"Something was born… and yet, fate did not bend."
The tremor spread across creation. Palaces, fortresses, and hidden halls where only the most powerful dared to dwell felt it.
And then—
A letter appeared.
Not carried. Not delivered. Not written by mortal hand. It simply was.
Parchment woven of shadow and light, sealed with an ancient mark. When touched, it spoke in a voice that was not a voice at all:
"You have been summoned.
The Umbral Blades are called.
Will you attend?
Yes, or no."
In the kingdom of Araveth, a ruler rose from his throne as the parchment burned itself to dust. His aura rolled like a storm, shaking the stone walls.
"So… the Veythar Empire dares to stir again."
A soldier lowered his head. "Then it is true, my lord?"
"Yes. Prepare for war. If the Blades gather, blood will follow."
The great doors of the throne room opened, and a captain stepped inside, kneeling.
"My king, reports confirm that the Nine Blades of Velrath are being assembled."
BOOM—
The very air trembled. Power erupted from the throne, flooding the chamber with a blinding surge of color.
Cracks split the marble as the force of his aura expanded outward, shaking the walls until dust rained from the ceiling.
Guards fell to their knees, unable to breathe beneath the weight of it.
At the center of the storm, the ruler remained unmoving—eyes burning like molten fire, the sigil of his house blazing behind him.
The light faded, leaving shattered stone and silence.
"Be Kael'reth and bring the army back to the capital," he said at last.
Though his tone was calm again, no one doubted his meaning.
War was coming.
Elsewhere, in the kingdom of Reseten, a grand hall waited beneath golden banners.
At its center stood a black throne veined with gold.
Before it stretched a long table, lined with goblets and empty plates.
A man sat upon the throne, his crown tilted low, hand resting against his chin. Behind him stood a single guard.
"They are here, my lord."
"I understand. Thank you," the man said quietly.
"It is my pleasure," the guard replied, before vanishing into shadow.
The great doors opened, and the rulers entered—ten in total, each from a different kingdom. They carried pride heavier than their crowns and took their seats without bowing.
"Who gathered us here?" one ruler demanded.
The man on the throne did not move. "A friend of mine. You'll see soon enough."
"If this friend doesn't arrive soon, I'll leave," said another.
"I was promised food," a third grumbled.
"And so what if you were promised that?" another snapped.
"Then where is it?"
The man on the throne raised a hand. "It will come."
And as though the palace itself obeyed him, the doors opened again. Servants entered, carrying trays of roasted meat, spiced bread, and golden wine that shimmered like starlight.
The hungry ruler laughed. "Finally! It's here."
He tore into the food without hesitation.
One ruler frowned. "You're a ruler—try to act like one."
The hungry one smirked. "Why?"
Then another ruler leaned back and spoke to them all.
"Have you heard what's happening with Veythar?"
"You mean the Swords of Velrath are about to gather?"
"Gather? For what?"
"What are the Swords of Velrath?"
"Veythar is summoning its Nine Blades," one ruler explained. "They're preparing for war against Araveth."
Another ruler leaned forward. "Go back—who are the Nine Blades?"
"Nine warriors scattered across the empire," the man said, "each bearing a weapon forged from the remnants of a fallen god."
Someone's voice broke the silence. "You said a fallen god. Which god?"
"The God of Chains… Zareth."
A heavy pause followed.
Then one ruler turned toward the crowned man at the head of the table. "Will you strike Velrath first?"
The crowned man gave a faint, knowing smile.
"The King of Velrath isn't foolish enough to drag me into this."
Another ruler pressed. "And if Araveth strikes first?"
"I expect he will," the man said quietly. "But the moment a single soldier sets foot on my land… there will be war. And even he knows better than to test that. No one is foolish enough to attack one while already fighting another."
Another ruler leaned forward, his voice cold.
"There was one who did."
The hall turned silent.
"Who?" someone asked.
"Lord Dareth of Solvane," the man replied. "He waged war on twelve kingdoms at once."
The crowned man raised a brow. "And what became of him?"
"He lost," another ruler said sharply. "Of course he did. What else could he expect when he tried to fight twelve kingdoms at once?"
Silence settled, until one ruler asked, "Then who do you think will win?"
Another ruler laughed softly.
"That's obvious. Araveth. They have Kael'reth, the Dragon Saint, on their side. Even if Velrath gathers the Nine Blades, they'll fall."
Before anyone could respond, the air changed.
A parchment appeared above the table, glowing faintly, its seal pulsing with ancient power.
"You have been summoned.
The Umbral Blades are called.
Will you attend?
Yes, or no."
The crowned man stood slowly, reached toward it, and wrote one word.
No.
The parchment ignited, burning itself into ash.
Murmurs filled the hall.
"I don't understand why you even bother being one of the Umbral Blades," one ruler sneered. "Every member is the same—idiots drunk on their own strength."
Another ruler chuckled. "And you aren't?"
The hungry ruler smirked. "As if any of you are different."
Then the doors opened once more.
A figure stepped through, half-shrouded in darkness. His face was unseen, but the torchlight caught the weapon at his side.
Gasps broke the silence.
"That sword… it cannot be…"
The blade gleamed—black steel veined with crimson fire, jagged as though it had bitten through gods themselves.
"That is Nerthul, the Severed Fang," whispered one ruler. "There are only two such blades in the entire universe."
Another ruler leaned forward. "And only two people may wield them—Aurelia… and him."
The silence deepened.
At last, one ruler spoke. "What are you doing here?"
The figure's voice was calm.
"I'm here to form an alliance. With all of you. Against the Clan of Eryndral."
Gasps rippled again.
"An alliance?" one ruler scoffed. "You destroyed the Clan of Varzynthal by yourself. Why need us now?"
"Because Eryndral is different," the figure said. "And they've attacked your borders too."
One ruler barked laughter. "So we're your toys?"
The man's smile cut like a blade.
"I won't say it. But yes."
The ruler who had burned his letter stood, stepping down from his throne.
"Stop wasting time arguing. If he wanted a no, he wouldn't have come here personally."
The figure tilted his head.
"You know me well."
"Of course. You haven't changed since you were a boy. Still the same reckless child."
The man with the Severed Fang laughed quietly.
"Do you truly think so?"
"Yes," the ruler said, smiling faintly. "And I'm glad for it."
The torches burned brighter. The feast lay forgotten.
And for the first time in centuries, ten rulers sat together, bound by silence — and by the presence of the Severed Fang.
Far away, under the fading sun, a boy sat on the rocks overlooking the sea. The waves crashed gently as gulls wheeled above. Suddenly, a letter appeared before him, glowing faintly. The boy's eyes widened in awe.
"My first time… I'll finally see the others."
Behind him, footsteps echoed. An old man stepped carefully across the rocks, silver hair shining in the sunset, cane tapping against stone.
"Young master," he said softly, "you cannot go."
The boy turned. "Why not, Aradan?"
"Because your mother is with child," the elder replied. "She'll give birth soon. You must be here when it happens."
The boy blinked, then smiled.
"Okay… I'm not going this year. Only if you let me name the baby."
Aradan paused, then smiled faintly.
"Yes… of course, young master."
The letter dissolved into ash.
And so it was decided. Some laughed. Some cursed. Some refused. Some smiled.
But thirteen voices answered yes.
The Umbral Blades would open once more.
And though none dared say it aloud, all who received the summons felt the same truth pressing upon them:
This was no ordinary gathering.
It was the beginning of something far greater.
End of Chapter 3 – The Summons