Night stretched in silence over the mountains. In a rocky clearing, the dying embers of a campfire cast faint sparks that barely illuminated the camp. Riven rested against the trunk of a fir tree, eyes half-closed, his cloak draped over his shoulders. Around him, the soldiers slept wrapped in travel-worn blankets, darkened by dust and ash.

  A croak shattered the stillness.

  From the shadows descended a large black bird, settling atop a nearby rock. Its plumage was dark as pitch, save for a single white feather on its left wing, which briefly caught the fire’s fading glow. Its eyes— two wells of deep black—fixed themselves upon Riven, unblinking, unmoving.

  For an instant, the darkness within those pupils seemed to spill outward, flowing like liquid shadow. It wrapped slowly around Riven, swallowing the firelight until the world itself was erased.

  The warrior tensed.

  Reality dissolved.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was standing within a vast hall of stone.

  Penumbra ruled the space. Cyclopean columns rose until they vanished into darkness, and at the far end, upon a platform carved from black marble, stood a throne. The air smelled of ash and iron.

  Riven knew this place.

  The Throne Hall of Elyndor.

  The echoes of ancient kings still lingered within its walls.

  A lone figure stood with his back to Riven, facing the throne. Tall, imposing, draped in a dark mantle that fell in flawless folds. A crown of black metal gleamed faintly upon his brow, and in his hand he held a scepter forged of the same substance—less metal than stone, as though it absorbed the light itself.

  Riven dropped to one knee.

  “My lord Galathor,” he said reverently.

  To him, this man was more than a king. He was order. Purpose. Riven did not follow him out of fear, but from a loyalty born of respect and admiration.

  Galathor did not turn. His voice resonated deep and all-encompassing.

  “Have you still not found the bearer of the Mark?”

  “We located him, my lord,” Riven replied. “But we lost him at the Thalen Pass. All signs point to him heading toward the valley of Aeryndor. We will reach him soon.”

  Galathor fell silent.

  He lowered his head slightly, as if grasping something unseen, and murmured words Riven could not hear. Then, serene yet inexorable, he spoke again.

  “I will send the Ghüls. They will hunt the bearer down.”

  Riven’s heart tightened. A fleeting vision crossed his mind: a village in flames, muffled screams, bodies torn apart as creatures moved through fire and ruin.

  His fists clenched.

  “That will not be necessary, my lord. We do not need those… beasts. I can bring him to you without delay.”

  Galathor turned his head just enough for his profile to emerge from the shadows. His voice dropped, cold as steel.

  “If that were true, Riven, we would not be having this conversation.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “My lord, I—”

  “I will send the Ghüls,” Galathor repeated, the words final as a sentence.

  Riven lowered his gaze, pride hardening like stone in his chest.

  “As you command, my lord.”

  The shadow of the throne seemed to stretch across the hall, devouring the space.

  A distant croak echoed.

  And Riven opened his eyes.

  He was back in the camp. The fire was nearly extinguished. The raven with the white feather remained motionless upon the rock, watching him for a long moment before spreading its wings and vanishing into the night.

  Riven stayed awake a while longer, staring at the dying embers. He knew the order was unbreakable.

  But the memory of fire would haunt him long after the raven was gone.

  ***

  The sound of water filled the chamber.

  The group now stood before a circular fountain carved from pale stone, at the heart of the Temple of Aeryndor. Around them, torchlight flickered, dancing across walls engraved with ancient runes.

  A woman watched them in silence.

  Her hair, black as night, fell freely over a robe of silver hues. Her eyes—deep blue— held the calm of one who had seen more than any mortal should.

  Kael and Kaelor exchanged tense glances, unsettled by her ethereal presence.

  Alden, however, felt something different—an echo, as though he had seen her once before in a dream he could not remember, yet without any true surprise.

  “Welcome,” she said, her voice seeming to come from beyond time.

  “And you… bearer of the Mark.” Her gaze settled on Alden.

  Lyanna caught her breath. No one noticed, but her expression shifted.

  “Do you know who I am?” Alden asked.

  Selenya inclined her head slightly.

  “You are the one spoken of in the prophecy… or at least, part of it.”

  “Part of it?” Alden repeated, confused.

  “You will understand soon,” she replied with a faint smile, raising her hand toward the fountain.

  “Come closer… and look into the water.”

  Alden stepped forward. Then another step.

  The air thickened around him.

  As he leaned over the fountain, the water began to glow with silvery reflections. First he saw his own face—then fleeting visions: fire, ruins, a shattered banner whipping in the wind… a misty forest bathed in the soft pink of cherry-colored leaves… and a flame pulsing within darkness.

  Heat rose from his chest, deep and living. His Mark burned without pain, as if an ancient fire were awakening inside him.

  The light within the water intensified.

  A luminous shape began to take form beneath the surface—a blade condensing from light itself, rising slowly without his pulling at it.

  Alden reached out, almost in a trance, and grasped the sword as it emerged on its own, drawn toward him.

  Its steel was so clear it seemed nearly transparent. The white hilt gleamed beneath the temple’s light. In the pommel, a carved flame—identical to the Mark burning upon his chest.

  His pupils brightened, lit from within.

  Selenya spoke, her voice resonating throughout the chamber.

  “Eryndhal, the Sword of Dawn. Forged by the Ancient Men when light still ruled the world. Its edge does not merely destroy shadow… it reveals the one who has been chosen.”

  A pressure filled Alden’s mind. An ancient voice whispered words he could not understand.

  And then the prophecy echoed within him:

  “When the blood of Galathor is spilled upon the northern lands,

  the sleeping fire shall awaken.

  That blood shall bear the Mark of Flame,

  key and pathway alike;

  the arm that gathers the Relics.

  For when the Flame rises again

  and the Relics are found,

  darkness shall be defeated…

  or exalted.”

  Time shattered into fragments.

  First, a ruined field: a woman of noble gaze falling beneath a blade, a shadow bending over her.

  Then, the cherry-leaf forest, swept by a wind that seemed to whisper his name.

  And finally—a flame suspended in endless darkness.

  The light in his eyes faded slowly. Alden breathed heavily, still holding the sword. All watched him in silence, knowing that something had changed forever.

  Selenya regarded him calmly.

  “There is a path you have walked unknowingly since your birth,” she said. “One that has led you to this moment. From here on, your choices will shape the road ahead. The flame can give life… or consume all in its path.”

  ***

  Far away, in the frozen lands of northern Elyndor, beneath a pale moon, a dark fire burned among forgotten ruins.

  Around it, dozens of figures waited. Tall, grey-skinned, with crimson eyes; bodies covered in scars, armor stained with rust and blood. Among them, some rode hairless beasts with red eyes and whip-like tails.

  One creature stood above the rest—larger than the others, a scar slashed across his face from end to end, wielding a sword so massive no man could lift it.

  A raven with a single white feather on its left wing landed upon an old, tattered banner-once the proud emblem of Elyndor, its bright blue long since devoured by crimson.

  The darkness in the bird’s eyes deepened, flowing into the gaze of the giant who watched it. For a moment, an unseen shadow bound them together.

  The creature spoke in a harsh, guttural tongue:

  “Varkha’n tol. Eredh nal’gor. Shath el druun.”

  A roar surged through the ranks. Beasts rose. Drums thundered.

  And beneath the darkened sky, the horde began to move, following a will older than their own.

  The raven took flight, vanishing into the shadows beyond the horizon.

  Under the sickened moon, the Ghüls marched south.

  And the world trembled.

  Thank you for reading this far. I truly hope you’ve enjoyed this chapter and the beginning of the story.

  I know I’ve probably made many mistakes (this is my first attempt at writing, and also my first time using editors and publishing platforms like this), but I promise I’ll keep working to improve with every chapter.

  I invite you to continue the story and to share your comments, opinions, ideas, or theories. Any feedback is welcome and greatly appreciated.

  New episodes will be published every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

  I also know the chapters may feel a bit short. I originally wrote this story for my son, as a way to encourage him to read, even if only for short periods of time. Later on, the chapters will become a bit longer.

  If you’ve enjoyed the story so far and would like to support the project, you can buy me a coffee at:? [Ko-fi link]

  Once again, thank you for being part of this journey.