Snow swirled in glittering arcs as the gates of Polaris City came into view—towering walls of pale stone crowned with banners of deep blue and gold. Beyond them, spires of crystal and silver pierced the sky, catching the faint light of the auroras that danced above. After days of harsh travel through frozen roads and treacherous passes, the party had finally reached the heart of the North.
The gates creaked open with a deep, resonant groan. At once, the blare of trumpets filled the air.
Two lines of knights in silver-and-blue plate armor stood at perfect attention, halberds gleaming in the cold light. Their banners snapped in the winter wind, each one bearing the sigil of Polaris—a blazing star over a mountain peak. The snow beneath their boots was swept clean, the street beyond carpeted in crimson cloth for the arriving party.
This was no ordinary greeting. This was for the Duke of the North, Alaric Vaelstrome—returning to his seat after six months in the capital—and for Braten, the man once known as The Blade of Polaris, Commander of the Northern Armies.
The air trembled with the thunder of voices as the soldiers saluted, their call echoing like a battle-cry through the gates:
"Welcome home, Commander!"
Braten, though wrapped in the simple furs of a traveler, felt the weight of their voices like an old, familiar mantle. His years away as a commoner had dulled neither the respect nor the loyalty in their eyes. The Duke's expression softened briefly, pride flashing in his gaze, but his bearing remained steel—upright and unyielding, like the mountains he ruled.
Inside the marble halls of the palace, beneath soaring ceilings painted with constellations, a priest awaited them. He was draped in flowing white robes, his silver hair catching the torchlight, his lined face serene yet intent. But his eyes were not for the Duke… nor for Braten.
They were fixed upon Caelen.
Without speaking, the priest approached Lucy, who held the boy close. His wrinkled hand trembled as he rested it upon the child's golden hair. The instant his fingers made contact, his eyes glazed over—turning milky, as though the world itself had vanished from his sight.
And then the visions came.
He saw mountains crumble into dust.
He saw skies split open, bleeding light and shadow.
He saw oceans boil as colossal, godlike beings—beyond shape, beyond comprehension—descended upon the world, tearing reality asunder.
Armies of every race—humans, elves, dwarves, beastfolk—stood together in defiance, banners of countless colors flying. But still, they fell. Even the mightiest warriors were scattered like leaves before a storm.
And there, in the center of it all, stood a lone figure.
A boy—grown into a man—his golden eyes blazing like twin suns. In his hands, he wielded a blade unlike any forged by mortal smiths. The Sword of the Universal—born from the magic of the Supreme God who had shaped the stars themselves. With each swing, the sword tore through gods alike, its light holding back the ruin threatening to consume creation.
The vision's brilliance seared the priest's soul. A shiver tore through him. Tears streamed unbidden down his face as he fell to his knees, whispering in reverence:
"The Chosen… the savior of all worlds."
But before his awe could fade, another vision slammed into him like a tidal wave.
A voice—deep, resonant, and absolute—filled his mind, echoing in every corner of his being.
"Seal his power. Hide him from the gaze of the Evil Gods. Protect him until the one destined to guide him appears. If he is found before that day, all will be lost. And remember this—on the Day of Salvation, he will lose everything should he not remain hidden until the appointed time."
The priest gasped and staggered back, his breath ragged as the visions faded. The Duke, Braten, and their guards stood in tense silence, waiting for him to speak.
With a voice heavy as the snows outside, the priest told them all he had seen. He spoke of the boy's destiny, the war to come, the gods that would seek his life. He told them of the Astraflare Night—when the twin moons would cross, setting the sky ablaze in silver fire—and how, on that night, Caelen's divine power would be sealed until the prophecy called him to awaken.
Later, in the quiet of the Duke's private chamber, Alaric faced Braten.
"You must return," the Duke said, his voice low but firm. "Return to your old post—as my right hand and Commander of the North. You were once our shield, our Blade of Polaris. You must be that again."
Braten's brow furrowed. "You would have me take up arms again after so many years as a commoner?"
"Yes," Alaric said, stepping closer. "Because if any noble were to discover the truth about Caelen… I could not protect your wife and child. But as a Knight of the North, you will have the authority—and the power—equal to the counts and viscounts of this realm. Without that, you are vulnerable. With it, you stand untouchable."
Braten looked at the Duke for a long moment, then glanced toward the chamber door, where Lucy's soft voice could be heard humming to Caelen. His hand tightened into a fist.
Finally, he nodded.
"For my son's sake… I will take up the blade once more."