Age Seven - The Lesson
The library of Blackthorn Manor smelled of parchment and old leather, dust motes dancing in shafts of afternoon sunlight. Adrian sat cross-legged on the floor beside his mother's chair, a heavy tome spread across his lap. At seven, he could read better than most children twice his age—another skill that came too naturally, though he was careful never to read too quickly in front of others.
"The Kingdom of Arathor," he read aloud, tracing the words with his finger, "has stood for eight hundred years, a bastion against the darkness that seeps from the eastern wastes."
Lady Elara Blackthorn paused in her embroidery, her needle hovering above the fabric. "What do you think that means, Adrian? The darkness from the east?"
Adrian's gray eyes flicked up to meet hers. He knew, of course. He remembered the demon realms—the burning skies, the cities of black stone, the endless hunger that drove his former people. But a seven-year-old wouldn't know such things.
"Monsters?" he offered, making his voice carry appropriate uncertainty.
"Demons," Elara corrected gently. "And that's why your father stands watch. Why the Blackthorns have always stood watch."
She set down her needlework and joined him on the floor, her green eyes serious. "Tell me, what do you know about our family?"
Adrian considered his words carefully. "Father says we guard the border. That we've done it for... for a very long time."
"Longer than you know." Elara's voice carried a weight that made Adrian look up sharply. "The first Blackthorn came to these lands four hundred years ago, when the demon incursions nearly broke the kingdom. He wasn't born noble, Adrian. He was a common soldier who earned his title with blood and sacrifice."
She traced the Blackthorn crest on the book's cover—a thorned branch on green field. "He swore an oath that his blood would stand between Arathor and the darkness, no matter the cost. Every Blackthorn since has honored that oath."
"Even me?" Adrian asked, though part of him already knew the answer.
"Especially you." Elara's hand touched his cheek, warm and gentle. "You're different, Adrian. Your father sees it, I see it. The way you move, the way you think... you're going to be important. I can feel it."
The words sent a chill through Adrian's small frame. Different. If only she knew how different.
"But important doesn't mean alone," Elara continued. "Remember that. No matter how strong you become, you'll always have family. Always have people who love you for who you are, not what you can do."
Adrian nodded solemnly, but inside, older memories stirred. He had been loved once before—by a brother who had driven a blade through his heart. Love, he had learned, could be the cruelest betrayal of all.
Age Nine - The Hunt
The morning mist clung to the forest floor as Adrian rode beside his father through the woods beyond Blackthorn's walls. At nine, he sat his horse with the easy confidence of someone who had been riding since he could walk—though in truth, his balance came from memories of cavalry charges across burning battlefields.
Lord Dorian raised his hand, bringing their small hunting party to a halt. "There," he whispered, pointing through the trees.
A massive boar rooted through the undergrowth, its tusks gleaming white in the filtered sunlight. The beast was easily twice the size of a normal pig, its hide scarred from countless fights. A demon-touched creature, warped by the dark energies that seeped from the eastern wastes.
"Remember what I taught you," Dorian murmured to Adrian. "Patience. Precision. A clean kill is a merciful kill."
Adrian nocked an arrow to his bowstring, the motion smooth and practiced. His aim was perfect—had always been perfect, though he was careful to miss occasionally during practice to avoid suspicion. The boar's heart lay exposed as it turned, an easy target.
But as Adrian drew back the string, something changed. The boar's head snapped up, red eyes fixing directly on him. For a moment, Adrian felt a flicker of recognition—not from the beast, but from within himself. Something stirred in response to the demon-taint, an answering darkness that made his vision sharpen and his pulse quicken.
The boar charged.
"Adrian!" Dorian shouted, spurring his horse forward.
But Adrian was already moving. His arrow flew true, taking the beast through the eye. The massive creature crashed to the ground mere feet from his horse's hooves, dead before it could complete its charge.
Silence fell over the hunting party.
"Remarkable shot," one of the guards breathed.
Dorian's eyes were fixed on his son, studying him with that penetrating gaze Adrian had learned to fear. "Indeed. Remarkable for a boy of nine."
Adrian forced his hands to tremble slightly as he lowered his bow. "I... I was scared. Did I do something wrong?"
"No," Dorian said slowly. "You did exactly right. But Adrian... how did you know it would charge?"
The question hung in the air like a trap. Adrian bit his lip, projecting the uncertainty of a child. "Its eyes. They looked... angry. Mean."
It wasn't entirely a lie. But the truth was far more complicated. He had sensed the demon-taint in the creature, recognized it the way a wolf might recognize another predator. The knowledge terrified him.
On the ride home, Dorian was unusually quiet. That night, Adrian overheard his parents talking in hushed voices behind their chamber door.
"There's something different about him, Elara. Something I can't explain."
"He's gifted. Talented beyond his years."
"Or cursed."
The word hit Adrian like a physical blow. Cursed. If his father only knew how right he was.
Age Ten - The Departure
The courtyard of Blackthorn Manor buzzed with activity as servants loaded supplies onto pack horses. Adrian watched from the steps, his heart heavy with an emotion he couldn't name. Today, his brother Lucien would leave for the Knight Trials.
At fifteen, Lucien stood tall and proud in his traveling leathers, the Blackthorn crest gleaming on his chest. His dark hair was pulled back in a warrior's knot, and his hand rested easily on the pommel of his sword. He looked every inch the noble heir Adrian was supposed to be.
"Excited, little brother?" Lucien asked, settling beside Adrian on the stone steps.
Adrian nodded, though excitement wasn't quite the right word. "Tell me about the academies again?"
Lucien's eyes lit up—he loved talking about knighthood, about the legendary schools that forged Arathor's greatest warriors.
"There are six," he began, his voice taking on the reverent tone he always used when discussing knighthood. "Each one different, each one legendary."
He held up one finger. "Dawnspire Academy - the Church's bastion, where the Holy Knights are trained. Only those who manifest yellow sword spirit can enter their halls. They say the very stones there glow with divine light."
A second finger. "Ironfang Academy - the harshest of them all. They break you down completely, then rebuild you as something stronger than steel. Their knights are feared even by demons."
"Stormwatch Academy," Lucien continued, warming to his subject. "Masters of speed and precision. Their graduates become scouts, cavalry commanders, messengers who can outrun the wind itself."
"Ashbourne Academy trains demon hunters specifically. Grim men and women who specialize in tracking and killing the things that slip through our borders. They rarely smile, but the kingdom sleeps easier knowing they're out there."
"Silverkeep Academy is the jewel of the capital. Nobles send their children there to learn both politics and swordplay. They produce knights who can navigate the royal court as skillfully as any battlefield."
"And finally," Lucien's voice dropped to an almost whisper, "Stonewall Academy. The unbreakable. Their knights don't seek glory or gold—they seek only to endure. When the walls of Arathor shake, it's Stonewall's graduates who hold them up."
Adrian absorbed every word, his mind already calculating which academy might suit his... unique circumstances. "Which one do you want?"
"Ironfang," Lucien said without hesitation. "Father trained there, briefly, before the border called him home. I want to follow his path, prove I'm worthy of the Blackthorn name."
"You already are," Adrian said quietly.
Lucien's expression softened. He ruffled Adrian's hair, the gesture both affectionate and sad. "I'll miss you, Adrian. These four years... they'll pass quickly for me, but I know they'll feel longer for you."
"Will you write?"
"Every month, I promise." Lucien's voice was firm, carrying the quiet confidence that had always marked him. "One year of trials to prove myself, then three years at Ironfang—they'll have no choice but to accept me after I show them what a Blackthorn can do. When I graduate, I'll serve wherever they send me, probably the eastern borders where the real fighting happens. But I'll write, and maybe our paths will cross again when you begin your own trials."
The confidence in his voice was absolute, not arrogance but the certainty of someone who had trained his entire life for this moment.
The words carried both promise and sadness. They both understood that once Lucien became a knight, his duty would come before family visits.
The horn sounded—time to depart. Lucien embraced their parents, his voice thick with emotion as he made his promises and farewells. Then he turned to Adrian.
"Remember what I taught you about sword work. Practice every day, but don't push too hard. You've got time to grow into your strength."
If only he knew, Adrian thought, that his little brother was already stronger than anyone imagined.
They watched from the walls as Lucien's horse carried him down the road toward the capital, toward a destiny that would forge him into a knight of Arathor. The Blackthorn banner flew above him until distance swallowed both horse and rider.
That night, the manor felt different. Quieter. As if something vital had been removed from its heart.
Age Twelve - The Attack
The autumn wind howled around Blackthorn Manor as Adrian practiced his forms in the covered courtyard. At twelve, he had grown tall for his age, his movements more precise with each passing day. He worked alone now—the other boys his age found him unsettling, and the older squires were away at various academies, following in Lucien's footsteps.
The blade in his hands was real steel now, a privilege earned through demonstrated skill. But even this weapon felt too light, too simple. His muscles remembered the weight of something greater—a blade that had once sung with crimson fire.
A commotion at the gates drew his attention. Guards were rushing to the walls, their voices tight with alarm. Adrian sheathed his sword and followed, his heart already beginning to race.
From the ramparts, he could see them—a line of refugees streaming down the road, their faces etched with terror. Behind them, smoke rose from the direction of the outlying villages that dotted the lands around Northwatch.
"Open the gates!" Dorian commanded, his armor hastily donned. "Bring them inside!"
The refugees poured into the courtyard—farmers, craftsmen, children clutching their mothers' skirts. Their leader, a grizzled man Adrian recognized as a village elder from one of the settlements near Northwatch, stumbled forward to meet the baron.
"Demons, my lord," the man gasped. "A whole army of them, moving through the outer settlements. They hit Millhaven at dawn, then Thornfield, then Greybrook. We barely escaped before they reached our walls."
Dorian's face went granite-hard. "How many?"
"Hundreds. All demons—lesser ones mostly, but organized. Moving with purpose, burning everything in their path. They're not just raiding, my lord. They're clearing the land around Northwatch."
Adrian felt ice in his veins. A demon army moving with coordination meant this wasn't random violence. This was strategy. Someone—or something—was directing them.
"Gareth!" Dorian barked to his captain. "Signal Northwatch immediately. Full alert. And send riders to warn any remaining settlements."
A horn blast cut through his words. Then another. The signals from Northwatch's watchtowers.
The demon army was moving closer.
From the walls, Adrian watched the distant smoke rise from burning villages. Even at this distance, his enhanced vision could make out the organized columns of twisted figures moving between the settlements. These weren't the random raids he remembered from years past—this was warfare.
And leading the columns, he could sense presences that made his ancient memories stir. Greater demons. Commanders who had once served in hierarchies he knew all too well.
"Adrian." His father's hand fell heavy on his shoulder. "Inside. Now."
"Father, what about Northwatch? Shouldn't we—"
"Northwatch can hold," Dorian said firmly. "The fortress has stood for centuries. But these people need shelter, and we need to coordinate the defense of the outer lands."
As Adrian reluctantly descended from the walls, he heard something that chilled him—the distant sound of demonic war-horns, echoing across the countryside. It was a sound of command, of authority. The sound of an army that expected victory.
The sound of something very much like what he had once led.
Through the night, more refugees arrived. Survivors from settlements that had been swept away by the demon advance. Each tale was the same—organized assault, coordinated destruction, demons moving with military precision rather than savage hunger.
From his chamber window, Adrian could see the glow of fires on the horizon. Not just random destruction, but the systematic clearing of everything around Northwatch. The demons were preparing for something larger.
A letter arrived three days later, bearing Lucien's seal. Adrian read it by candlelight in his chamber:
Little brother,
Word of the demon army reached even here. The masters speak in hushed tones about organized assaults—something not seen for generations. I'm told Father and the other border lords are coordinating the defense, but it troubles me to be so far from home when our lands face such danger.
Ironfang grows harder each day. They've broken two boys already—sent them home in shame. But I endure. I think of home, of the oath our family has sworn, and I find strength I didn't know I possessed.
The masters speak of different paths, different callings. Some here dream of Dawnspire's holy light, others of Stormwatch's speed. But I know where I belong. In four years, when you face your own trials, perhaps we'll stand together in whatever academy claims us.
Stay strong. Practice hard. Make Father proud.
Your brother, Lucien
Adrian set the letter aside, his chest tight with emotions he couldn't name. Lucien's faith in their family's honor was absolute, unshakeable. He would become a great knight, a credit to the Blackthorn name.
If only he knew what his little brother truly was—and what kind of enemy now threatened their lands.