The family quarters of Northwatch had never known such silence.
The bodies of demons lay where they had fallen in the great hall, their black ichor staining the ancient stones and filling the air with a stench that clung to every surface. Guards and servants moved carefully through the bloodied corridors, dragging corpses toward the fortress's outer courtyards, scrubbing the walls clean, and whispering prayers under their breath.
At the center of it all sat Adrian Blackthorn, his small hands still gripping the sword that had burned with crimson fire only hours ago.
The glow had faded. The blade was now ordinary steel, chipped and dull from the violence. But the memory lingered—crimson light carving through monsters, his young frame standing tall as a shield between his family and annihilation.
None dared question what they had seen.
Because when death had come to the great fortress of Northwatch, it was a twelve-year-old boy who stood between them and the abyss.
Servants gathered in the stone corridors of the family wing, speaking in hushed tones.
"The young lord... his sword was aflame."
"Not white. Not green. Crimson, like blood."
"Never seen its like in any knight, not even the baron..."
A kitchen maid clutched her apron, her voice breaking. "And yet, he saved us. He cut those beasts down when no one else could."
"Aye," a guard agreed, wiping ichor from his blade. His eyes strayed toward the boy who sat alone on the steps leading to the family towers, sword across his knees. "Blackthorn blood runs strong. The flame may be crimson, but it is Blackthorn all the same."
The whispers spread through Northwatch's corridors, not with fear, but with awe. Word traveled from the family quarters to the barracks, from the armory to the walls. The boy who had always been the quiet shadow of his elder brother was no longer overlooked.
He was the Crimson Heir.
Lady Elara Blackthorn found him sitting on the steps of the family armory, the bloodied sword balanced across his lap. Torchlight flickered over his pale face, casting long shadows under his eyes.
She approached slowly, the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders. Through the high windows of the family wing, she could see the lights of Northwatch's outer walls, where Captain Marsh maintained his vigilant watch.
"Adrian," she whispered.
He looked up, his gray eyes calm, though beneath them smoldered embers of something darker.
"You saved us," she said. Her voice was steady now, no longer trembling as it had in the heat of the fight.
"I did what had to be done," Adrian replied, his tone level.
Elara sat beside him on the stone steps, folding her hands in her lap. For a long moment, neither spoke. She stared at the sword, still faintly stained with black ichor.
"That flame," she said at last. "It was not white, nor green, nor any color I have ever seen. Crimson... like blood."
Adrian's lips curved faintly, though he lowered his gaze so she would not see the full extent of his expression. "Maybe it is the color this house needed."
Her breath caught at his words. For an instant, she saw not her youngest son but Dorian in his youth—fierce, unbending, scarred by responsibility before his time.
"You sound like your father when he was your age," she murmured.
That caught Adrian off guard. His faint smile vanished, replaced by a rare flicker of surprise that made him look truly twelve years old again.
"Father was never like me," he said quietly.
"Wasn't he?" Elara's voice carried a weight of memory. "When Dorian was twelve, demons struck the outer settlements. His father rode out to fight them, leaving Dorian to protect the family. He stood in this very hall with a sword too big for his hands and faced down three raiders who had breached the walls."
Adrian's gray eyes sharpened with interest.
"He killed them all," Elara continued. "With nothing but determination and Blackthorn steel. No sword spirit, no training—just the will to protect what mattered. When his father returned, he found Dorian sitting exactly as you are now, covered in blood, sword across his knees."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with implication.
"The difference," Elara said softly, "is that your father's blade never burned with any light at all that day. What you carry... it's something more."
The night stretched long within Northwatch's walls. The fortress gates were shut and barred, torches burned high on the ramparts, and guards doubled their watch. Captain Marsh had sent word to the outer towers—no one entered or left until the baron's return.
Inside the family quarters, servants worked tirelessly, their initial shock giving way to something approaching reverence. Wherever Adrian passed through Northwatch's corridors, they stepped aside not with fear, but with respect. They bowed their heads, murmuring blessings, some even daring to place a hand on his shoulder in silent gratitude.
To them, he was not cursed. He was proof that the Blackthorns endured.
"Baron Dorian holds the line at Harrowick," one guard whispered as Adrian walked past toward the family towers. "And here, his son holds Northwatch. The blood runs true."
"A crimson flame for Blackthorn," another said. "Even the demons will learn to fear it."
Word of what had happened spread through the fortress like wildfire. By evening, every soldier on Northwatch's walls knew that young Adrian Blackthorn had faced demons in single combat and emerged victorious. The story grew with each telling, but the core remained unchanged—when darkness came to their greatest fortress, it was a boy of twelve who had stood as their shield.
Adrian returned to his chambers in the family tower at last, the sword still in hand. He set it upon the table beside his window, staring at it in the flickering candlelight. Beyond the glass, Northwatch's courtyards spread vast and torchlit, a city of stone and steel that had never fallen.
Crimson.
The demons had wielded black flame, the humans manifested various colors built upon the white foundation. White was the base of all sword spirit—the starting point from which all other hues emerged. Green, blue, and other hues—there were many colors a knight might manifest, but white remained the foundation upon which they all were built. Yellow was reserved for the Holy Knights of legend. But crimson? None had ever spoken of such a flame.
It should have unsettled him.
Instead, it thrilled him.
He clenched his fists, feeling the memory of that raw power thrumming still in his veins. For the first time since his rebirth, he had unleashed even a fraction of what lay dormant inside him. And though the body of a child strained under its weight, it had been enough.
Enough to kill. Enough to protect. Enough to remind him that he was not weak.
His lips curved into something that was not quite a child's smile.
I was a prince once. I was betrayed and cut down. But now? Now I am Adrian Blackthorn, heir to the greatest fortress in the north. And I will build my vengeance with this crimson fire.
In the halls below, servants carried out the last of the demon corpses to be burned in Northwatch's outer courtyards. They spoke of him now with reverence, their fear replaced by hope.
"The Crimson Heir," they said. "The boy who stood alone."
Adrian heard them through his window, their words drifting upward from the fortress courtyards into his chamber. He allowed himself one final smile before blowing out the candle and sinking into the shadows.
The border burned, and the Blackthorns would bleed again. But tonight, Northwatch had been saved by a boy with a crimson blade.
And for the first time, Adrian was no longer the overlooked son.
He was a Blackthorn.
And the world would remember his color.