Three years passed, and with them the quiet rhythm of Northwatch changed forever.
The great fortress that had once known only border skirmishes and seasonal patrols now bore the weight of constant preparation. The fall of Harrowick had scarred the land, its burned fields left as a reminder of how close the demons had come. Yet from that scar grew steel. The garrison of Northwatch trained harder, the massive walls were reinforced with new towers, and the young lord of House Blackthorn was forged in fire not of his choosing.
Adrian Blackthorn was no longer a boy.
At fifteen, his body had caught up to the mind that had always seemed older than its years. His shoulders were lean but strong, his movements precise, his gray eyes carrying the weight of a man who had already tasted blood. He sparred daily in Northwatch's training yards against captains and knights twice his size, and more often than not, it was they who ended up on their backs. His crimson flame, once an anomaly whispered of in awe, now flared at will—a disciplined power that painted arcs of light across the ancient courtyards.
Baron Dorian watched him with a pride he did not often put to words. He had kept his promise that night on the wall—to forge Adrian into steel sharper than any heir before him. And Adrian had answered.
The day of departure came with the tolling of the dawn bells from Northwatch's towers.
The family courtyard was filled: guards in polished mail, servants in neat lines, villagers who had traveled from the settlements scattered across the borderlands to see their young lord off. At the front stood Dorian and Elara, flanked by banners bearing the thorned branch on green field. Adrian bowed to them both, then turned as the stableboys brought forth a dark stallion, black-coated with a mane like storm clouds.
"Fitting," Dorian muttered, unable to keep the corner of his mouth from twitching. "A Blackthorn should ride black."
Adrian swung into the saddle with practiced ease.
Before he could speak, Elara pressed a bundle of parchment into his hands. "From your brother," she said softly. "Lucien's letters."
Adrian untied the ribbon and unfolded one, scanning the familiar handwriting.
Little brother, it began, the strokes heavy and sure. Ironfang is everything Father warned it would be. The masters break us daily—body, mind, and soul—but those who endure grow sharper than steel. I have fought until my bones ached and bled until the earth turned red beneath my feet, and still I rise. They respect me here. The instructors call me a wolf among cubs. I carry the name of Blackthorn proudly, and I will carry it further still.
The rest of the letter spoke of endless drills, of nights sleeping in mud, of sparring matches that ended with broken bones and proud scars. Yet through it all ran a current of triumph. Lucien had not only endured—he had excelled.
Adrian folded the parchment carefully. Three years of letters had painted Lucien's journey clearly. His brother had graduated from Ironfang Academy a year ago, accepting a commission with the eastern border forces rather than returning home. The eldest son of Blackthorn was not just admired—he was becoming a legend in his own right, fighting demons on the front lines where the kingdom's defenses were thinnest.
And now it was Adrian's turn to forge his own path.
The Trials awaited.
Dorian stepped forward, his scarred hand heavy on Adrian's arm. "Remember what you are. Blackthorn holds the greatest fortress in the north, but in the capital, men will test you with smiles sharper than blades. Hold steady. Hold true. Let them see your flame, and they will know our house still stands strong."
"I will," Adrian said. His voice carried across the courtyard, steady as Northwatch's walls.
Elara stepped closer then, her eyes soft but her hands firm. From beneath her cloak, she drew a bundle wrapped in dark cloth. She unfolded it carefully to reveal a polished emblem of emerald and gold: a shield of green enamel, marked with a single golden thorn crossing its heart.
The Blackthorn crest.
Every noble house bore a crest, but among the borderlands, this one was more than just a mark of blood. It was a promise—that so long as the crest flew above Northwatch's towers, the line of Blackthorn still stood guard against the dark.
Dorian placed the crest in Adrian's hands. "This is yours now. Wherever you go, this is your name, your blood, your shield. With it, no man can deny who you are or what house you represent."
Elara's voice trembled, but her words did not falter. "Carry it with pride, Adrian. As your brother does on the eastern front. As your uncle does beyond the border. As your father always has upon these walls."
Adrian bowed his head, pinning the crest to his travel cloak over his heart. The green shield caught the morning sun, the golden thorn gleaming as though alive. For the first time, he bore the mark of his house not as a child beneath its protection, but as a Blackthorn in his own right.
The massive gates of Northwatch had just begun to creak open when the war horns above the walls sounded again—not the slow toll of ceremony, but the sharp clarion of return.
The villagers stirred, murmuring. The guards straightened, eyes snapping to the western road beyond the fortress. Dust rose on the horizon, carrying with it the glint of steel and the heavy rhythm of hooves.
"They're back," someone whispered.
The Iron Thorns.
Every man and woman in the courtyard craned their necks as the squad rode through Northwatch's gates—twelve riders clad in dark plate chased with silver, their cloaks tattered from long marches through demon lands. Each bore trophies at their saddles: claws black as obsidian, broken horns, chains that once bound fiends. Their eyes were hard, their silence heavier than drums. These were no fresh squires from the academies. These were Blackthorn's elite—knights who ventured past the border not to defend, but to strike first and carry the fight into demon territory itself.
At their head rode a man taller than most, his armor scorched in places where black flame had licked it. His great helm hung at his saddle, revealing a face weathered by war yet sharp with life. His hair was dark, streaked faintly with iron, and his eyes were the same gray as Adrian's, though his gaze carried the weight of a hundred campaigns.
The crowd erupted into cheers.
"Lord Kael!"
"Blackthorn's Blade!"
Adrian's stallion shifted beneath him as the riders slowed. His father's younger brother, Kael Blackthorn, swung down from his saddle with fluid grace despite the chainmail weight. He was not as broad as Dorian, but he moved with a predator's ease—fast, coiled, dangerous. A knight spoken of across Arathor, Kael had carved his fame not through walls defended but by carrying fire and steel deep into demon territory, hunting the enemy where they bred.
Dorian stepped forward, his pride barely concealed. The two brothers clasped forearms hard, armor ringing against armor.
"You took your time," Dorian said, though there was warmth in the words.
Kael grinned, wolfish. "Demons don't die quickly, elder brother. And I thought you might enjoy a few less prowling your border while you nurse your pride." His gaze shifted then, landing on Adrian astride his stallion. "So. This is the crimson flame I've heard whispers of."
The courtyard hushed at his words. Adrian met his uncle's gaze steadily, noting the way Kael's eyes assessed him—not as a child, but as a warrior evaluating another warrior.
Kael studied him for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across his scarred face. "Good. Blackthorn blood never lies. Ride well, nephew. Make them remember the name at those Trials. Show them what the north breeds."
Adrian inclined his head, every part of him calm though something in his chest stirred—a recognition of kinship, of fire forged the same way his own burned.
The Iron Thorns dismounted in formation behind their commander, their armor creaking, their demon trophies displayed for all to see. Villagers pressed forward to cheer, children pointing and shouting as though they were heroes from legend. In a way, they were—the men who dared to hunt monsters in their own lands.
Adrian turned back toward the open road beyond Northwatch's gates, the presence of his uncle and the Iron Thorns like a weight at his back. He would ride to the capital not as a nameless youth, but as the heir of House Blackthorn—a house whose steel reached beyond the greatest fortress in the north, whose blood had become a weapon against the darkness.
The capital of Arathor awaited, and with it the Trials that would decide his place among knights and kings.
Behind him, the bells of Northwatch tolled again, their echoes mingling with the cheers for the Iron Thorns.
Adrian Blackthorn did not look back.
The road to his future lay ahead, and crimson fire burned in his chest, patient and ready.