By fifteen, Edwin Clyne was no longer a boy whispered about in courtly corners.
And by eighteen, he was the flame of the realm, the knight who rose from nothing.
Songs were already being sung in the taverns. Children carved his name into wooden swords, and the old women at the market swore he was the one foretold in dreams.
The kingdom loved him.
And love, in the wrong eyes, looked like power.
King Zemon Xvanheart stood on his balcony, staring into the fading evening sun. His hands gripped the rail. His knuckles were white.
"He commands more loyalty than the crown," the sorcerer hissed like a venomous snake to his ear. "Even your own daughter—she glows in his presence."
Zemon's jaw tightened. "He saved my life."
"He is replacing it."
A long silence stretched.
Then: "What do you suggest?"
The sorcerer stepped forward, voice smooth as oil. "Send him to the Devil's Grip. Make him a legend claim him to be. Or still... let the forest devour him."
The king didn't answer.
But his silence was enough.
A Morning of Shadows
When Edwin received the royal summons, he sensed the lie hidden beneath the scroll's wax seal.
To Sir Edwin Clyne,
By royal order, you are to lead a sacred expedition into the Devil's Grip Forest. There, you will retrieve the fabled Starflame—a stone said to have fallen from the heavens in the Age of Sorrows. If retrieved, its power shall fortify our realm forevermore.
By The King
He read the words twice. The ink bled like a warning.
The Princess's Goodbye
Before dawn, as Edwin packed his blade and armor, soft footsteps echoed through the corridor. A whisper followed:
"Edwin…"
He turned, and she was there.
Zexviliar.
Wrapped in her pale blue robe, hair loose and wild with sleep, eyes red from tears she hadn't allowed to fall.
"You're leaving."
"It's the king's command," Edwin said gently.
"You don't have to go," she said, stepping closer. "That place… they call it cursed for a reason."
"I don't fear curses," he said calmly.
"You should." Her voice cracked.
Edwin looked away. "If the stone is real, it could end the drought. Stop the border wars. Feed our people."
She stepped into him then, arms trembling as she gripped his tunic.
"But what about me? What if I lose you?"
He touched her cheek. "You won't."
"How can you promise that?" she told him as tears filled her eyes.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he kissed her.
A fierce, desperate kiss.
Their first.
A kiss that felt more like a goodbye, even if neither dared say it.
And when it broke, tears ran down her cheeks.
"Come back to me," she whispered.
"I'll find you," he said. "Even if I crawl out of hell to do so."
The Devil's Grip
They entered the forest under gray skies. Edwin led seven knights, their armor gleaming like misplaced stars beneath the twisted canopy.
But the further they rode, the less light remained.
The Devil's Grip was alive—but not like a forest.
It breathed.
It watched.
And then, it began to take them.
Day 1.
Sir Hadren was the first. Dragged into a pool of black water by something unseen. His screams echoed through the moss-covered trees long after the surface stilled.
Day 2.
Sir Quen died vomiting blood. His skin burned from the inside out after eating fruit that looked like apples but bled when sliced.
Day 3.
Sir Loras slit his own throat in his sleep, whispering, "It's in my dreams, it's in my dreams."
Sir Philip's head was torn clean off by a beast that looked half-man, half-boar. The others, to weak to fight, fled in terror.
Edwin began to see shadows moving between trees, even when nothing was there. Voices called his name in his mother's voice. The forest mimicked what you loved and turned it against you.
Still, he pressed forward.
The Hell Beast
By Day 5, only Edwin and two knights remained.
Fog coated the trees like breath. The air smelled like rusted iron and rot. Then came the sound.
A low, dragging growl.
Not of beast or man—but something older.
They formed a circle, swords drawn.
Out of the mist stepped the Hell Beast—taller than a warhorse, skin slick and black like scorched oil, with eyes like smoking coals and teeth that clicked like blades.
Sir Velrik screamed and charged.
He didn't make it two steps before he was split clean in half.
His blood steamed on the ground, an his organs spilled like an overripe fruits.
Edwin roared and lunged with all he had.
The fight was madness—blades sparked against its hide, roars deafened the trees, claws ripped steel like parchment. He was flung, battered, crushed beneath it.
But something ignited inside him.
He saw Zexviliar's face.
He refused to die.
And with a war cry that tore the sky, he drove his blade deep into the beast's eye.
It shrieked—a sound that shattered the silence of the world.
And fell.
Still.
Dead.
Survivor
Edwin collapsed beside the creature's body, soaked in blood, ribs cracked, arm shattered.
His final knight, Sir Renhold, died minutes later from a wound he couldn't stop bleeding.
Edwin was alone.
Alive.
Barely.
Broken.
He dragged himself to a ridge, where beneath the roots of a blackened tree, the Starflame glowed softly—real, impossibly warm, humming with ancient power.
He stared at it.
And laughed.
Then wept.
Back at the Palace
The sorcerer stood at the king's side, a smug smile hidden beneath his hood.
"No rider returns from the forest," he said. "Even gods fear that place."
The king said nothing. But silence— when draped in guilt— speaks loudest. flicked to the tower window, where Zexviliar waited each night, watching for a flame that might never return.
A week passed.
Then two.
A month, followed by another... until a year passed.
The princess was almost devoid of hope until one faithful day.
Rain fell heavy over Xvalon in a dark and foggy morning, as a lone rider stumbled out of the forest, cloaked in blood and shadow, dragging something behind him wrapped in black cloth.
The guards gasped.
Zexviliar ran through the gates barefoot.
And from his knees, Edwin Clyne looked up…
…and collapsed.
In his arms, the Starflame pulsed softly.
But something else had followed him back.
Behind the trees.
Still watching.
Still whispering.