The Night the King Fell
Thunder cracked over the shattered spires of Vaelith Keep as the sky wept fire.
The throne room—once the heart of an empire—was consumed by ruin. Ancient tapestries burned. Pillars groaned and collapsed. And upon the obsidian throne, High King Aric Vaelith, last ruler of the Stormborn Dynasty, bled from a wound that should have been impossible.
The dagger still pulsed in his chest—runed, cursed, and dripping with betrayal.
Aric tried to rise. His hand trembled, reaching for a sword no longer at his side.
A familiar voice knelt beside him.
"It had to be this way," whispered Queen Lydia, her silver hair glowing like moonlight in the chaos. Her eyes shimmered—not with victory, but with sorrow.
"The world needs a story, Aric. Not a tyrant king with stormfire in his veins."
He could barely breathe. "I trusted you."
"And I loved you," she said, voice cracking. "That's why I stayed until the end."
Behind her, the royal council finished their chant. The spell circle beneath the throne ignited with dark light—a forbidden rite of memory erasure, stolen from the gods of old. Not merely to kill him, but to erase his name from time itself.
But Aric had always been a step ahead.
Even dying, even betrayed, he moved. Blood spilled across the runes as he forced his magic into the pattern. The circle screamed. The spell twisted.
Time bent.
And as the light engulfed him, Aric made a vow that echoed across centuries.
"I will remember."
Fifteen Years Later – Aramoor, the Outskirts
Kael Arvandor awoke to the sting of cold sweat and the phantom pain of a blade in his chest.
His attic room was dark, lit only by the pale glow of pre-dawn. Rain tapped softly against the roof tiles. For a moment, he didn't know where—or who—he was.
Then the dream faded. Like smoke. Like every other night.
The same throne. The same silver-haired woman. The same fire.
Kael sat up with a groan, rubbing the scar on his chest that wasn't there. His bedsheets were twisted, and his shirt clung to him like armor. He could still smell smoke.
"Dammit," he muttered.
"KAEL!" a voice thundered from below. "You're not gonna make the Mage Academy if you sleep through dawn!"
He blinked hard. Right. Today was the entrance trial.
The real world returned.
Kael pulled on his worn tunic and boots, fingers still trembling. The dreams had been with him since childhood—vivid, violent, and far too consistent. But today they felt… heavier. Realer.
Downstairs, Old Man Heron was already at the forge, hammer ringing against steel.
"'Bout time," Heron grunted, without looking up. "Thought I'd have to drag you out with tongs."
Kael managed a small smile. The gruff old blacksmith wasn't really his father, but he'd raised Kael since the boy had been found, half-dead, on the edge of the northern woods.
No name. No family. Just a strange storm-shaped birthmark and eyes too sharp for a child.
Heron had taken him in anyway. Never asked questions. Never demanded gratitude. Just taught him how to hold a hammer and survive.
"I packed your satchel," Heron added, sliding a worn bag across the counter. "Bread. Coins. And don't think I didn't stash some silver in the bottom. Academy life's expensive."
Kael hesitated. "I can't repay you for—"
"Shut it," Heron said, pointing the hammer at him. "Your job is to get in. Become someone. That's the payment."
Kael nodded slowly, clutching the bag like a lifeline.
As he stepped into the rainy morning, he didn't look back. He couldn't. If he did, he might lose his nerve.
Eldros Royal Academy – Southern Gates
The towers of Eldros rose like marble teeth above the mountain valley—impossibly tall, gilded with magic, and older than the kingdom itself.
Kael stood in a sea of hopefuls: sons of lords, daughters of generals, robed scholars and young warriors. He felt like a grain of sand in a gilded storm.
They wore silk and silver. He wore patched leather and hope.
Still, he held his head high.
Trial One: Mana Resonance
In a stone courtyard, a proctor stood beside a glowing orb atop a pedestal.
"Place your hand upon the crystal," the man intoned, bored. "Channel your essence. We measure potential, not control."
One by one, students took their turn.
The orb lit in blues, yellows, and—rarely—orange.
A noble girl received polite applause when hers sparked violet.
Then a boy with peacock feathers stepped up. His orb blazed gold. "House Valen always shines," he smirked.
Kael stepped forward.
The orb pulsed before he even touched it.
The second his palm grazed the surface, light surged—raw, silver-white, jagged like lightning.
Pain. Power. Instinct screamed to unleash it. The storm roared beneath his skin.
No. Not here. Not now.
He clenched his will and buried the force, forcing the magic to flicker down into a dull gray mist.
The proctor barely looked up. "Next."
Kael stepped back, exhaling slowly.
He hadn't even meant to use magic.
Trial Two: Tactical Examination
In a stone hall, Kael sat before a parchment describing a wartime scenario: defend a narrow pass with 100 troops against 300 invaders.
He blinked—and the ink blurred into memories.
Snow. Steel. A mountain pass filled with fire. Commands spilled from his mouth that he didn't recognize. Formations danced in his head. The smell of pine and blood.
Before he realized it, his quill was moving.
When the proctor collected his work, he paused. "What… language is this?"
Kael looked down. Elegant, looping script—military code he'd never studied.
Old Vaelithian.
That Night – Headmaster Aldric's Office
Aldric, ancient, stern, and rumored to be older than stone, held Kael's test between gloved fingers.
"The 'Vaelith Gambit,'" he murmured. "No one has used this tactic in two centuries."
Kael shifted in his seat. "I… must've read it somewhere."
Aldric looked at him—deep, thoughtful. "Just as you 'read' how to spot a poison trap in the dueling ring? No formal training. Yet you sidestepped it without hesitation."
Kael remained silent.
"The academy accepts you," Aldric said finally. "But know this—some knowledge has weight. Be careful what you remember."
Beneath the Academy
Far below, in a chamber of forgotten stone, Lady Sylas traced a finger across Kael's exam scroll.
The scar across her throat gleamed in the torchlight—a scar left by a king long dead.
She smiled, cruel and sharp.
"He's returned," she whispered. "The storm hasn't passed. It's only been waiting."
She turned to the shadow behind her. "Watch him. Learn him. Before he remembers why we feared him."
End of Chapter