Kael Draven
Steel.
It's always the sound of steel that wakes me — even when no swords are around.
It was still dawn, the hour of the Swords. The hour of silence, vigilance, memory.
I was in the lower courtyard of Windcut Fortress before the torches were even lit.
The cold cut like an exposed blade, but I barely felt it.
My body is long used to pain that doesn't bleed.
Training began early, as always.
A dozen young soldiers stood in line before me, each one with eyes more unsure than the next.
They were just beginning their journey. Still had time to give up. Still dreamed of glory.
I stopped in front of one. A slender boy, poorly positioned, holding his sword like a farmer would hold a hoe.
— "The blade is not a burden," I said, staring into his eyes. "It's an extension of you. If you hesitate, it hesitates. And then you die."
He nodded, swallowing hard. That's how you learn in Espadaris — through fear.
But I saw myself in him. So young. So... vulnerable.
And for a moment, everything blurred — the courtyard, the soldiers, the light.
I saw snow. Blood. Screams.
The memory of the Hill of the Silent returned, cruel as ever.
My voice came out softer as I added:
— "That's enough for today."
The boy looked confused, but obeyed.
I returned to my shadow, more tired than when I had awakened.
I am Kael Draven.
Commander of the Royal Army.
Brother to King Thalen of Espadaris.
The general who ended the war on the Plains of Rathnor.
But I'm just a man who's forgotten how to sleep in peace.
Since sixteen, I've been raised among swords and commands.
My brother inherited the crown; I, the blade.
Thalen was always the strategist. I, the executor.
He thinks. I act.
He calculates. I sacrifice.
Thirteen years of war shaped every bone in my body. Every line in my face.
I was the blade that cut down Cardan's advance.
I was the wall between the enemy and the throne.
And I was the one who killed more than I could bury.
Today, I carry all those deaths with me.
I returned to the training hall hours later. Alone.
The torchlight cast my shadow in four directions.
I unsheathed my sword and began.
It was ritual. Cut, step, block, spin.
The body remembers what the mind tries to forget.
Insomnia devours me. Has for years.
When I close my eyes, I see faces.
Of dead soldiers. Of begging enemies.
Of comrades who called me brother before disappearing into smoke.
And among those faces... sometimes I see one that hurts more than all the rest.
The woman with green eyes.
The one who fell into my arms... and whom I couldn't save.
Since that day, the sword has felt heavier.
And the silence of dawn has never been louder.
My brother trusts me more than anyone. And I serve him with absolute loyalty.
Not out of duty, but because I know that if I fall, there will be no one left to keep Espadaris standing.
But in silence, what I want most... is to disappear.
To leave behind the swords. The honors. The armor.
To live far from trenches and screams.
To no longer be the general.
To no longer be the king's brother.
Just someone who can finally sleep through the night.
But this world offers no rest to those who carry blades.
That morning, in the Hearts Block, a message arrived from Ignaros.
Always ambiguous, always speaking of trade, but craving power.
Another veiled threat. Another diplomatic game.
I ignored it.
Instead, I climbed to the Sentinel Tower.
From there, you can see beyond the wall.
The land divided between kingdoms.
The invisible line that separates Espadaris from Cardan — marked by burned banners, twisted trees, and scars that spring refuses to heal.
It was there that everything began.
It was there the war claimed too many lives.
And it was there I lost something I don't even know how to name.
Still seated in the tower, the wind cutting my face, I heard the city bells echoing.
The townsfolk were waking.
To them, it was just another day on the calendar.
Here in Cartara, our time is counted by cards.
Fifty-two weeks for the fifty-two cards.
Four seasons — each ruled by a suit.
Winter, the season of Swords.
Our time of dominion. Of cold reflection and hard decisions.
With each Royal Cycle — thirteen years — something changes.
Prophecies, uprisings, deaths.
The last cycle ended with the fall of the Queen of Hearts.
They say it was my army that burned down the Red Queen's last garden.
But not all stories are told the way they truly happened.
I returned to the courtyard at day's end.
The young ones trained in silence.
I watched one of them — a thin redhead, but with fire in his eyes.
I saw myself again.
A fool too brave to see what war truly costs.
— "Name?" I asked.
— "Edrin, sir."
— "Show me what you know."
And the cycle begins again.
Always the same cycle.
For many years, they called me Kael Draven, the Silent Blade of Espadaris.
That no longer fits.
That is no longer me.
And I'm tired.
But I know that across the border, something — or someone — is stirring.
And for the first time in a long time… I feel that the end of the sword might be the beginning of something else.
Or the end of everything.