The Gathering Storm

The news of the King’s declaration spread through the capital like a plague, carried on the panicked whispers of courtiers and the grim marching orders of the royal heralds. In the throne room, Princess Leora confronted her father, her voice ringing with a fury that made the royal guards flinch and the ancient tapestries tremble.

“This is madness!” she declared, her fists clenched at her sides as she stood before the throne. “You would hand over the entire Royal Army, the full might of our kingdom, to Lord Abrexis to hunt down one man? A man who saved us all? Based on the ravings of a traitor and the whispers of a forgotten prophecy? It is a harsh, irrational, and cowardly decision!”

King Phillips III, his face pale and his eyes darting nervously toward his advisors—all of them Abrexis’s men—slammed a trembling hand on the arm of his throne. “He challenged the crown! He dictated terms to us! His very existence is a threat to our sovereignty! He is an unknown power that we cannot control, and he must be put down! This is not a matter for debate, Leora!”

“It is a matter of sanity!” she shot back, taking a step forward, her voice filled with a passion that shamed the fear in his. “Kael Ardyn stood against four Demon Lords when this entire council was hiding behind its walls! He saved the lives of every man, woman, and child in this kingdom, including your own! To send an army to slaughter him is not just an injustice—it is a blasphemy against the very idea of heroism!”

“Enough!” the King shrieked, his voice thin and reedy, a puppet dancing on the strings of Lord Abrexis’s paranoia. “You have been compromised by this… this commoner! If you insist on making this matter worse, you will be punished! I will have you confined to your chambers for a year! Do not test me, daughter!”

Leora stared at the weak, frightened man on the throne and knew that words were useless. She gave a stiff, formal bow that was an act of pure, cold defiance and retreated, her mind already racing. If the council would not listen to reason, she would have to find another way.

She moved quickly. In the secluded courtyard of her private wing, her personal guard stood ready. They were The White Canary, twelve of the most skilled female warriors in the kingdom, their silver and white uniforms a stark contrast to the black iron of the main army. They were led by Captain Alice, a woman with sharp, intelligent eyes and a jaw set with determination, the only woman to hold such a high rank within the military. Her loyalty was not to the council or the King, but to the Princess herself.

“We ride for Ashvale,” Leora commanded, her voice low and firm as she donned her own traveling cloak. “Immediately. And we travel light.”

Captain Alice nodded, her expression unreadable but her trust absolute. “And the purpose of our journey, Your Highness?”

Leora’s eyes hardened with a resolve that would have made her ancestors proud. “The King has sent an army to kill a hero,” she said. “I am going to find him some friends.”

Miles away, in a dingy tavern on the outskirts of Ashvale, Ronan sat alone, his chest heavy, the ale in his tankard doing little to numb the ache of his own regret. He was a hero, they said. Rich beyond his wildest dreams. But he felt like a fraud, a coward who had run when the fight got too complicated.

“I’d hesitate,” he replayed his own pathetic excuse in his mind, the words tasting like ash. He took a long, bitter drink.

“Kael, you fucker,” he muttered into his cup, his voice a drunken slur. “Why didn’t you just open up more? Demand that we stay? Don’t carry it all alone… use us, you stubborn bastard.”

His brooding was interrupted by the loud chatter of two Royal Army men at a nearby table. “...three days, they say. At the Plains of Solitude,” one soldier said. “The whole damn army against one man. It’ll be a slaughter.”

“Serves him right,” the other scoffed. “Heard he’s a real monster, that Fifth Lord. Drinks children’s blood, they say. Sacrifices young maidens to some primordial entity to get his power.”

Ronan’s grip tightened on his tankard, the metal groaning in protest. He rose from his table, his movements slow and deliberate. The soldiers, oblivious, continued their slander.

“Yeah, a real piece of work. Can’t wait to see his head on a spike…”

They never finished the sentence. Ronan’s massive hands shot out, grabbing each of them by the back of the head. With a single, brutal motion, he smashed their heads together with a sickening CRACK. The two soldiers crumpled to the floor in a heap.

The tavern fell into a dead silence. Every eye was on the giant, hulking barbarian. Ronan looked down at the unconscious men, his voice a low, dangerous growl that filled the quiet room.

“Don’t you ever talk shit about my friend.”

As the words hung in the air, the tavern door swung open. Princess Leora stood there, flanked by two of her White Canaries. Her eyes took in the scene—the unconscious soldiers, the terrified patrons, and Ronan standing over them like a vengeful god. She looked directly at Ronan, her voice clear and commanding. “He needs you.”

Ronan looked at her, his drunken haze burned away by a surge of purpose. A slow, grim smile spread across his face. “About damn time,” he said. He cracked his knuckles. “But I’m going to punch his stupid face before I protect him.”

A genuine, brilliant laugh escaped Leora’s lips, a sound of pure relief and hope.

“Do what you’ve got to do, Shield Hero.”