The days dragged on in silence. Once a place of laughter and warmth, the Draven mansion stood like a hollow shell. The banners that once danced proudly in the wind were torn and blackened. The courtyard, where Kael had once watched his father spar with the knights, now carried the faint scars of battle. The smell of ash lingered in the air, no matter how much the servants scrubbed the stones.
Kael often found himself standing in the middle of that courtyard, wooden sword in hand, trying to replicate the lessons his father had once taught him. The stances. The breathing. The strikes. Yet every swing felt heavy. His arms grew sore, but the weight in his chest was heavier still.
Why hasn't Father come back yet?
That question gnawed at him like a restless beast. He tried to bury himself in training, to distract his mind with sweat and steel, but each time he stopped, grief and worry crept back in. His mother's final words haunted his dreams, and the image of the masked knight's blade piercing her heart was carved into his memory.
Perched nearby, Maverick watched. In the form of a sleek black cat with sharp golden eyes, he sat silently, his tail flicking side to side. Sometimes Kael swore that gaze could pierce through his very soul. The boy would practice until his arms trembled, then collapse onto the ground, gasping for breath.
"You won't grow stronger by swinging blindly," Maverick finally said one afternoon, his voice calm but cutting.
Kael glared at him, wiping sweat from his brow. "Then what am I supposed to do? Sit and wait?"
"Sometimes patience is a sharper weapon than any sword," Maverick replied. "But I know patience does not suit you, boy. Not yet."
Kael turned away, refusing to argue further. His heart was too restless.
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains and the sky glowed crimson, the sound of hooves broke the stillness. The gates of the mansion creaked open, and a group of armored riders thundered in. Their cloaks bore the crimson seal of Valdoria, the royal crest. At their head rode a tall man in gleaming armor, his helmet polished so bright it caught the fading sunlight like fire.
Kael and Sir Alaric—the Silver Knight who had remained to guard him—hurried to the front steps. The lead rider dismounted with swift precision, pulling free a scroll sealed with crimson wax. He bowed deeply.
"Young Master Kael Draven," the man said formally, voice echoing beneath his helm. "By order of His Majesty, I bear this letter. It is meant for you alone."
Kael's hands trembled as he took it. The wax seal bore the unmistakable insignia of the throne. His chest tightened as he broke it open.
The parchment inside carried words written in a strong, commanding hand.
To Kael Draven, son of Duke Lucien Draven,
News of the attack upon your lands has reached the throne. Your father has not returned as expected, and matters grow more dire than you may yet understand. By royal decree, you are summoned to the capital at once. Present yourself before me without delay. The future of your house depends on it.
Kael stared at the words, reading them again and again. His pulse quickened. Father has not returned… and now even the king summons me?
Sir Alaric stepped closer, reading the boy's troubled face. "This… is no ordinary summons. For His Majesty himself to write directly to you, it means the matter is urgent. Perhaps… he knows something of your father's fate."
Kael's voice shook as he spoke. "Then I will go. If the king knows where Father is, if this leads me closer to the truth, then I'll face whatever waits in the capital."
The messenger bowed once more, then stepped back into line with his men.
Later that night, Kael sat by the dim light of a lantern in the quiet study. The letter rested on the desk before him. His hands curled into fists as he thought of his mother, of her lifeless eyes as the rain washed over her body.
"I'll find them," he whispered. "I'll find the one who sent that knight. And I'll kill him."
Maverick's voice drifted from the shadows. "Your resolve is growing, boy. But be careful. The capital is not just stone walls and banners—it is a nest of serpents. Politics, intrigue, men who smile while sharpening knives behind their backs. You may face enemies there far more dangerous than the ones with swords."
Kael turned, frustration flashing in his eyes. "I don't care. If the capital holds answers, I'll go. I'll fight them all if I have to."
For a moment, Maverick's golden eyes softened, though his voice remained calm. "That is what I fear. A blade swung too early can cut its wielder."
Kael frowned but said nothing more.
The next morning, Kael packed. He gathered his training blade, the keepsake pendant his mother had once worn, and the sealed royal letter. Sir Alaric organized the knights who would accompany them, ensuring their armor and banners were prepared for the road.
Before leaving, Kael returned to the courtyard one last time. The rain from days past had washed the stones clean, but he could still see faint stains where the flames had burned hottest. He knelt and placed a small bouquet of wildflowers where his mother had fallen.
"Mother," he whispered, voice breaking. "I promised you. I will avenge you. And I will bring Father back."
As he stood, a gust of wind swept through the courtyard, carrying away petals from the flowers. He clenched his fists tighter.
At the gates, Sir Alaric bowed slightly. "We ride at dawn, young master. To the capital."
Kael mounted his horse, his small figure still carrying the weight of grief and rage far too heavy for a boy of seven.
Maverick leapt gracefully onto the saddle behind him,
As the gates creaked open and the company rode forth, Maverick muttered under his breath, too quiet for Kael to hear. "So… the game begins. And the boy takes his first step into the lion's den."
Kael only looked ahead, the letter burning in his pocket, his heart a storm of grief, determination, and the faint spark of a power he could not yet understand.