The dusk bells tolled slow and deep from Northwatch's highest towers, their echoes rolling across the northern valleys like waves against stone. The sun had dipped low, staining the western sky in bruised orange and fading crimson, and the torches along the fortress's massive walls flared to life one by one. Northwatch was quieter now. The wounded had been tended, the dead buried, the family quarters scoured of demon ichor. Only the smell of smoke lingered, carried on a cold wind that curled around the ancient battlements.
Adrian climbed the stone stairs to the western rampart of Northwatch's wall. He found his father waiting.
Baron Dorian Blackthorn stood with both hands braced on the weathered merlons, his broad shoulders outlined against the dying light. His armor had been stripped away; he wore only a plain tunic and a heavy cloak, though the stiffness of his posture betrayed the bandages beneath. Beside him, leaning against the ancient stones, was the greatsword that had cut down the demon general.
"You came," Dorian said, his voice low, gravel carried on the wind.
"You asked," Adrian replied. His gray eyes, sharp as tempered steel, took in the long shadowed stretch of their borderlands. Beyond the tree line, darkness was gathering over lands that had seen too much blood.
For a long while, they said nothing. Father and son stood side by side on the walls that had never fallen, gazing over the fields their blood had sworn to protect. The silence was not uncomfortable. It was the silence of men who had both looked into fire and chosen to stand their ground.
At last, Dorian spoke. "When I was your age, I had never seen a demon, much less cut one down. I carried a wooden sword, dreaming of knighthood, of glory. You..." He turned, his scarred features hard, but his voice softened. "You've seen more blood by twelve than most men will see in their lives."
Adrian did not flinch. "I did what I had to do."
"You did what a Blackthorn does," Dorian corrected, his hand heavy on the boy's shoulder. "And Northwatch stands because of it."
The weight of those words settled into Adrian's bones. For a moment, he almost felt like the child his body still was. Almost.
Dorian's eyes drifted back to the horizon, where the last traces of crimson light were being swallowed by night. His voice dropped, almost lost in the wind that swept across Northwatch's battlements.
"I'll confess something, son," he said, quieter now. "I'm... embarrassed. To stand here before you in this state. Once, I was stronger. When I was younger, I could have ended that general in half the time. But years of coordinating defenses and fighting smaller threats have dulled my edge. Rust clings to even the sharpest blade when it isn't tested against worthy opponents."
Adrian studied him, surprise flickering across his usually calm features. To hear the Wall of Blackthorn—the unshakable guardian of the north—speak so openly of weakness felt surreal.
"You killed him," Adrian said. "You stood against a demon general and won. That is not weakness."
Dorian chuckled, the sound carrying a shadow of self-mockery. "A victory that nearly split me in half. I should have crushed him as I once could have. Instead, I bled and staggered before my men. That's not the baron they remember. That's not the man your mother married." His grip tightened on the stone. "And to show you, my own son, only this version of myself... it stings more than any wound."
Adrian's expression hardened. His voice was steady, sharper than his years. "Strength isn't measured by how quickly you kill, Father. It's measured by whether you stand when it matters. You did. You held the line when demons struck at the heart of everything we protect. And I will remember this version of you—the one who returned."
Dorian turned to him, searching the boy's face. He saw no pity there, no child's wide-eyed awe, only recognition and respect. Slowly, the baron's taut features softened into something rare: relief.
"You speak like a man," he said finally, shaking his head with a low laugh. "Sometimes I forget you're only twelve."
"Sometimes," Adrian said, and there was something in his eyes that made Dorian wonder just how much older his son truly felt.
Dorian's expression grew serious again. "Tell me, son... when the flame turned crimson, what did you feel? Truly."
Adrian thought back to that moment, the heat that had surged through him, the clarity in the chaos. "Power," he admitted. "Control. As if the world itself would bend to the edge of my will."
Dorian's gaze lingered, measuring him. "Most men fear what they don't understand. But not me. I've seen colors come and go in my years. I've fought beside blues, greens, even heard tales of violet flames from the old stories—though those are things of legend now, not seen for centuries. Each flame was different, but each flame was true. Your crimson is no curse, Adrian. It is yours. Blackthorn's. Remember that."
The boy's lips curled into the faintest of smirks. "I already knew that."
Dorian barked a laugh, sharp and sudden. Pain lanced through his wounded ribs and he winced, gripping his side, but the smile lingered. "Gods, you are my son."
The wind shifted across Northwatch's walls. From the woods beyond the border, a wolf howled—long, mournful, carrying far across the valleys that had seen too much death. The two stood listening until it faded into the night.
"The border will not rest," Dorian said at last, his voice turning grim again. "What happened at Harrowick, the coordinated attack here—that was no random raid. The demons are organized now, planning, testing our responses. They'll strike again, and harder next time. The kingdom will rally, but until it does, Northwatch is the shield that guards the north. We cannot falter."
"We won't," Adrian said simply.
Dorian studied him again, his son standing small against the great fortress wall yet seeming to fill it with presence. There was something in those gray eyes, something deeper than a boy's courage. Something older. For a flicker of a moment, he wondered if fate had placed a man's soul in a child's body.
"You'll face the Knight Trials in three years," Dorian said. "At fifteen, the law will call you to the capital. You'll stand in the yards with every hopeful—noble and commoner alike—waiting to be chosen by the academies. They'll see your flame then. They'll mark you as something rare. Until that day, you must train harder than any of them. The world will not forgive weakness, especially not in one who burns crimson."
"I won't be weak," Adrian said, his voice carrying absolute certainty.
The certainty chilled Dorian even as it swelled his pride. He saw in his son the making of something greater than himself, something that could not be contained by walls or oaths. Crimson fire in human shape.
At length, Dorian placed both hands on the parapet and exhaled, his breath misting in the cold night air. "Then let us watch the border together. Tonight, the Wall has two Blackthorns standing guard."
And so they stood in silence on the battlements of Northwatch, father and son, the last light bleeding out of the sky above the greatest fortress in the north. Below them, the ancient stones that had never fallen seemed to pulse with renewed purpose.
The border would be tested again. But tonight, it was held by Blackthorn steel and Blackthorn will.
And something crimson burned in the darkness, patient and ready.