The Kingdom of Arathor had never been a land of peace. Its people learned to live with one eye on the horizon, for to the east lay the border where the demon world pressed like a festering wound.
And at that border stood the Blackthorns.
They were not the richest family in Arathor, nor the most celebrated in the capital's courts, but they were respected beyond measure. For generations, the Blackthorns had held the frontier. Where others sought titles or treasure, they built walls and raised militias. They buried their dead in the earth they swore to defend.
Their crest was simple: a thorned branch on green. No lions, no crowns, no dragons. Just a warning: touch us, and bleed.
Peasants told stories about them the way they told stories about storms or mountains. Not for glory, but for reassurance. "The Blackthorns stand," they said. "So we may sleep."
Adrian listened to those stories with the wary fascination of one who had already lived another life. An oath to endure, he thought. Not to conquer, not to dominate. Different from demons… but no less binding.
Age Seven – The Library
The manor library smelled of parchment, wax, and dust. Adrian sat on a chair too big for him, a tome sprawling across his lap. Candlelight flickered over his pale face as he mouthed the words aloud.
Year of the River's Freeze. The king's riders did not come. The east was ours to keep or lose. We kept it. The first Blackthorn swore thorn and blood.
"Not that one again," Lady Elara teased from the doorway. She came to sit beside him, her green eyes alight with amusement. "You'll wear the ink away."
Adrian glanced up. "It says the first Blackthorn cut his hand and gripped thorns as he swore."
"So they say." Elara brushed back a lock of his dark hair. "Your father bears scars from the same ritual. He hides them beneath gloves."
Adrian considered that, tracing the faded ink with his small finger. Blood for a wall. A strange oath, yet effective.
Elara tapped the book closed. "Enough, little ghost. Go outside before you forget what sunlight looks like."
Adrian obeyed. But in his mind, the words lingered like an old scar: thorn and blood.
Age Ten – The Sword Spirit
The yard was quiet that evening, stars sharp above and frost clinging to the stones. Lucien stood tall, his real sword gleaming in his grip. He motioned his younger brother closer.
"Adrian," Lucien said, smiling, "before I leave, I want to show you something."
He steadied his stance, breathing deep. The air seemed to tighten. Then the blade began to glow — a faint, shimmering white aura, soft as starlight.
Adrian's eyes widened, lips parting. "Brother… what is that?"
Lucien grinned, sweat already forming on his brow. "This is a Sword Spirit. The soul of a knight, poured into steel. It makes every strike stronger, faster. Against demons, it is our greatest weapon."
The glow flickered out, and Lucien lowered his blade. "Mine's weak now, but at the Royal Knight Academy they'll teach me to master it. At first, every Sword Spirit shines white. But when it matures, it awakens into a color unique to each knight."
He raised a finger, proud to recite what had been taught to him. "Scarlet for burning resolve. Azure for calm discipline. Emerald for protectors. Rare hues like silver, violet, or gold mark greatness. And…" His voice grew hushed. "…yellow. Yellow is for the Holy Knights of Dawnspire alone, chosen by the Light. It's said demons burn just from its glow."
Adrian gasped perfectly, childlike wonder in his voice. "Amazing…"
Lucien ruffled his hair. "One day, your blade will find its color too."
Adrian nodded quickly. "I want to learn that!"
Lucien's grin widened. "Then practice hard. When I return, I'll be proud to see it."
Inside Adrian's Mind
But when Lucien turned away, Adrian's awe hardened into something else.
So this is the human version. Sword Spirit… crude. Fragile. They dress it in colors, as if painting strength makes it greater.
He remembered the demon world: champions whose Anima Blades burned with endless black flame, a hunger that devoured everything it touched. There were no colors, no noble rituals. Only domination.
The humans channel spirit to endure. The demons channeled anima to consume. I mastered this long before Lucien's first cry.
He glanced down at his wooden practice sword, small and weak in his hands. His gray eyes narrowed.
My blade will not be white. Nor black. Nor yellow. It will burn with something the world has never seen.
The Knight Trials
Lucien's departure was not simply choice — it was law. In Arathor, all who sought knighthood were bound at age fifteen to leave their homes and enter the Knight Trials.
For a year they were tested — body, spirit, and soul. Nobles and commoners alike stood side by side, stripped of privilege. When the year ended, masters from the great knight academies arrived to claim recruits. Those chosen advanced. Those rejected went home, shamed.
The names of the academies carried across the kingdom like thunder:
Dawnspire Academy – the Church's bastion, home of the Holy Knights, where yellow blades blazed like the sun.
Ironfang Academy – the harshest school, breaking bodies to forge endurance.
Stormwatch Academy – famed for cavalry and scouts who bent the wind to their will.
Ashbourne Academy – grim slayers of demons and monsters.
Silverkeep Academy – jewel of the capital, training nobles in politics and sword alike.
Stonewall Academy – producing the kingdom's stalwart defenders, shields made flesh.
Lucien would soon face the Trials, and Adrian knew his brother would shine wherever he was chosen.
Adrian smiled as he watched him ride out beneath the Blackthorn banner. But deep inside, the older voice whispered: Shine for them, brother. I will burn for myself.
Age Twelve – The Refugees
That winter, peasants filled the hall, smoke still clinging to their clothes. Their voices shook as they spoke of fire and shadow.
"They didn't take the sheep," one farmer rasped. "They cut them and left them in a line. Like… like they were drawing something."
Adrian's eyes narrowed. He crouched by the hearth's ash bed and traced the line in soot. A border. A claim.
He stood slowly. "They are not raiding. They are marking."
Dorian's gaze met his son's and tightened. He placed a heavy hand on Adrian's shoulder. "Good eye."
Elara, watching from across the hall, felt her heart sink. There was nothing childlike in her son's eyes at that moment.
Closing
That night, Adrian stood in the frost-bitten courtyard, wooden sword in hand. He swung slow, steady arcs through the moonlight.
The demons still crawl. They still test the line.
He exhaled, breath a ghost in the cold.
I was Azrael Bloodrend, Prince of Demons. I am Adrian Blackthorn now. And my spirit will not be white, nor black, nor yellow. It will be a color the world has never seen. And when it comes… all will tremble.
The boy lowered his blade. The night bowed in silence.