The air in his office grew still and heavy, charged with a power so potent it stole the breath from his lungs. Before him, arranged in three flawless rows of four, stood twelve knights. They were statues carved from shadow and resolve, their presence an anchor in the suddenly solid world. Though young, an aura of immense, leashed strength radiated from them, a silent thunder he could feel in his bones.
His eyes, sharpened by years of assessing value in the discarded, scanned the trespassers. Their obsidian armour was masterwork, but it was the golden crest blazing upon each breastplate that halted his heart— the roaring griffon of House Ravenstel.
Astonishment washed over him. These were not the known knights of his house; these were his grandfather's secret. His hidden swords.
Eleven knights knelt as one, a wave of plated honour. The twelfth, who stood with the unshakeable authority of a commander, stepped forward. The removal of his helm revealed a face of hardened grace, framed by cropped black hair and eyes that held the weight of oaths. His voice, when it came, was a low rumble of absolute certainty.
"Lord Theron was our liege," the knight began, his gaze piercing Ashwel's, seeing the boy from the streets and the lord in the making. "Our swords were sworn to him, and through his blood, to his heir. With his final breath, he commanded us to find you. To guard you. To serve you." He drew his blade, the sound a pure, sharp note that hung in the air. Laying the steel across his gauntlets, he offered it like a sacrament as he knelt. "I am Sir Gideon, Commander of the Flag bearer's. I have found you. I see not a common merchant, but the rightful Duke of Ravenstel. I validate the old lord's will; his blood and his legacy are yours. My sword, my life, and my loyalty are yours to command, Lord Ashwel. From this day until my last."
One by one, the others rose, drew their swords, and repeated the vow. The room filled with the ringing of steel and the weight of their voices, a symphony of fealty that shook the very foundations of Ashwel's world. As the last oath faded, he stood before them, the master of twelve living weapons.
A profound shift occurred within him. The pledge brought a sliver of relief, a validation he hadn't known he craved. But it also ignited a deeper, hungrier fire. The black hole of insecurity and want did not vanish; it transformed. It was no longer a void of need, but a crucible of ambition. He wanted more. He needed the power to shield what was his, to claim what he was owed, and to silence the lonely ache that had been his constant companion.
His eyes moved across their faces, committing each name to memory: Gideon, Cyrus, Leonidas, Odin, Arthur, Liam, Kendrick, Alistair, Alexander, Kane, Ethan, Zane. When he spoke, his voice carried neither a boy's arrogance nor a merchant's cunning, but the calm, undeniable authority of a born ruler.
"Sir Gideon," Ashwel said, his tone measured and clear. "I accept your service and that of your men. Rise, all of you. You are my swords."
"We obey,my liege!" Their response was a unified crash of sound, twelve pillars of strength standing tall for him alone.
"My lord," Gideon said, seamlessly adopting his role as chief advisor. "I counsel we depart for the ancestral estate at once. Preparations must be made for the Royal Academy. Others will have a head start; we must be swift. I will personally oversee your combat training. For arcane and statecraft studies, we will secure the finest instructors available."
The decision was made with a single nod. Ashwel moved with purposeful efficiency, retrieving his carefully hoarded savings and penning a concise, grateful letter to Valecian, closing one chapter of his, he opened his next.
At the city gates, his knights awaited, their formidable forms shrouded in black cloaks, mere hints of the deadly power beneath. Beyond the walls, a complex magic circle was etched into the earth, thrumming with latent energy. Sir Gideon gestured him forward.
Ashwel stepped into the center of the Magic formation. He took one last look at the city that had forged him—the streets where he'd been a rat, the market where he'd become a man—and then closed his eyes. The world dissolved into a whirl of light and shadow, carrying thirteen figures toward a forgotten estate, a daunting academy, and the terrifying, glorious prospect of a future he could finally call his own.