Ash stood in the training yard at dawn, his gray tunic damp with sweat, dark pants ripped , muddy boots sinking into the dirt.
His ribs ached from yesterday's drills, but the memory of his first spark—white light flickering on his fingers—kept him swinging a short sword in slow, deliberate arcs.
Footsteps crunched behind him, and he turned to see Sven approaching, his chainmail glinting faintly, his face warm and steady.
"Good morning, Ash," Sven said, his voice solid and friendly, like a trusted comrade.
"You're out here before the sun's up, working that blade like it's your only friend. Trouble sleeping, or are you just set on proving yourself to everyone?"
Ash lowered his sword, a faint smile breaking through. "Morning, Sven. A bit of both, I guess. Last night's training got me restless. Feels like I'm finally starting to figure things out, and I don't want to lose that momentum."
Sven nodded, leaning against a wooden post, his eyes kind but sharp.
"I get it. A spark like that doesn't come easy, especially for someone as new to this as you. Most recruits take months to even feel a hint of essence, but you're already making it real. Just don't push so hard you break—Blackthorn's got a way of testing even the strongest."
As Sven spoke, Ash's gaze drifted to a lone figure crossing the yard toward the longhouse.
The man was older, broad and weathered, with a scarred face, graying beard, and dark blue hair cropped short, glinting like deep water. He wore a heavy, earth-toned cloak over a dark, sturdy tunic, reinforced at the shoulders. Thick leather bracers, etched with runes, and solid boots ground him.
His presence was like a gathering storm, quiet but overwhelming, his eyes ancient and piercing. He didn't look their way, his focus fixed on the longhouse ahead.
Ash's breath caught, his instincts prickling. "Who's that?" he asked, his voice low, nodding toward the figure.
Sven followed his gaze, his expression shifting to deep reverence, his voice lowering as if speaking of a legend.
"That's Borin. He's one of the Mighty Men, a champion of the Clover Knights. A true legend—feels the earth itself, like it whispers its secrets to him. When he moves, it's as if the ground bends to his will. He's fought battles most can't imagine, saved entire villages with his strength and wisdom. He's one of Blackthorn's most trusted, a cornerstone of the Knights."
Ash's eyes widened, the weight of Sven's words sinking in. "The Mighty Men," he said, the name unfamiliar but heavy with meaning. "He's… different. Like he carries something bigger than himself."
Sven gave a small, knowing nod.
"That's exactly it. The Mighty Men are the backbone of the Clover Knights, the ones who hold the line when everything else fails. Borin's been at it longer than most, and he doesn't waste words or steps. If you ever get a chance to learn from him, take it."
As Sven spoke, Borin paused at the longhouse door, his head turning slightly.
His piercing eyes met Ash's across the yard, a fleeting but charged moment, like the tension before a clash or the spark of a potential alliance.
It wasn't friendly or hostile—just a silent acknowledgment, heavy with possibility, that sent a shiver down Ash's spine.
Then Borin turned and disappeared inside.
Ash exhaled, his heart racing. "What's he doing here?" he asked, turning back to Sven.
Sven's face grew serious, his voice steady but grave. "Blackthorn's called a war council, and I'm headed there now. Things are bad in the north—villages like Oakhaven and Briar's End, completely gone. No survivors. The reports talk of demons, shadows moving too fast to track, tearing through everything like they've got a plan. We're putting together a small team to stop it before it spreads further."
Ash's grip tightened on his sword, his mind racing. "Who's going? What's the plan?"
Sven sighed, rubbing his neck, his tone measured but open. "It's a tight group, only the best—Finn, Lyra, Borin, a few other veterans. I'm leading a squad myself, which is a big responsibility. It's a small, fast force, built to move quickly and hit hard. Blackthorn wants this done clean and precise."
Ash's jaw tightened, determination flaring. "Is there any chance for someone like me to join? I know I'm new, but that spark—it could make a difference, couldn't it?"
Sven's eyebrows rose, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
"You've got courage, Ash, no one can argue that. Your spark is something special, and you've come a long way in a short time. But this mission's for seasoned knights, not recruits, no matter how promising. You'd have to face Blackthorn directly and make your case, and trust me, that's like trying to shift a mountain. He's not one to give ground easily."
"I'm not asking for him to make it easy," Ash said, his voice firm, meeting Sven's eyes.
"I just want a chance to show I can handle it. I'm not the same as when I started here—I know I can contribute."
Sven studied him for a long moment, then nodded, his expression softening.
"I see that fire in you, Ash, and it's more than most bring to this yard. You've got something real, something that could matter. If you're set on this, go to the council and speak to Blackthorn. But be ready—he's not just tough, he's unyielding."
Ash gave a sharp nod, his resolve hardening. "Thanks, Sven. I know what I need to do."
Sven clapped his shoulder, his grip firm and encouraging. "Just don't let him break you, alright? I'd hate to see you sidelined when you're just getting started. The council's starting soon— I got to go." He turned toward the longhouse, following Borin's path, leaving Ash alone in the yard.
The dawn's quiet settled around him, the spark from last night burning in his memory.
The longhouse door was shut, muting the distant sounds of the kingdom.
The air inside was still and heavy, smelling of old wood, lamp oil, and tension.
Captain Blackthorn stood at the head of the scarred wooden table, a map of the northern territories weighted down at its corners.
Princess Elis stood at his side, her presence a silent command, her blue dress frayed, auburn braid loose, green eyes sharp.
They were not alone. "Finn and Lyra stood opposite" in the war council scene:
Lyra, lithe and sharp-eyed, her bright pink hair tied in a tight braid, wore a sleek white leather tunic, fitted pants, and a short dark green cloak, a slim dagger at her thigh.
Finn, tall and muscular, with a shaved head and hard jaw, stood in a sleeveless dark blue jerkin over a clean linen shirt, rugged pants, and heavy boots, a short axe at his hip."
They had just returned. Borin stood with them, his scarred face weathered, eyes ancient and piercing, moving with a heavy grace that seemed to ground the room.
Sven waited near the door, ready to relay orders.
"Report," Blackthorn's voice was a low, flat command.
Borin stepped forward, his calloused finger stabbing down onto the map. "Oakhaven and Briar's End are gone, Captain. Not a soul left. It's not a raid. It's… consumption.
The damage isn't from fighting. It's from things… feeding. Moving through." His voice was a grim rumble. "The tracks are wrong. Clawed, but they move in packs, with purpose. This is coordinated."
Lyra's voice was cool, analytical, a contrast to Borin's earthiness.
"I got as close as I dared. The silence is the worst part. No birds. No insects. The air itself feels… thin. Wrong. The villagers' stories are consistent. They don't describe animals. They describe nightmares. Shadows with teeth. Things that move too fast to see clearly."
She shook her head. "It's not a natural predator. It's an infestation."
Blackthorn absorbed the information, his eyes scanning the map, his green cloak with a faded clover still, katana's hilt gleaming at his belt. He was silent for a long moment, piecing it together.
"The pattern is the key," he concluded, his voice leaving no room for doubt.
"Two villages, wiped out. The attacks are moving south, toward more populated areas."
His finger landed on a third point on the map—a medium-sized village nestled by a river.
"Fallow's Ferry is the next logical target. It has the resources, the population. It's in the path."
He straightened up, his decision made.
"We don't wait for it to be a graveyard. We turn it into a fortress. We draw them in, and we break the swarm there."
He looked at his champions, his orders crisp and clear.
"Lyra. You've seen the terrain. You lead the vanguard. Take two scouts, get to Fallow's Ferry before sundown. Identify the best choke points, the strongest buildings. I want a full assessment by nightfall."
"Got it," Lyra said, her voice steady, eyes already calculating.
"Borin. The earth speaks to you. When the main force arrives, you will fortify the village. Use the militia. Raise barricades, reinforce the gates. Make every street a death trap for these things."
Borin nodded, his rumble low. "It'll hold, Captain."
"Finn. You are the hammer. You and the heaviest hitters will be the mobile reserve. Where the line buckles, you reinforce. You do not pursue. You hold."
Finn grunted, arms still crossed. "Understood."
"Sven. Round up twenty of our best veterans. Not recruits. I want steady hands and cold nerves. We march at first light tomorrow."
Sven gave a sharp nod. "Yes, Captain."
Blackthorn finally looked at Elis, not for permission, but for acknowledgment.
"We take a small, fast force. Twenty knights. Enough to turn the tide, not enough to be a sluggish target. We protect Fallow's Ferry. We end this there."
The plan was set. It was a strategy of defense and annihilation. They were prepared for a swarm of nightmares.
The war council had just disbanded.
The heavy door of the longhouse groaned open, and the champions filed out, their faces set with grim purpose.
Ash, who had been waiting against the wall, his heart pounding, stepped into the path of Captain Blackthorn.
"Captain. I'm want to come with you on this mission."
Blackthorn's gaze was impenetrable. "No. You're not." He moved to walk around him.
"My power could be the difference," Ash insisted, refusing to yield, the memory of his spark burning bright.
"Your power is a candle flame in a hurricane," Blackthorn shot back, his voice low and final.
"It's untested. It's a liability. Stand aside."
From behind Blackthorn, Princess Elis spoke, her voice calm but firm, yet not unkind.
"Ash, I know you want to help, but the Captain's right. This mission is too dangerous for someone still learning their essence. You can't come—not this time."
The words stung, despite her gentle tone, and Ash's chest tightened.
He stood his ground, his voice hardening. "You said the test was to make you use your essence, Captain. Let me prove it to you. Right now."
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Blackthorn's face. He glanced at Elis, then back at Ash.
"You think that's the measure of a knight? A single flash of light?" He shook his head. "Fine. You want to prove yourself? I'll let you but the rules have changed."