Gallian of Ardoria stood on the battlefield, a scene hopeless for humanity. The sky had darkened, choked by smoke and ashes of a war lost. Towering above it all rose Gorgomon—the Behemoth of Annihilation. Where its eyes should have been, there were only empty sockets, burning with a sinister red glow. The colossal beast cast a shadow over the land, its height rivaling legendary Mount Arakis, a mountain said to pierce the skies themselves.
Yet Gallian did not waver. He lifted his gaze, locking eyes with the monstrous creature. Any other man would have despaired, but Gallian's heart remained steady. Slowly, he knelt, driving his sword deep into the scorched earth and bowing his head as he tightly closed his eyes.
In that moment, time seemed to stop. Amid the chaos, there was only Gallian and the impending darkness.
Gallian felt a profound calm wash over him. Quietly, reverently, he whispered:
"Oh God, most merciful and gracious, show us Your compassion. Do not burden us beyond what we have the strength to bear. Your humble servant calls upon You—lend me Your strength to vanquish this evil."
Silence followed, but Gallian did not lose hope; he believed with all his heart that his prayer would be answered. Then, in a brilliant surge, Gallian's body ignited in holy flames—Fires of Judgment. Pain surged through his veins, fierce yet empowering. Gallian embraced the agony as divine power filled him.
With a thunderous roar, Gorgomon charged, but Gallian rose swiftly, gripping his sword now engulfed in righteous flame. With a mighty cry, he swung the blade, unleashing celestial fire that consumed the behemoth, burning away its monstrous form. Gorgomon released one final, defeated bellow before crumbling to ash.
The holy flames swept outward, annihilating the monstrous hordes and cleansing the battlefield. Humanity's enemies scattered in terror, their defeat complete.
Peace returned to Ardoria once more.
Gallian stood tall, victorious, as sunlight broke through the clouds, warming the world anew.
"Sleep now, my cute little Aery," Mother whispered gently "Dream of Gallian's courage, and know that with bravery, even the darkest night can turn into the brightest day."
"One more mother, one more." I asked, reluctant to let her leave my side.
She giggled.
Mother is beautiful. Her reassuring and comforting smile always makes me feel safe. Her eyes sparkle with a warmth that can quell storms. Her touch soothing as she ran her fingers through my hair. I feel like nothing else matters in this world. Let this moment last forever.
"Aeron, my love, my heart, your tutor comes early tomorrow. We have to be reasonable young man. But since you were a good boy today, I'll sing you a lullaby to sleep."
She starts humming in an appeasing tone—Seraph's Lullaby, an ancient melody born from the quiet heart of Lisbel, our charming and remote hometown.
A sudden jolt sends pain pulsing sharply through my skull. My jaw throbs, a cruel reminder of the vicious kick I endured before darkness claimed me. It takes several confused moments before I realize I'm back to reality.
My eyes flutter open slowly, adjusting to the dim surroundings. Above me is a girl, humming softly—Seraph's Lullaby. Her lap is warm and comforting beneath my head, an unexpected yet gentle pillow.
Her features are strikingly familiar, yet I can't quite place her. Long black hair falls softly around her shoulders, framing fair skin and full lips. Her eyes shift subtly between shades of grey, blue, and green, captivating in their quiet beauty.
Another bump shakes the carriage.
"Gods-damned mule!" a man spits harshly through the thin wooden panel. "Sorry 'bout that, milord," he mutters quickly before adding, "Move, or I'll skin ya!" The sharp crack of a whip punctuates his words.
Only now did I register the carriage—it's humble, far below what would befit nobility, let alone a duke's son.
"You're awake," the girl whispers gently, looking down at me with a faint smile and curious eyes.
Confusion fills my mind. The last thing I remember is blacking out—spitting out teeth and tasting blood. But now, running my tongue along my teeth, everything feels intact. How am I alive? Was I spared?
Suddenly, memories flood back—Elias, my mother. Their faces flash clearly before me. "Mother… Elias…" I whisper softly, and a tear escapes, rolling silently down my cheek.
The girl's gaze shifts away, her expression turning regretful and sad. After a brief pause, she speaks softly. "I'm Amelia," she says quietly. "My mother Agata… she served yours." The name clicks instantly—the maid who was killed first.
As my inner turmoil and grief threaten to overwhelm me, a pang grips my chest, and Elias's words echo faintly in my mind: "We have no choice… Accept it." I force my emotions down, swallowing hard.
But then I remember that man's smirk, the way he took lives without hesitation, "Insects infesting my home... Consider this... a whim." My grief had subsided. In its stead, a new emotion was taking place—one I was not familiar with. A raging feeling building up inside me, thirst for—
"I'll do everything I can to serve you, to help you through these difficult times," Amelia says gently, interrupting my spiraling thoughts with her soft voice and reassuring smile.
Her warmth calms me somewhat.
"Where are we going?" I ask quietly after a moment.
"To your father, Duke Leonor," she answers gently. "Baron Cristophle of Akvale, the holder of Lisbel, lent us this carriage. I was there when your mother said the attacker was a Forsaken. I took a horse during the chaos and rode to find help. I came back with guards from Akvale, but… we were too late."
A Forsaken? That accursed word had a connotation unknown to me. But before I could dwell on it, a heavier thought presses into my mind.
Father—only a distant memory. I had seen him just once, six years ago, when I was only five. He lived far away, approximately 320 kilometers (around 200 miles). Most of what I knew about him came from my tutor, my mother, and the history books. He was a General—a highly respected rank in the army. Fourteen years ago, he fought in the renowned Battle for Ardoria, where he witnessed Gallian's legendary feat against Gorgomon firsthand. It was also in the army where he met my mother. After the war, the emperor awarded land to the surviving nobles with extraordinary feats. He went from a mere baron all the way to a duke, skipping the rank of count which is highly uncommon. The land was even named after him.
I remember him faintly—a tired, expressionless face. Many described him as methodical, serious, and even cold, yet my mother spoke of him differently: a gentle-hearted man who knew how to smile and made her smile in return. Still, he remained mostly a mystery to me. I'd always wondered why I rarely saw him and why we lived so far apart, but whenever I raised these questions, my mother skillfully changed the subject or left my questions unanswered.
"You're lucky," she continues softly, breaking my thoughts. "We have only about forty kilometers left of the trip—half a day, maybe less."
"Wait... forty kilometers?" I ask, doing the math quickly in my head. "That would mean—"
"Yes," she confirms gently, smiling a little. "You've been asleep for almost three days."
"But how did I—how did I eat? Drink?" I ask, confusion and embarrassment rising in my voice.
She says, reassuringly. "You woke briefly a few times, enough for me to give you some water and broth. You probably don't remember."
My face flushes red as I realize I've been sleeping on her lap all this time, spoonfed like a baby. She smiles gently, clearly enjoying my embarrassment. "We've crossed nearly two entire counties: Westermore and Eldenglen—five baronies at least."
I wonder aloud, "Weren't you bored?"
She shrugs slightly, gazing out the carriage thoughtfully. "The scenery was nice, and my mind was busy—thinking of what happened, what the future holds…" Her smile turns into a teasing smirk as she glances back at me. "And occasionally, I had your cute babyface to look at as you slept."
Blood rushes to my face once again as I feel my ears heating up.
"Babyface!? I don't have a—"
Before I can finish, the distant sound of galloping hooves approaches rapidly. Voices shout orders, though the words are muffled by the thin wooden walls of the carriage. I feel the vehicle slow as the driver tugs the reins, bringing the mule to a halt. Dust rises outside, filtering in through the small opening—the only real gap in the otherwise enclosed carriage, barely large enough to be considered a window or door.
"Inspection! Stop the carriage!" a commanding voice calls out.
The driver mutters something crude under his breath but obeys, spitting to the side. "Filthy bastards," he growls, though not loud enough for them to hear. The sound of shifting armor and the heavy steps of boots signal the guards dismounting. One of them approaches the carriage, the dust settling just as his shadow falls over the narrow opening.
Leonor, the capital of the duchy, looms ahead. Even from a distance, its stone walls and fortified towers stand tall, imposing against the sky.
One of the guards, a burly man in his twenties wearing a stern face, gallops closer to the carriage opening and peers inside. His eyes sweep over the two of us before flickering to the stacked cargo of agricultural goods surrounding us. His brow furrows in confusion. A teenage girl and a boy, traveling among merchandise, and to make matters stranger—the boy is dressed in a fine attire.
"State your purpose in Leonor," the guard demands.
Amelia meets his gaze evenly. "This boy is Aeron Leonor, son of Duke Leonor."
The guard clicks his tongue, clearly annoyed. He scoffs, his eyes narrowing. "Tch. A poor farce if I've ever seen one. The duke has no son that goes by Aeron. And don't you sully the Leonor name with your distasteful joke. You expect me to believe that the duke's son is traveling like a commoner, stuffed in a carriage with sacks of grain? Either you're a fool, or you take me for one. I'll give you a chance to turn back before I have you both detained for your slander and false claims."
She straightens, about to object, but before she can speak, another guard gallops forward, leans down, and whispers something urgently into the first one's ear. His expression shifts instantly. His eyes widen, and his whole demeanor changes.
His back straightens, and now, with newfound authority, he turns sharply toward the driver. "This is how you transport the son of Duke Leonor?" he reprimands. "In this excuse of a carriage?"
The driver scowls but doesn't dare talk back. A pouch of coins is tossed his way, and his irritation quickly fades. The guard then orders for a proper carriage to be sent immediately. "You will dismount now and wait for better transport," he instructs firmly.
As we step out, he removes his helmet momentarily and bows his head slightly in respect. "I must apologize—I failed to introduce myself. I am Sir Arthur Brasspike, first son of the Sir Ivor Brasspike, the Duke's Marshal."