"Something was born… and yet, fate did not bend."
The tremor spread across creation. Palaces, fortresses, and hidden halls where only the most powerful dared to dwell felt it.
And then—
A letter appeared.
Not carried. Not delivered. Not written by mortal hand. It simply was.
Parchment woven of shadow and light, sealed with an ancient mark. When touched, it spoke in a voice that was not a voice at all:
"You have been summoned.
The Umbral Blades are called.
Will you attend?
Yes, or no."
In the kingdom of Araveth, lightning tore across the sky as soldiers flooded the great hall. A parchment hovered before the throne — glowing faintly before burning itself to dust.
The king rose slowly, his golden cloak rippling with the echo of thunder. "So… the Veythar Empire dares to stir again."
A captain knelt before him, head low. "Yes, my lord. And I've heard that the Nine Blades of Velrath are gathering."
The king's hand clenched around the armrest of his throne. His voice deepened. "I understand. Is there anything more?"
The captain hesitated, his throat tightening. "Yes, my lord. They attacked one of our border outposts… twenty minutes ago."
For a moment, silence. Then the air itself trembled.
Golden light erupted from the king's body, crashing outward like a wave of divine fury. The marble floor split, pillars cracked, and torches were snuffed out by sheer pressure. Soldiers staggered back, struggling to breathe under the weight of his aura.
The king's eyes glowed like molten gold. "They dare strike first?" His voice thundered through the hall. "Then Araveth will answer. Send word to every division. If the Blades of Velrath move, we will meet them head-on."
Outside, lightning tore the heavens open again — as if the sky itself bowed to his wrath.
Far from Araveth, across the continent, the kingdom of Reseten stood under a pale sun. The air here was calm and heavy with incense. A grand hall lay beneath golden banners. At its center stood a black throne veined with gold, and before it stretched a long table lined with goblets and empty plates. Torches burned blue, casting light over polished stone and shadows of ten thrones that faced each other.
The man upon the main throne rested his chin against his hand, a crown glinting faintly atop dark hair. Behind him, a single guard bowed low. "They are here, my lord."
The man nodded once. "I understand. Thank you."
"It is my pleasure," the guard replied before vanishing into shadow.
Moments later, the great doors groaned open. The rulers entered — ten of them, cloaked in power and pride. None bowed. Each took their seat around the long table.
"Who gathered us here?" one ruler demanded.
The man on the throne smiled faintly. "A friend of mine. You will see soon enough."
"If this friend doesn't appear soon, I'm leaving," another said coldly.
A third leaned back in his chair. "I was promised food."
"And so what if you were?" a ruler scoffed.
"Then where is it?"
The crowned man raised a single hand. "It will come."
As though the palace itself obeyed him, the doors opened again. Servants entered, bearing trays of roasted meats, spiced breads, and golden wine that shimmered like liquid starlight.
The hungry ruler grinned. "Finally! It is here."
He wasted no time, tearing into the feast. Another ruler sighed, shaking his head. "You're a ruler. Act like one."
The hungry man smirked through a mouthful. "So what?"
Then, between bites, his tone shifted. "Have you heard what's happening with Veythar?"
The others turned toward him, curious.
"You're talking about the Nine Blades of Velrath," one ruler said.
"Exactly. They're gathering."
Silence rippled across the table.
"For what?" another ruler asked.
"They're preparing for war — against Araveth."
"And what are these 'Nine Blades'?"
"Nine warriors scattered across the empire," one ruler explained. "Each carries a weapon forged from the remnants of a fallen god."
Another ruler leaned forward. "A fallen god? Which one?"
"The God of Chains… Zareth."
Gasps echoed.
A ruler glanced toward the man seated on the throne. "Are you planning to attack Velrath as well?"
The crowned man smiled faintly. "Why would I? The King of Velrath isn't foolish enough to drag me into this."
"What if Araveth attacks you?" another pressed.
"I expect he will," the man said calmly. "But the moment a single soldier sets foot on my land… there will be war. And even he knows better than to test that."
The table quieted.
One ruler broke the silence. "Then who do you think will win?"
Another ruler scoffed. "That's obvious. Araveth. They have Kael'reth, the Dragon Saint, on their side. Even if Velrath gathers the Nine Blades, they'll fall."
Before more could be said, the air rippled.
A parchment appeared above the table — woven of shadow and light, marked with an ancient seal. It spoke with no tongue, its voice echoing in every mind.
"You have been summoned. The Umbral Blades are called. Will you attend? Yes, or no."
The rulers froze. All eyes turned to the man on the throne.
He stood slowly, descended the steps, and reached for the parchment. A quill appeared beside it. Without hesitation, he wrote one word.
No.
The parchment ignited in silent flame, disintegrating into ash.
One ruler sneered. "I don't understand why you even bother being one of the Umbral Blades. Every member is the same — idiots drunk on their own strength."
Another ruler laughed. "And you are not?"
The hungry ruler wiped his mouth and grinned. "Hmph. As if any of you are different."
Then, the chamber doors creaked open once more.
No servant entered.
A shadowed figure stepped inside. His face remained hidden, but the torchlight caught the weapon at his side. The hall went silent.
Gasps broke the stillness.
"That sword… it cannot be…"
The blade glimmered dark red, black steel veined with crimson light — jagged, alive, as though it had bitten through gods themselves.
"That is Nerthul, the Severed Fang," one ruler whispered. "There are only two such blades in existence."
Another ruler leaned forward. "And only two who may wield them — Aurelia… and him."
The shadowed man stepped closer. His voice was calm but heavy. "I am here to form an alliance. With all of you. Against the Clan of Eryndral."
"An alliance?" one ruler scoffed. "You destroyed the Clan of Varzynthal on your own. Why need us now?"
The man's eyes gleamed faintly. "Because Eryndral is different. And they've already attacked yours as well."
"You mean to use us as pawns?" another ruler spat.
His smile was sharp. "I won't say it. But yes."
The one who had burned the parchment rose from his throne. "Enough. If he wanted a refusal, he wouldn't have come here himself."
The shadowed figure tilted his head. "You know me well."
"Of course. You haven't changed since you were a boy. Still the same reckless child."
The man with the Severed Fang laughed softly. "Do you truly think so?"
"Yes," the ruler said with a grim smile. "And I'm glad for it."
The torches flickered brighter. The feast lay forgotten.
And for the first time in centuries, ten rulers sat together — bound by silence, tension, and the shadow of the Severed Fang.
Far away, under the fading sun, a boy sat upon the rocks overlooking the sea. The waves crashed softly as gulls circled overhead.
Suddenly, a letter appeared before him, glowing faintly.
The boy's eyes widened. "My first time… I'll finally see the others."
Behind him, footsteps approached. An old man with silver hair, leaning on a cane, spoke gently. "Young master, you cannot go."
The boy turned. "Why not, Aradan?"
"Because your mother is with child," the elder said quietly. "She will give birth soon. You must be here when it happens."
The boy hesitated, then smiled. "Okay… I'm not going this year. Only if you let me choose the baby's name."
Aradan's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "Yes. Of course, young master."
The letter dissolved into ash.
And so it was decided. Some laughed. Some cursed. Some refused. Some smiled.
But thirteen voices answered yes.
The Umbral Blades would gather once more.
And though none dared say it aloud, all who received the summons felt the same truth pressing upon their souls.
This was no ordinary meeting.
This was the beginning of something greater.
End of Chapter 3 – The Summons