The High Chancellor’s office was silent except for the turning of pages.

  Marrowen Kael stood hunched over a massive oak desk, sleeves rolled up, silver hair falling loose from its usual binding. Rows of shelves towered above him, each packed with sealed records, war reports, bloodline registries, and inter-kingdom correspondence dating back centuries. Candlelight flickered across his sharp features, throwing restless shadows against the walls.

  “Not this one… not this…” he muttered, fingers moving faster now.

  His breath caught when he found it.

  A black-bound file, its seal cracked long ago but never officially opened again.

  CRESTFALL KINGDOM — INCIDENT REPORT (CLASSIFIED)

  Marrowen stared at the title for a long moment, then swallowed.

  “…So it wasn’t exaggerated.”

  He opened it.

  The words inside felt heavier than steel.

  Frozen civilians shattered into fragments.

  A wandering veil manifestation.

  Absolute-zero mana signatures.

  A name repeated far too often.

  YUREI.

  Marrowen’s hands trembled as he turned page after page.

  “Half the kingdom in ruin…” he whispered. “Three high councillors dead… a royal knight sacrificed…”

  His eyes scanned faster, mind racing. Then he reached the final addendum—a blank space, meant for a living authority to finalize the record.

  Without hesitation, Marrowen grabbed a pen.

  The ink scratched sharply across parchment as he wrote.

  Threat Level: Catastrophic

  Containment Status: Failed

  Cross-Kingdom Risk: Absolute

  Immediate royal notification required.

  Delay will result in irreversible geopolitical collapse.

  He signed his name with force.

  Marrowen Kael, High Chancellor of Valenreach.

  The moment the ink dried, he snapped the file shut.

  “…No more time.”

  He bolted from his desk.

  The doors to his office flew open, and Marrowen sprinted into the marble corridors of the Valenreach palace, robes fluttering wildly. Courtiers leapt aside. Scribes dropped scrolls. Guards turned, startled by the sight of the kingdom’s most composed official running like a man chased by death itself.

  His footsteps echoed as he rounded a corner—and nearly collided with a towering figure in full armor.

  Steel-blue plate. A lion-crested pauldron. A greatsword sheathed across the back.

  Gideon Falk, First Royal Knight of Fiester.

  Marrowen skidded to a halt.

  “Chancellor Kael?” Gideon said, voice calm but curious beneath his helm. “Why are you running through the palace like the world’s ending?”

  Marrowen looked up at him, eyes wide, breath shaking.

  “It might be,” he said hoarsely.

  Gideon stiffened. “Explain.”

  Marrowen clutched the file to his chest. “I—I need to deliver this to the king immediately. Not tomorrow. Not after council. Now.”

  The tremor in his voice was unmistakable.

  Gideon studied him for a long second, then nodded once. “Then don’t let me stop you.”

  “You—” Marrowen hesitated. “You’re not coming?”

  “My duty is here unless ordered otherwise,” Gideon replied. “Go. If that file matters as much as you say, the king needs it more than I do.”

  Marrowen bowed deeply. “Thank you.”

  He turned and ran again, footsteps fading down the corridor.

  Gideon watched him go, unease settling in his chest.

  “…Crestfall,” he murmured. “So the rumors were true.”

  He exhaled, then turned the other way.

  The palace gates loomed ahead as Gideon strode forward, armor clanking softly with each step. The guards snapped to attention as he passed.

  “Sir Gideon!” one called. “Leaving the grounds?”

  “Taking a walk,” Gideon replied.

  The gates opened.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  And Valenreach spread before him.

  The city of Aurelion Spire was alive with golden evening light. White-stone buildings rose in layered terraces, bridges arching gracefully between towers. Market streets buzzed with laughter, merchants calling out wares, children weaving through crowds. Arcane lamps hummed softly as they began to glow, casting warm halos along the roads.

  Gideon stepped into the main avenue.

  Immediately, heads turned.

  Whispers followed.

  “Is that a royal knight?”

  “In full armor?”

  “What’s he doing out here?”

  Gideon ignored them, walking at an unhurried pace. He liked the city at this hour—before night fully claimed it, when people were still themselves.

  A fruit vendor laughed as Gideon passed.

  “Evening, Sir Knight! Care for an apple?”

  Gideon shook his head. “Another time.”

  Further down the road, music spilled from an open tavern. The smell of roasted meat filled the air. Aurelion Spire felt… peaceful.

  Too peaceful.

  Gideon’s hand twitched near his sword.

  “…Something’s off,” he muttered.

  That’s when he felt it.

  A pressure.

  Heavy. Dense. Like a fist clenched around the air itself.

  He stopped.

  Across the street, a man stood in the shadow of an alley.

  Broad-shouldered. Sleeveless coat. Arms corded with muscle that looked… wrong. Veins pulsed faintly with a dull crimson glow.

  The man cracked his neck and smiled.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “A royal knight, walking alone.”

  Gideon turned fully to face him. “Step away from the street.”

  The man laughed. “Or what?”

  Gideon’s gaze sharpened. “You’re emanating power without authorization. State your name.”

  The man rolled his shoulders. “Name’s Brask Halden. And I don’t answer to palace dogs.”

  Civilians nearby began to back away.

  Gideon sighed. “Last warning.”

  Brask’s grin widened. “You knights think armor makes you gods. Let’s see how much it takes to break you.”

  The air boomed as Brask stepped forward—cracks spiderwebbing through the stone beneath his foot.

  Gideon’s eyes narrowed. “Innate enhancement,” he said quietly. “Pure physical amplification.”

  Brask lunged.

  The street exploded.

  Gideon drew his blade in a blur, ice surging along its edge as he blocked the first punch. The impact sent him skidding backward, boots carving trenches into stone.

  “Strong,” Gideon admitted. “But reckless.”

  He swung—fire blooming along the blade in a crescent arc.

  Brask crossed his arms.

  The flames dispersed on impact, shockwaves ripping outward. Windows shattered. Screams rang out.

  Brask laughed. “That tickled!”

  Gideon’s bloodline stirred.

  Deep within him, ancestral voices whispered—displeased.

  You draw without permission…

  Gideon clenched his teeth. “Just enough.”

  Ice surged up his arm, weaponizing itself into jagged armor. He dashed forward, striking with disciplined precision—each blow aimed to disable.

  Brask took them head-on.

  With every hit, the man grew stronger.

  “Is that all?” Brask roared. He grabbed Gideon mid-swing and threw him through a stone pillar.

  Gideon crashed hard, armor dented, breath knocked from his lungs.

  Civilians fled in panic now.

  Gideon rose slowly, blood seeping beneath his helm.

  “…This isn’t good,” he muttered.

  Brask rolled his shoulders again, power climbing higher, veins blazing.

  “Come on, knight,” he said. “Show me what a bloodline really means.”

  Gideon raised his blade once more.

  Fire. Ice. Steel.

  And beneath it all—the strained, resisting will of his ancestors.

  The fight had begun.

  And Aurelion Spire was about to pay the price.