I have watched assassins move through kingdoms like whispers. I have watched traitors bend the fate of nations with a single command. So when the traitor hidden deep within the ruins of Aramoor felt Dream's presence enter the royal capital, I knew the pattern would twist.
He sat upon the broken throne he had claimed, surrounded by corrupted dream-born and demons. The air around him shimmered with nightmare energy. His eyes narrowed as he sensed the faint tug of Dream's essence settling inside the capital's walls.
"So," the traitor murmured, "Dream thinks he can hide behind mortals."
He raised his hand.
A shadow peeled itself from the darkness. A man stepped forward one of the traitor's many spies placed inside the royal palace long before Aramoor fell. His eyes glowed faintly, touched by corrupted dream-essence.
"You summoned me, my lord," the spy said quietly.
"I did," the traitor answered. "Dream travels with a boy. Kill the boy. No mistakes."
The spy bowed low."It will be done."
And with that, the assassin disappeared into the shadows, racing toward the capital. Toward Erias.
I felt the ripple that followed his departure. Threads shifted. Danger tightened around the boy like a silent noose.
But destiny is a stubborn thing. It resists hands that try to force it.
The next morning, the sun rose over the royal capital like molten gold. Banners of Arathen fluttered in the wind above the palace. Servants hurried through marble courtyards preparing for the gathering of the Royal Council.
Inside the palace, nobles filled the grand hall men and women wearing robes of sapphire, emerald, and deep crimson. Their voices overlapped in murmurs about demons, rebellion, and the fall of Aramoor.
Then the king entered.
Silence fell instantly.
He took his seat on the high throne, Raelan standing at his right side like a blade that never dulled. The High Priest was escorted to stand beside the nobles, Varos behind him, calm and unreadable.
The king lifted a hand.
"The Royal Council begins."
All heads turned to the High Priest.
"Tell the court what happened to Aramoor," the king said.
The High Priest stepped forward. His voice carried a heavy grief that spread across the throne hall like a cold wind.
"My king, my lords, ladies of the court… Aramoor fell in less than a day."
Gasps rippled across the room.
"The attack was sudden," he continued. "Demons Thousands of them descended upon the city. But they were guided. Led. Not by mortal hands, but by something older, darker. The people were overwhelmed before they could even flee."
One noble leaned forward, face pale."How could demons take a fortified city so quickly?"
"Because they were organized," the High Priest said. "Their leader knew our defenses. He struck at the exact moment our messengers were silenced. We received no warnings. No signs. Aramoor was cut off completely."
The murmurs grew louder.
Another noble rose."High Priest, do you know their next target?"
The High Priest hesitated.His gaze swept across the hall.
"Yes," he said. "I do."
He pointed downward, to the marble floor beneath their feet.
"They will come here. The royal capital."
The hall erupted.
"What!?" "Impossible!" "This city has never fallen!"
"They wouldn't dare attack the heart of Arathen!"
The king raised his hand sharply.
Silence crushed the room.
When he spoke, his voice held the weight of command.
"If demons march toward the capital, then we will not wait to be slaughtered behind our walls. I will mobilize a force of three thousand to reclaim Aramoor immediately."
Before anyone could respond, the doors to the hall slammed open.
Every noble turned.
A man strode in wearing battle-worn armor stained with dust from long travel. His hair was tied back, his eyes sharp, his presence unmistakable.
The king stood abruptly.
"Brother."
The man knelt on one knee."I have returned from the southern front. The rebellion is crushed."
A murmur rippled through the council.
This was the kingdom's general the king's blood, the strongest commander in Arathen, the man who had never lost a campaign.
The king stepped forward, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder.
"Rise," he said. "Your return comes at a critical hour."
The general rose.
"We are under threat," the king said. "Demons have taken Aramoor. I appoint you as head of the army to reclaim our sacred city."
The general nodded without hesitation."I accept."
The king turned back to the council.
"We will not cower. Arathen will fight."
Another noble stood."High Priest," he said loudly, "can your order mobilize its forces? Or will Arathen face this threat alone?"
The High Priest drew a deep breath.
"After the war… Torvas blessed us with warriors trained beyond mortal limits. I can mobilize five thousand if given time."
The room filled with whispers of relief.
But a noble wearing robes of silver-blue stood sharply.
"And what of the Blade of Torvas?" he demanded. "I heard the last Blade is dead."
The room tensed.
The High Priest did not flinch.
"Yes, the Blade has fallen."His eyes softened. "Kaelar gave his life to save many. He died with honor."
"Then we are vulnerable," another noble snapped.
"No," the High Priest said firmly. "Before Kaelar died, he chose a successor."
Whispers rose surprised, doubtful, hopeful, fearful.
"But the ritual must still be performed," the High Priest continued. "Tradition demands three years before a new Blade can be named. However because of the demon invasion we will hold the ritual in one year."
"A year?" a noble barked. "That is far too long!"
"Too long?" another shouted. "It is too short! A year is nothing for a ritual that kills more than it crowns!"
The council fractured into chaos.
The High Priest raised his hand, but Varos stepped forward slightly and touched his shoulder. A faint ripple the quiet hum of Dream's presence spread through the hall. Not magic, not force, just a weight of authority.
The room calmed.
The High Priest spoke again.
"The ritual cannot be rushed. Even one year is dangerously fast. But we have no choice. If the next Blade fails… the cost will be catastrophic."
The king stood.
"Enough."
The hall quieted instantly.
His gaze swept across the nobles, the soldiers, the priests.
"This is my decree," the king said. "The armies will begin training immediately. Two months after the new Blade is chosen, the eight thousand troops we can muster will march to reclaim Aramoor."
His voice deepened.
"Prepare yourselves. Arathen goes to war."
The council bowed.
The meeting ended.
But I felt the threads tighten even further.
Outside the palace, a shadow slipped through the streets the spy sent by the traitor, his eyes fixed on one target.
Erias.
Varos felt the slightest tremor of corrupted dream-energy approaching the palace walls. He turned his head toward the corridor where Erias stood alone, unaware of the blade stalking him through the crowd.
The traitor's first move had begun.
The capital, for all its gold and glory, now stood at the edge of a blade sharpened by destiny.
And destiny is never kind.