Three months had passed since the war.
The city had changed—and so had we.
The streets, once full of life, now carried a tension you could feel in every glance, in every whisper. But for the two of us—me and Jered—the world had narrowed to a simple truth: we had survived together, and as long as one of us breathed, the other would never fall alone.
Since the first battle at the Northern Fortress, we had stood side by side. That was where we saved each other's lives. Since then, we had crossed burning villages, broken roads, and silent forests where the blade of a dark elf could still emerge from the shadows.
And even though the war was over, we kept fighting—this time against a different enemy: the rotten peace of the kingdom.
Our first big test came when we were sent to escort a shipment of weapons to the northern border. A "routine" assignment, they called it. But every soldier knows that "routine" in these times means death waiting behind the first hill.
We were right.
Half a day into the march through a narrow valley, we heard screaming. Not the cry of battle—but a woman's scream. We quickened our pace and emerged into a small clearing, where broken wagons and dead men and women lay scattered across the ground.
And by one tree…
Three bandits had a young elven woman. She was bloodied, her clothes torn, one holding her arms, another yanking her hair, the third loosening his belt.
Beside them lay another woman, unmoving.
Jered clenched his jaw. "Bastards."
I felt nothing—nothing but cold, clean rage.
The first one never saw me coming. My sword went through his back so deep the tip emerged from his chest, then I kicked him away. Jered went for the one holding the elf—breaking his nose with one hand and slitting his throat with the other, so his blood splattered the tree trunk.
The third tried to run, but I caught him, slammed him into the ground, and snapped his arm below the elbow. His scream echoed across the valley until I silenced it by crushing his windpipe.
From the treeline, six more bandits emerged.
And then the real fight began.
A tall one with a halberd lunged at me. I dodged and severed his leg at the knee. Another came from behind, but Jered pulled him down and stabbed upward, driving the blade under his ribs.
We dropped two quickly, but the other three pushed us hard. Jered grabbed one by the head and twisted until I heard the neck snap. I knocked the sword from another's hands and shattered his jaw with the hilt.
Their leader, a massive brute with a two-handed sword, shouted: "Kill them! Leave the elf bitches to me!"
That was his last sentence.
I charged, deflected his strike, spun, and cut deep into his side. As he bent over, Jered drove a dagger into his throat.
When it was over, we led the women to an overturned wagon, where the surviving men of their group took them in. No thanks were needed—their eyes said enough.
Back in town, we went straight to our usual back-alley tavern. But this time, something was different. Soldiers stood up to shake our hands. Some whispered: "Those are the two from the Northern Fortress."
The legend grew.
It was no longer the story of one man, but of two warriors bound by a brotherhood of blood… and a shared hatred for those who preyed on the weak.
A Hero in the. Shadows
After the valley fight, the news spread faster than fire in dry grass.
First among soldiers who knew our names. Then merchants in taverns began to talk. Finally, even the common folk on the streets.
Everyone spoke of Aric.
Of the man who charged into overwhelming odds to save elven women from the hands of criminals.
Of how he fought—"like nine men in one," they said—and how his sword "sang death."
Jered always stood at my side. Anyone who knew the truth understood that without him, I wouldn't be alive. But the talk of the crowd always finds its hero—and that was me. Jered took it with stoic calm, maybe too much so.
"Let them think what they want," he told me over a cup of wine. "I know who you are, and you know who I am."
The command saw more than just the stories.
They started sending us on missions others didn't get—scouting enemy lines, escorting dangerous prisoners, eliminating problem groups nobody spoke of in public.
One mission took us to the western edge of the kingdom, to an old monastery where a group of smugglers had holed up.
It wasn't a normal fight. Moving among the ruins was hard—rubble shifted underfoot, and the wind howled through broken walls. The smugglers were well-armed and quick to kill.
At one point, I found myself alone against four. I crippled the first with a cut to the knee, then slit his throat. The second knocked my sword away, but I broke his arm and killed him with his own blade. The third tried to circle me, but Jered skewered him from the side. The fourth I threw down a staircase, hearing his spine hit the stone ledge—he didn't get back up.
When it was done, the unit commander patted me on the shoulder.
"Son, if we had more men like you, this land would be unbeatable."
Jered just smirked and looked away.
Back in the capital, we were summoned before the captain of the guard.
Jered was promoted to sergeant.
And me… I was told I'd be called to train with the King's Royal Guard.
The news spread fast. Soldiers called me "a hope for future generations."
Children in the streets tried to salute when they saw me.
Some joked that soon we'd be leading whole armies.
But I knew that a legend is a double-edged sword. The more people see you as a hero, the more they want you to act the way they imagine.
And I already suspected there would come a day when that wouldn't be possible.
First Step Among the Elite
The Royal Guard's courtyard was another world.
While regular soldiers trained in mud and dust, here they drilled on stone floors under the eyes of instructors who knew every sword stroke better than their own hands.
Many faces were cold, distant. To them, I was the newcomer—the man taverns whispered about, but who had yet to prove he deserved the crimson cloak of the Guard.
The first assignment came sooner than expected.
On the kingdom's northeastern edge, in the town of Varyn, a group of former mercenaries was raiding royal shipments. The Guard had orders to capture them and bring them to trial.
The orders were clear: "No dead, only prisoners."
We set out before dawn. Ten men, me among them. On the road, I stayed in the back, listening to the captain talk with his veterans. No one bothered explaining the plan to me.
When we reached Varyn, it was quiet—too quiet. Streets empty, doors shut, windows covered.
Then we saw them.
In an old warehouse at the edge of town, armed and ready. Men who once fought for pay now simply took what they wanted. And among them… two bound dark elven women. Bloodied, beaten, and from the look in their eyes, I knew exactly what had been done to them.
The captain whispered: "Stick to the plan. Quiet. Take them alive."
But I felt the pressure building in my ears. Plan or no plan—these men no longer had the right to breathe.
As we moved in, one spotted us. He shouted, reaching for his sword.
That was my moment.
I didn't look at the captain. I charged into the warehouse, sword in hand, cutting the first man across the throat. The second I took at the wrist before he could draw. The third I pinned to the wall so hard his skull cracked.
The Guards followed, but their pace was slow, cautious. I fought like it was a battlefield, not an arrest. When the last mercenary tried to kill one of the elf women, I threw my dagger—burying it between his shoulder blades.
When it was over, no one was left alive.
The captain roared at me: "The order was clear! Take them alive!"
I stared back. "If you'd seen what they did to those women, you'd understand."
The elf women were freed, but tension simmered among the Guards. Some looked at me with disdain, others with quiet respect. And I knew this day would be remembered in my story—not as obedience, but as defiance.
That night, I sat with Jered in the tavern.
"So, do they love you yet in the Guard?" he asked with a smirk.
"More like hate me," I said.
Jered laughed. "Then you're doing something right."