In the North, stories do not begin with hope, but with loss.
On the day the raven arrived at Castus Palace, winter grew heavier.
The moment the message was revealed, the ancient halls descended into chaos. Servants hurried through stone corridors, guards exchanged hushed commands, and an invisible weight settled upon the cold walls, as if the palace itself had sensed the coming storm.
Illian Castus, Lord of House Castus, stood motionless behind his desk, staring at the parchment in his hand. Sorrow and restrained fury darkened his expression. Years of responsibility had already claimed their toll—several strands of silver now ran through his once-dark hair.
With a trembling yet resolute motion, he placed the letter upon the desk and gestured to the guard. The meaning was clear. The guard bowed at once, turned sharply, and left the chamber without a word.
Unaware of the full truth—yet not blind to the tension suffocating the palace—a fourteen-year-old boy sparred with his brother in the training hall.
They were the same age and bore a striking resemblance to one another, but the difference lay in their demeanor. One moved calmly, deflecting his brother's wooden blade with measured precision. His expression was composed, almost distant, as though his mind rested far beyond the clash of swords.
This was Lucius—one of the two sons of House Castus, and the first prodigy of his generation.
Opposite him stood Alexander, relentless and aggressive, testing every opening with fierce determination. He was the other sword genius of their generation, equal in talent but vastly different in spirit.
While chaos reigned beyond the hall, the brothers continued their quiet duel—until hurried footsteps echoed at the entrance.
A guard appeared, moving swiftly toward them.
Noticing his approach, the brothers ended their bout. Wooden swords were lowered. The guard reached them, bowed, and straightened.
As Lucius and Alexander removed their black training garments, they noticed the guard preparing to speak and turned their full attention toward him.
"Young Master Lucius. Young Master Alexander," the guard said."The Lord of the House summons you."
At once, both brothers grew serious. They knew their father well—this was no ordinary call.
After exchanging a brief glance, they followed the guard at a brisk pace toward the Lord's study.
Inside, Illian Castus stood before a grand, heroic painting, speaking with a white-haired, clean-shaven man—Edward, the chief steward of Castus Palace.
Upon seeing his sons enter, Illian dismissed Edward with a curt gesture and returned to his desk. He motioned for the brothers to sit.
Silence filled the room.
At last, Illian spoke, forcing calm into his voice.
"News has arrived from the Wall," he said."The raven that came this morning reports that your uncle—Callian Castus, Grand Commander of the Wall—fell honorably in battle against the barbarians beyond it."
Lucius and Alexander listened without interruption.
"By the traditions of our House," Illian continued,"the Wall must remain under Castus authority. One of you must travel north and assume the role of Grand Commander to govern and defend it."
When his words ended, a heavy silence settled over the room.
Both brothers looked at their father with composed expressions, though countless questions churned within them. Alexander clenched his hands, about to speak—but then met Lucius's gaze. He understood.
Lucius stepped forward.
"If my lord father deems me suitable, I will volunteer for this duty," he said calmly."However, I believe my age alone is insufficient for such a burden. I request that Alexander accompany me."
When Lucius finished, Alexander nodded in agreement.
Seeing the harmony between his sons, Illian slowly nodded in return.
"Still, I will give you time to think," he said."We depart before dawn tomorrow. We will retrieve Callian's body, restore order at the Wall, and remind the overbold barbarians of their place."
He rose from his seat.
"Make your preparations. Await word from Edward. You may go."
The brothers stood, bowed respectfully, and left the chamber.
As they walked through the stone corridors, neither spoke. Their footsteps echoed heavily, carrying the weight of what was to come.
After some time, Alexander broke the silence.
"What do you think, Lucius?" he asked."How could someone as strong as our uncle be defeated?"
Lucius's expression grew distant, touched with sorrow.
"If strength alone made one invincible," he replied,"would the Continental Empire of Aether ever have fallen, Alexander?"
He paused.
"Something is changing beyond the Wall. Uncle's death feels like a beginning. The letter blamed the barbarian clans—but Father's expression… it spoke of something far worse."
Alexander tensed slightly but hid it well, clasping his hands behind his neck.
"Who else could have killed our uncle but the barbarians?" he asked."I understand your stance, but you can't blame legendary beasts or demons, can you?"
Lucius answered with a faint, bitter smile.
Demons and mythical creatures were real—everyone knew that. Yet none had ever approached the Wall. People believed this was due to the ancient enchantments woven into it by the Black Dragon Castus himself.
Paintings and relics lined the corridors as they walked on, silently proclaiming the prestige and might of House Castus.
After a long walk, the brothers reached their chambers. Servants awaited them at the door, receiving swift orders.
They would depart at dawn.
Lucius POV
When I entered my chamber, I ran my fingers through my hair and took a deep breath.
After lingering near the door for a few seconds, I moved toward the bathing corner of the room. I needed cold water to calm my thoughts. A simple basin stood there, filled with icy water, beside a small mirror.
I dipped my hands into the basin. The cold stung, making me flinch, but I endured and splashed the water across my face.
When I lifted my head, my reflection stared back at me.
Raven-black hair, unevenly combed. Violet eyes—sharp, tired, and far older than they should have been.
My gaze drifted to the small scar at the corner of my lip.
I raised a hand toward it.
That wound had never carried good memories.
As my eyes returned to the basin, the world shifted.
Ash drifted through the air. The cold was so severe that my body trembled uncontrollably. The place felt painfully familiar, yet I stood there as if I had no idea where I was.
Burning tents surrounded me. The stench of blood filled the air. The ground was littered with the bodies of women and children.
Mounted soldiers charged through the settlement, cutting down anyone they found.
I heard hooves behind me.
I turned—and saw my uncle riding toward me at full speed. His mouth moved, but his words were swallowed by screams and chaos.
Moments later, he reached me without slowing. He grabbed me by my clothes, pulled me up onto his horse, and rode hard—away from the slaughter.
Then, a deafening horn echoed across the battlefield.
Soldiers wearing our family's sigil began to withdraw.
As we fled, I looked back one last time.
Inside a burning tent, a young girl stood crying—her eyes filled with fury and despair.
Then—
I was back in my chamber, frozen in place, hands still resting on the basin.