The alarm had been blaring for an hour, yet Tyron had not stirred from his slumber, tired from his events of yesterday, the birds outside chirp as the natural alarm clock, but not even that will wake him. The streets outside rumble with chatter and shouting, market traders bartering for a few extra pennies to pay the Shoven empire their keep for the market.

  The clock’s shrill buzz filled the small room, bouncing off trinkets, decorations, and unwashed clothes, until Tyron finally stirred. He groaned, swung a lazy hand, and smacked the clock with a thud.Silence.Peace restored. Even half-asleep, his hand twitched toward the satchel where he usually kept his knife. He immediately rolled over and went back to sleep.

  Moments later came a knock.No response.

  Another, sharper this time, impatient. A harder rap at the door.

  The door creaked open, and Sarah, his mother, leaned in, her auburn hair tied hastily back.

  “Tyron? Are you awake?” She asks almost sheepishly, she knows how groggy he can be in the mornings.

  The answer was a muffled groan. Tyron flipped the pillow over his head and sank deeper into the mattress.

  “Tyron,” Sarah said, walking in and tugging the covers. “You need to get up. You have to go today.”

  Tyron cracked one eye open, squinting at her through sleep.“Go? Where am I going? It’s my day off.” He yawned and stretched lazily. “I was gonna celebrate my birthday, meet up with some friends, grab a drink.” He half gets out of bed, with his elbows dug into the mattress.

  Sarah sighed, hands on her hips. “I know what today is. But you can’t celebrate. Not yet. Come downstairs, I’ll explain while you eat.”

  Before he could argue, she was already out the door.

  Tyron sat there, blinking.“I don’t get it,” he muttered. “Go where? What’s she on about now?”

  He dragged himself up, rummaged through drawers for a shirt, buttoned it haphazardly, and pulled on his trousers. As he made his way downstairs, the smell of buttered bread greeted him, a small comfort amid the strangeness of the morning.

  The kitchen was the usual mess, pots and pans left from the night before, food left on the side for someone to pick from in the evening.

  On the kitchen table sat a large parcel, wrapped in golden fabric, gleaming under the morning light. Beside it lay a thick book bound in leather, not unlike the book he had stolen from the Shoven the day before, the morning becomes more curious as time goes on.

  Sarah turned from the stove and gestured to a chair. “Finally. Sit.”

  Tyron plopped into the seat, grabbed a piece of bread, and began buttering it. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The cup in front of him swirls with steam, the smell is familiar, emberbrew, a drink made from beans from the emberplant. The drink was known to give a burst of energy, many people around Shahero would drink it in different ways, whether this was from a large cup, or thick and strong, called travellers style, people all over Shahero drank it.

  He nodded toward the parcel, curiosity finally getting the better of him.“That my birthday present?”

  Sarah smiled faintly and ran her hand across the gold fabric. “Yes, son. That’s yours.”

  Tyron grinned and reached for it, but she slapped his hand.“Not yet. First, there’s something you need to hear.”

  He frowned. “What now?” He falls back on to the chair dramatically.

  Sarah took a deep breath and sat across from him, her tone suddenly grave. “Tyron… you’re not my son. Not by blood.”

  Tyron froze mid-bite. He choked, coughing on crumbs. “I, what?!”

  “I know, it’s a shock,” Sarah said quickly, holding up her hands.

  Tyron stared, wide-eyed. “A shock? A shock is forgetting to buy milk. This, this is my entire life being rewritten!” The joke fell flat even to him, fear tightening in his chest.

  “But I had to tell you today. On your eighteenth birthday.” The truth could only be spoken once the weapon would answer him. “Tyron, listen to me.” Sarah leaned forward, her voice soft but firm. “You know the legend of the Chosen, yes?”

  He gave a half-laugh. “Of course. It’s a bedtime story Mum, I remember you reading it to me.”

  Sarah shook her head slowly. “It’s not a story. It’s your story.”

  Tyron blinked. “Come again?”

  “It has everything to do with you,” she continued, her hand resting on the golden parcel. “You are one of the Chosen, the Warrior. And what lies beneath this cloth is your weapon, your destiny. You’ll be collected within the hour and taken before the High Council of Shahero.”

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  Tyron hesitated, then leaned forward and carefully peeled back the fabric.

  Light flooded the room. The runes brightened as his hands neared the hilt, pulsing like a heartbeat, almost in sync with his own.

  Underneath lay a broad sword of breathtaking beauty. The blade gleamed with a marble swirl of gold and silver, the two metals blending in perfect harmony. Along the flat of the blade, ancient runes shimmered faintly, reading:“Through strength and courage comes bravery.”

  The hilt was forged in white steel with golden filigree, wrapped in leather as pale as starlight. From the pommel trailed a long red tassel, glowing faintly as though alive.

  Tyron’s mouth hung open. “It’s… it’s like it was carved by the gods themselves.”

  He lifted it, but the sheer weight pulled him forward. He stumbled, barely catching himself as Sarah laughed softly.

  “Guess they didn’t give you extra muscles,” she teased. “That sword is called the Sword of a Thousand Souls. It was forged in the heart of creation, tempered by divine fire, and infused with the strength of generations. You, Tyron, are its chosen wielder.” Sarah did not say what the blade would one day demand in return.

  Tyron grinned, eyes reflecting the sword’s light. “That’s… unreal.”

  He noticed the book beside it. “And that?”

  “Your bedtime reading,” she said, sliding it across the table. “The History of Shahero. You’ll need to understand the world you’re about to save.”

  He groaned. “Great, a homework assignment to go with my world-saving duties...”

  A bang at the door cut him off.

  The door burst open, and three Royal Guards stormed in, clad in white and gold armour, their red robes billowing.

  The lead guard, breathing hard, stepped forward. “Tyron Argon. Chosen Warrior?”

  Tyron shot to his feet, startled. “Uh, yes, that’s me. You’re early, aren’t you?”

  The guard bowed his head. “Forgive the intrusion, my liege.” Blood streaked the white of his armour reds and greens, fresh and unmistakable. “There has been an attack on the High Council. Hundreds of Shoven soldiers have breached the compound. Someone betrayed us.” The Captain’s jaw tightened as if he already knew the name.

  Tyron’s heart dropped. He looked to Sarah, who tried to smile through trembling lips.

  “Go,” she whispered, pulling him into a tight embrace. “They need you more than I do.” For a heartbeat, her grip was fierce, proud, unafraid.

  “Mom?”

  “No, don’t. Just go.” She smiled bravely. “Make me proud.”

  Tyron swallowed hard and nodded. He grabbed the sword and carried it over his shoulder, slung the book under his arm, and ran after the guards into the morning light.

  The city was chaos. Shouts echoed down the cobblestone streets as fires burned in the distance. Ash drifted through the air like falling snow. The market, usually bursting with life, was now empty save for shadows and smoke.

  A child sits alone in the markets opening, Tyron goes over to see him.

  “We don't have time.” One of the Royal Guards shout to Tyron.

  “You want me to leave a child? On his own?” Tyron yells back.

  “I'm sorry Tyron, we have more people to protect more than this one child.” The guard keeps running.

  “I'm sorry, I hope someone comes for you soon.” Tyron pulls himself away as the child bursts into tears watching Tyron leave, Tyron for a second wonders what sort of people would leave a child behind.

  Aren't we the good guys Tyron thinks to himself, aren't we the ones to save the world, but we can't save a child.

  Tyron catches up with the Guards, they sprinted through alleys, filled with crates of trading goods, fruit tumbling out of the cracks. Bolts of cloth that were stacked precariously high now tumbled down, Tyron’s sword glinting with each step.

  Behind them came the guttural shrieks of the Shoven, One voice hissed his name, tasting it like a threat. Inhuman voices filled with rage. The smell of smoke and fire fills his lungs, his town, burning.

  “They’re gaining!” shouted one of the guards.

  “It’s no use, Captain!” Tyron yelled back. The words came out before he realised he’d taken control. “We’ll have to fight them!”

  “Negative!” barked the Captain. “We can’t waste time. The Council’s been breached. We need to reach the others, the rest of the Chosen! The transport’s around the corner!”

  A blast echoed behind them. One of the guards cried out and fell, clutching his leg where a Shoven energy round had struck.

  The blade hummed softly at his side, eager.

  Tyron skidded to a stop, turned, and grabbed the man under the arms. “Come on! I’ve got you!” The guard’s grip tightened in silent gratitude.

  Together they staggered toward the open square where a white troop transport awaited, sleek and regal, trimmed with gold and bearing the crest of Shahero.

  Tyron heaved the wounded guard aboard and turned to the pilot.

  “Tyron Argon,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Chosen Warrior. Get us to the High Council, now!”

  The pilot saluted sharply. Engines flared to life. The ship lifted from the ground, tilting skyward.

  As they ascended, Tyron looked at the burning city, getting smaller as they rise. his home, tears build in his eyes, he is leaving his town Valaris, ad his last sight is it on fire.

  Members of the public were being loaded into transports below, Shoven ships, where they were going he had no idea, would they get his mother and imprison her too. He tightened his grip on the Sword of a Thousand Souls. He knew there was nothing he could do now, but he knows he will return.

  This was not a story anymore, it was the first step of a war written long before his birth.

  For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel ordinary.He felt alive.And destiny was calling.

  Power alone would not save Shahero, but it was all he had to offer.

  he had to offer.

  Thanks for reading!

  Every time someone spends a few minutes in the world of Shahero, it honestly means more than I can properly put into words. Seeing people follow the journey of Tyron, Samantha, Lazarus, Freya, Cid, and Zara makes all the hours of writing worth it.

  If you enjoyed the chapter, feel free to leave a comment or follow the story. I read every comment, and it genuinely helps the story reach more readers here on Royal Road.

  A few people have also asked how they can support the project as I work toward eventually publishing the book. If that’s something you’d like to help with, there’s a support link below that goes toward editing and preparing the story for print.

  No pressure at all though—reading the story is already huge support.

  Question for readers:What moment in this chapter stood out to you the most?

  See you in the next chapter.

  — Matthew Cooke-Sumner