In the vast kingdom of Elyndor, there was a state known above all others for its strength—Embervale. It was called the heart of Elyndor's army, the forge where soldiers were shaped like steel on an anvil. Its fields were filled not with farmers' songs but with the clash of weapons and the discipline of marching feet. Every child grew up with the rhythm of war in their blood, and every family bore scars of service to the crown
At the center of it all stood Gareth Darius, commander of Embervale's forces. To the men, he was their shield, their "Iron Wall." To the kingdom, he was a symbol of security. But to Alexander, he was simply Father.
Alexander Darius was thirteen—a boy with more energy than he knew what to do with. His life was a strange balance: mornings filled with bruises from training, afternoons spent hunched over scrolls, and evenings wandering with a wolf at his heels. Unlike most boys his age who either loved the sword or hated it, Alexander loved both—the fight and the study. He wanted to swing a blade like his father, yes, but he also wanted to know how the world worked—why ruins blessed people with powers, how scouts could see farther than hawks, why shielders could summon walls stronger than stone.
But Alexander wasn't raised only on iron and orders. His mother, Elira Darius, kept warmth alive in their household. Where Gareth was stern, Elira was gentle; where Gareth was silent, she spoke with patience. She was not a soldier but the daughter of a scholar, and it was she who placed books in Alexander's hands. While Gareth molded his body, Elira nurtured his curiosity. At dinner, when the family gathered around the long oak table, she listened to Alexander chatter about both sword stances and strange theories from the ruins, never once dismissing his restless curiosity.
And always by his side was Fenrir, his silver-furred wolf. A year ago, Alexander had stumbled upon him in the Embervale woods. It had been just after a rainfall; the earth was damp, and the forest smelled of pine and mud. He heard the sound first—a low, pained whine. Pushing through the underbrush, he found a young wolf, larger than any dog he had seen, its flank torn by a hunter's arrow. Its fur was matted with blood, its breath shallow.
Any other boy might have run. Wolves were feared in Embervale; most called them shadows of the wild. But Alexander had knelt beside it, hands trembling, and whispered, "It's alright… I won't hurt you."
The wolf's golden eyes met his, full of both fury and fear. For reasons Alexander could never explain, he had pulled out the arrow, pressed his tunic against the wound, and dragged the beast home. His mother nearly fainted at the sight, and even Gareth's iron composure cracked into disbelief. But Elira, after one long look into her son's pleading eyes, had said, "Then he is yours to heal, Alexander. But if he stays, he must stay as family."
And so Fenrir had stayed. Against all odds, he survived. The wolf grew strong again, and though he could have returned to the wild, he never left Alexander's side. Now his silver fur shone like moonlight, and his amber eyes watched the boy with an almost human intelligence. The people of Embervale whispered that it was a dangerous omen, that the boy who walked with a wolf was marked by fate. But Alexander didn't care. To him, Fenrir was not omen or shadow. He was brother.
Life in Embervale was never quiet. The clash of blades rang through the air at dawn, and the drill sergeants' shouts echoed until the sun fell. For most boys, it was a burden. For Alexander, it was fuel. He sparred until his arms shook, studied until his eyes blurred, and still found himself lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, imagining the world beyond Embervale's stone walls.
His father was not a man of many words, but when he spoke, they stayed. After one grueling spar where Alexander had been knocked down again and again, Gareth finally placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
"Strength of arm builds soldiers," Gareth said. "Strength of mind builds leaders. But the rarest of all is one who carries both. Remember that, Alexander."
The boy had burned with determination ever since.
In the heart of Embervale, beneath the shadow of towering barracks and endless training grounds, Alexander Darius dreamed—not just of swords or books, but of something greater. Of proving himself. Of stepping out from under his father's shadow.
And as Fenrir's golden eyes glimmered in the fading light beside him, Alexander felt, deep down, that his path would not remain within Embervale's walls for long.