission before it tests you.”

Later that day, Michael walked through Caelbrim with Ivo Marek — not blood-kin, but bound to him by a friendship forged in the archives. Ivo carried a satchel so stuffed with maps and journals it threatened to tear at the seams. His hair was a mess of curls, his words tumbling faster than his steps.

“They’re saying three caravans never reached Riverbend Outpost,” Ivo muttered. “One carried moon-elm saplings. Another, glass from Ashveil — real glass, tempered in its corrupted heat. And the third—” He lowered his voice. “Grain. Whole wagons of it.”

Michael frowned. “People speak of it as if it’s only trade. But those were lives.”

Ivo shrugged, though his expression darkened. “To the High Order, coin and lives weigh the same — whichever tips the ledger faster. That’s why we need people like us.” He nudged Michael. “I with knowledge, you with… whatever it is you’re meant to be.”

Michael smiled faintly. “You think too highly of me.”

“And you not enough.”

They stopped by a herbalist’s stall. The air was thick with the scent of dried duskroot and crushed fireblossoms. A woman argued desperately with the vendor over the price of ash-moss, prized for its ability to draw out infection. The vendor gestured helplessly at his dwindling supply.

“These plants should grow wild along Ashveil’s ridges,” Ivo murmured. “But hunters can’t reach them now. Not with Abyssal Kin roaming the paths. Every herb, every blossom is another life snatched from the roads.”

The woman finally pressed her last coin into the vendor’s palm. She left clutching the moss like a lifeline.

Michael stared after her, jaw tight. The luxury of normalcy — markets, trade, gossip — felt thinner every day, a veil stretched to breaking.

Back at the palace, he found Lina waiting in the courtyard. Her auburn hair caught the late sun, and she leaned against the fountain as though she had every right to linger there. She was the daughter of a smith, bold where others were deferential.

“You missed supper,” she said, tossing him a half-smile.

“Training,” Michael answered simply.

“With your father, I assume. Did he remind you again that you carry the weight of all Eryndor on your back?”

Michael let out a short laugh. “Something like that.”

Lina studied him for a moment, then softened. “You take it too seriously. Sometimes carrying a weight means learning to set it down.”

He wanted to believe her. But he thought of Daniel, of caravans lost, of maps marked red with failure. He thought of how every word his father spoke seemed both command and confession.

That night, in the council chamber, Daniel stood over those same maps. The red markings spread like veins across the parchment.

“The caravans are being targeted,” he said. “Not by chance. By design. The Oathbound will intervene soon, but they’re stretched thin. The High Order is whispering shortages.”

Michael stepped closer. “What do you want of me?”

Daniel looked at him long, his face heavy with both expectation and fear. “To see the truth for yourself. To learn what it means to carry more than your own life. You will accompany the Oathbound.”

Michael felt the words root in him like stone. His throat tightened. He wanted to argue that his life was his own. But when he met his father’s eyes, he saw something deeper than command: the brittle fear of a man who had sacrificed everything and could not stop demanding more.

Later, standing on the terrace, Michael pressed the whistle at his chest to his lips. Its soft note floated into the dark garden below. A lantern flickered in response, and he thought — just for a moment — that maybe he could still be his own man.

But the shadows at the edge of Caelbrim pressed closer.