(Takes place after Chapter One, just before Kaelen visits the witch.)
Kaelen remembered the day his father placed Virelion in his hands.
He had been just fifteen—his fingers still awkward on the hilt, the weight of the steel unfamiliar. His father, Sir Halrik, stood tall in the courtyard, a grim look on his weathered face. The man had fought in three border wars and carried his scars with pride.
"This sword was forged in the days of Queen Sirelle," he said, gripping Kaelen's shoulder. "Passed through our line since the first embers fell from the sky."
Kaelen had blinked. "But I'm not ready."
"No one ever is," his father replied. "But war doesn't wait. And neither does death."
That night, Kaelen had trained until his hands bled. Aelis, only ten then, had snuck into the courtyard with bandages and honeycakes stolen from the kitchens.
"You look like a dying scarecrow," she'd said, grinning.
He'd laughed, weakly.
She was always the light in the dark.