King Edmon Geldanos sat taller in his throne as Aelric approached, his posture firm despite the passing years. His grey hair, now peppered with silver, framed a face hardened by decades of leadership. His brown eyes were sharp, scanning his son with the same intensity he reserved for his enemies. At 68, he carried himself with the muscular frame of a warrior, though his movements showed the signs of aging—yet the fire in his eyes remained unyielding.
His sword, Drac’Orenmir, hung at his side—a weapon that had earned him the nickname “The Dragon Slayer” across the lands of Tarmynia. The blade was legendary, passed down through generations of the Geldanos line, and it seemed to add weight to the air around him, symbolizing the legacy of his reign.
“You’ve returned,” King Edmon said, his voice unwavering, but not without a trace of weariness. His tone, an exacting mix of authority and experience, echoed through the throne room. “After nine years of wandering, of silence, you return to me in the company of these strangers—and expect me to simply accept that you have been sincere in your departure?”
Despite the years, the king’s presence was undeniable—commanding, unrelenting.
He paused, looking at Aelric with an intensity that suggested both a father’s disappointment and a king’s duty.
“You must understand,” he continued, his voice now steady and calculated, “this kingdom cannot afford the luxury of absent leadership. Not when our borders are threatened and the heart of Geldanos stands vulnerable. You left, and I had to carry on without you, not knowing whether you would ever return.”
“Why have you returned?” he asked, voice calm but edged with the sternness of an old wound.
Aelric stepped forward, lowering his head slightly.
“I was aiding Hakun of Sariyaz in delivering a message, Father,” he said, the word carrying a weight of both respect and quiet pain.
There was a subtle shift in the air. A tightening, like the drawing of a bowstring. The courtiers lining the walls exchanged glances, but none dared speak.
The king’s gaze flickered, just for a heartbeat — a flash of something older than anger, older than disappointment.
He turned his attention to Hakun.
“Then stand forth, Hakun of Sariyaz,” King Edmon commanded.
Hakun obeyed without hesitation, stepping forward with the disciplined stride of a soldier. He knelt stiffly, bowing his head.
King Edmon, ever the warrior even in his age, studied Hakun closely. The scars, the sun-worn skin, the stiff pride of a man who had lived and bled by the sword — all spoke clearly to him.
“At ease, soldier,” he said, his voice losing some of its hardness.
Hakun rose and spoke with clear, practiced words.
“I am Hakun, formerly stationed at Fort Sundalo under Captain Josquin Nez Toron. I bear a message of utmost importance, Your Majesty.”
The king’s eyes narrowed slightly at the name.
“Josquin Nez Toron…” he said, the name hanging in the great hall like a reverent prayer. “A fine commander. Loyal. Skilled.”
He looked back to Aelric, his tone sharpening.
“And you, my son — do you know the contents of this message?”
Aelric shook his head firmly.
“I do not, Father. I only helped ensure its safe arrival.”
King Edmon allowed himself a slight nod, and his gaze shifted — narrowing in on Alvinnué, who stood quiet as a shadow. The young warrior stiffened instinctively under the heavy, assessing stare.
Without speaking, Edmon turned back to Hakun.
“Deliver it to me,” he said.
From his worn satchel, Hakun withdrew a carefully bound parchment, the unbroken seal of Sariyaz glinting with solemn authority. With slow, deliberate steps, Hakun approached the dais and placed the parchment into the king’s outstretched hand.
The king turned it over, inspecting the seal. His weathered fingers brushed across it with reverence and caution, knowing that whatever lay within would not be good news.
The great hall of Castle Geldanos fell into a silence so deep it seemed to swallow the sound of breath itself. The courtiers, the guards, even the servants at the edges of the chamber all leaned in, eyes drawn to the simple act about to unfold.
King Edmon Geldanos held the parchment a moment longer, feeling its weight in his hand — not heavy, but somehow burdened by unseen consequence.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he pressed his thumb against the wax seal of Sariyaz.
Crack.
The seal broke with a sound that seemed far too loud in the stillness.
Unrolling the parchment carefully, Edmon’s eyes scanned the contents. His brow furrowed deeper with each line he read, the sternness on his face tightening into something colder. Harder. The muscles in his jaw shifted, grinding slowly.
After what felt like an eternity, Edmon lowered the parchment.
He lifted his gaze, fixing it first on Hakun, then briefly — almost imperceptibly — on Aelric and Alvinnué.
His voice rang out across the stone hall, grim and commanding:
“Fort Sundalo has fallen.”
A murmur swept through the gathered onlookers, a ripple of disbelief and dread.
Edmon’s hand tightened around the parchment, crumpling it slightly as he continued:
“Captain Josquin Nez Toron is dead. The southern border is overrun by forces unnatural — the Army of the Undead.”
Even the bravest knights in the hall stiffened at the word.
Edmon rose from his throne, the movement powerful despite his aging frame. He stood tall, his grey cloak spilling down the steps like a storm cloud.
He pointed a commanding finger at Hakun.
“Tell me everything. From the beginning.”
Hakun’s jaw tightened as he stepped forward, the shadow of old pain crossing his features. He drew in a breath, squaring his shoulders as if preparing for battle all over again.
“My lord… it began at Fort Sundalo,” he said, his voice gravelly but clear. “We were overrun. Thousands of them—walking corpses—climbing over the ramparts, crawling through the breaches. They moved without fear, without fatigue… and without end.”
The courtiers and nobles listening stirred uncomfortably, their murmurs quickly silenced by the king’s stern gaze.
“I watched men I served with for decades torn apart. Good soldiers, brave warriors,” Hakun continued, his voice wavering only slightly. “Captain Josquin Nez Toron… held the western gate alone. He gave his life to give me enough time to escape with the seal of Sariyaz.”
A deep silence followed. King Edmon’s knuckles whitened as they rested on the hilt of Drac’Orenmir.
“I fled into the Black Forest,” Hakun went on, “but the undead weren’t the only threat. I was ambushed by Amomongo beasts — apelike monsters, fast and ruthless. One of them tore into my leg.” He paused, his hand instinctively brushing the faint scar. “I would’ve died there.”
He turned toward Alvinnué with a nod of solemn respect.
“But this young warrior—this shadow-walker—found me. Used magic I’ve never seen. Mended my wounds, whispered things to the darkness that made it obey. He saved my life.”
Alvinnué shifted slightly, eyes cast down, mumbling something under his breath, his usual calm demeanor replaced with discomfort at the attention.
Hakun straightened. “Then, when four more Amomongo came to finish the job… he faced them alone. And he killed them. All of them. With nothing but speed, steel, and shadows.”
A collective gasp echoed through the hall. Nobles turned to one another in disbelief. Even the seasoned knights among them looked stunned.
“But that wasn’t all,” Hakun continued. “He guided me out of that cursed forest without so much as a scratch more. We crossed wilds and plains until we reached a tavern near the Geldanic border. That’s where we met Aelric.”
He glanced briefly at Aelric, then back to the king.
“Your son offered to protect us, to bring us safely to the capital. He asked no questions of duty or reward—only that the message be delivered.”
Aelric said nothing, his arms folded, blue eyes locked on the floor as if still wrestling with his place in this moment.
Hakun inhaled again, his tone growing heavier.
“But on our way through the Darmivién Gap, we were ambushed by the Half-Giant bandits of the old pass. Their chief—Gorimugh, a beast of a man—challenged us. Alvinnué stepped forward. He faced the Half-Giant in single combat.”
Again, gasps. Someone whispered a curse in disbelief.
“And he won.”
There was a pause. A full breath of silence, thick and charged.
Hakun looked back to the king, urgency blazing in his weary eyes.
“Your Majesty… we don’t have much time. The Army of the Undead marches now. And Geldanos lies directly in their path.”
King Edmon remained silent for a long moment, his brow deeply furrowed, his hands clasped behind his back as he paced before the throne. The hall was still, every breath held in suspension as the weight of Hakun’s words settled over the court like a funeral shroud.
At last, the king turned, his voice firm and clear.
“You have done your kingdom—and all of Tarmynia—a great service, Hakun of Sariyaz,” he said. “To endure such horrors, to carry this message across beast-haunted woods and bloodstained passes… your bravery honors the legacy of Captain Josquin and the fallen defenders of Fort Sundalo.”
He bowed his head briefly—a gesture not just of royal courtesy, but of sincere mourning.
“May the spirits of the brave Sariyazene rest well, knowing their sacrifice may yet save us all.”
The old king then faced his son, his tone shifting — not warm, but notably less severe.
“And you, Aelric,” he said. “You made a wise choice returning with them. You brought this message home. For that… I thank you.”
Aelric inclined his head, humbled.
Then the king’s gaze moved to the youngest among them.
“You,” he said, pointing with two fingers, his voice booming with command, “step forward.”
Alvinnué blinked, visibly startled. His hand instinctively brushed the hilt of his blade, though not in defiance—just for grounding.
He stepped forward with cautious grace, feeling the weight of every eye in the room.
“What is your name, shadow-born?” Edmon asked.
The young warrior swallowed, then straightened.
“I am Alvinnué of the Jirryu Clan. Son of Nanay-ko, chief of our people… and grandson of Datu Matanda, Master of Shanda-Wold Island.”
A ripple of whispers moved through the court like a passing wind.
King Edmon studied him closely for a moment, eyes narrowing—but not in suspicion. In calculation.
“So… the shadow arts return to the mainland,” he said, almost to himself.
Then louder, for all to hear:
“Your courage and your skill have delivered us a warning we might not have received in time. You protected Hakun. You fought where seasoned soldiers fell. You did not need to take up this burden, yet you did.”
He paused, then nodded once.
“For that, Alvinnué of Shanda-Wold, I say this: you have done more for Geldanos than many born to her soil. We are in your debt.”
Alvinnué’s eyes widened, just slightly. He bowed with the stiffness of one unaccustomed to being recognized.
King Edmon’s gaze returned to Hakun, the steel edge of command sharpening in his voice once more.
“How many, soldier? How large is this Army of the Undead?”
Hakun’s jaw tightened as if reliving the nightmare.
“I cannot say for certain, Your Majesty. But… thousands. More than I’ve ever seen. They just kept coming. Tireless. Relentless.”
The hall stirred with unease. Even the guards along the walls shifted subtly, hands moving closer to hilts and spears.
The king paced slowly, eyes narrowed in thought. His voice, when it came, was colder now. Analytical.
“If they move north from Fort Sundalo, they must be crossing through the Unclaimed Lands,” he said. “The terrain is difficult, but it offers a direct path to our southern border.”
He stopped and looked toward one of the tall, stained-glass windows—beyond which lay the sun-kissed plains of the realm he’d spent his life defending.
“They cannot pass through the Black Forest,” Edmon continued. “Their numbers are too great, and even the dead would find themselves tangled and lost in that cursed wood.”
He turned back toward the court, voice rising like the tolling of a war bell.
“No. They will go around it. Through Zorim Fields.”
A silence fell again—thicker, heavier.
Edmon drew himself to his full height, the warrior-king once more.
“It is there,” he declared, “that Geldanos will make its stand.”
King Edmon’s brow tightened, his hand resting on his sword as he stared into the distance, calculating.
“If we are lucky,” he said grimly, “we have five days before the undead reach Zorim Fields.”
The hall shifted uneasily. Even the stone pillars seemed to lean in at his words.
“Summon General Marus.”
At once, a herald stepped forward, announcing the name. A tall man emerged from the shadows near the rear columns — broad-shouldered, muscular despite the sag of age in his balding head and grey-streaked beard. His green eyes gleamed with the focus of a man who had long ago made peace with war.
“Your Majesty,” General Marus said, bowing before the throne.
“Is the standing army ready?” Edmon asked.
“We are,” Marus replied with pride restrained by discipline. “Six hundred infantry. Two hundred cavalry. One hundred archers. Fifty mages. All trained. All loyal.”
He paused, then added, “We have left a contingent of local militia to guard the city in case… the line breaks.”
King Edmon gave a single, solemn nod. “Good. You’ve done well, General.”
Hakun, who had remained quiet during the military exchange, suddenly spoke up, voice tinged with disbelief.
“With respect, Your Majesty… only a thousand to face thousands? You will not stand a chance!”
Edmon turned his gaze to the old soldier — and though it wasn’t angry, it was fierce.
“You speak truth,” the king said, his tone steady. “Geldanos is not Sariyaz. We are a small kingdom. The youngest of the human nations. Only just beginning to mark our borders. We do not yet command vast legions.”
His voice grew sharper, stronger.
“But what we lack in number, we make up for in resolve. We fight to the death — not for conquest, but for home. Every soldier of Geldanos will hold that field as though their very soul were anchored to the land.”
The tension in the room coalesced into something heavier. Something sacred.
“We will call for volunteers,” Edmon continued. “From every province, every town. Those willing to hold the line against the end of all things will be given the choice.”
Then, slowly, the king turned his head — and looked at Aelric.
Their eyes met.
The room quieted even more, sensing the undercurrent of something long-unspoken.
The moment lingered.
King Edmon did not need to say what everyone already knew.
He was not just calling for soldiers.
He was calling for his son.
The silence broke as Aelric stepped forward, voice clear and firm — louder than he had spoken in the throne room until now.
“I will rally all the guilds,” he said. “There are warriors among them — strong ones, seasoned fighters who owe me favors or share my cause. Mercenaries, hunters, and swords-for-hire who can be trusted when the cause is just.”
Gasps and murmurs stirred among the courtiers. A prince who spoke not of lords, but of guilds and mercenaries? Unorthodox — but not unimpressive.
“I will see to it that they’re armed. I know where to find the blades and bows, the shields and steel. I will see them ready,” Aelric continued, his tone carrying a passion that felt deeply earned.
“And I will prove, Father…” his voice softened, almost catching, “that I care for this kingdom. That I never stopped caring.”
King Edmon’s expression was difficult to read, but something in his eyes shifted — pride, restrained but present.
“I am pleased,” he said. “Bring what strength you can. Bring all you gather. And join the main army at Zorim Fields.”
Aelric gave a firm nod, fist to heart. “I will.”
Then, King Edmon turned to the young warrior in black — the silent shadow who had stood with unwavering stillness.
“Alvinnué of the Jirryu Clan,” the king said, “you owe us nothing. And yet you’ve already saved more than many will ever know. But I ask you now — will you stand with us?”
Alvinnué hesitated only for a breath.
“I will,” he said, his voice soft but sure. “I will do all I can.”
The king gave a single, solemn nod — the kind reserved for warriors.
Then the fire in the great hearth crackled, and the storm outside Castle Geldanos rumbled again.
War was coming.
But so was hope.
King Edmon’s voice rang out once more, firm and clear:
“Hakun. General Marus. With me — to the War Room. We must plan our defense.”
Without another word, the king turned, his cloak trailing behind him like a banner of war as he strode toward the chamber’s great rear doors.
General Marus gave a brisk nod and fell into step behind him, his boots clicking against the stone floor.
Hakun made to follow, but the stiffness in his wounded leg made him falter. He gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain, limping toward the exit with determination in his eyes.
Marus paused and looked back. His green eyes assessed the older soldier with a blend of respect and pragmatism.
“Get one of the castle’s healers,” he told a nearby guard. “Have Hakun mended with holy magic. We need him on his feet.”
Hakun gave a grateful nod, the exhaustion in his frame no match for the fire in his voice.
“Thank you, General. I will join the war council as soon as I can stand.”
Marus gave him a curt, approving nod before following the king into the heart of Castle Geldanos.
The doors of the great hall slowly swung closed behind them, the hush that followed heavy with anticipation of the battle to come.
Hakun turned to Alvinnué and Aelric, his weathered face pulled into a rare, gentle smile — the kind forged through hardship and farewell.
“I’ll see the castle healers, give the counsel to the king… then I’ll return to Sariyaz,” he said quietly. “My mission here is complete.”
Aelric stepped forward, brow furrowed. “You’re not staying to help with the fight?”
Hakun shook his head. “I can’t. Not because I wouldn’t… but because I’m needed back home. Sariyaz lies closest to the Deathlands — and if this army reached Sundalo, there may be more coming. We must prepare.”
The silence that followed was heavy — not from disagreement, but from understanding.
Aelric nodded solemnly. “I understand. Still… we’ll miss your sword.”
Alvinnué stood still, shadows clinging to the edges of his silhouette. His voice was barely above a whisper. “So… this is goodbye?”
Hakun looked at him, something flickering in his eyes — pride, perhaps… or affection.
He stepped forward and placed a rough, scarred hand on Alvinnué’s shoulder. “Cheer up, boy. This isn’t the end of our journey.” His voice lowered, grave and sincere. “I swear by the seal of Sariyaz—we will meet again.”
Alvinnué’s composure broke. He lunged forward, arms wrapping around the older soldier in a sudden, tight embrace. Hakun stiffened at first, surprised — then returned the gesture, holding him firmly.
“Then… I’ll see you soon,” Alvinnué said into his shoulder, voice thick with emotion.
Hakun gave a low, gruff chuckle. “Ya bet, lad.”
The sound of footsteps broke the moment. A castle healer in silver robes had arrived, waiting respectfully at a distance.
Hakun pulled back, glancing once between the two. Then he straightened, the soldier returning.
He placed a fist to his chest. “May you walk in Shadows,” he said — the ancient farewell of Shanda-Wold spoken with reverence.
Alvinnué bowed deeply, one hand over his heart. “And in the Void may you find safety.”
With one last nod, Hakun turned and walked toward the healer. His steps were slow, uneven — but filled with purpose. The corridor seemed longer than it had before, and as he disappeared into its depths, a strange quiet settled over the chamber.
Aelric stood beside Alvinnué, both watching the space where Hakun had been — as if some vital force had just left the room.
Aelric turned to Alvinnué, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The old mooflook’s stubborn, but he keeps to his promise.”
Alvinnué gave a small, sad nod. “Yes. We will meet Hakun again.”
Aelric clapped him on the shoulder. “I need to go rally the volunteers.” His voice dropped a little, serious again. “Are you sure about this? About joining the fight?”
Alvinnué didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Aelric studied him for a moment. “Good. I believe your skills will be a big factor in the battle against the Army of the Undead.”
He handed Alvinnué a pouch of coins. “Get some rest,” he said. “And take a carriage south, same road to Linden. Zorim Fields is west of there. Travel safely… but I’m not worried, not with your skills.”
Aelric’s expression softened, becoming almost brotherly. “I’ll join the battle at Zorim Fields. Look out for me out there.”
Alvinnué smiled faintly. “I’ll be careful. You be careful too.”
Aelric smirked, his confidence returning. “Of course. The Shadows are with me.”
With that, Aelric turned to leave, his stride purposeful. Alvinnué watched him go, feeling a mixture of pride and nervous anticipation.