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Here's Part 1 of your
The kingdom of Elarion was once a jewel of the southern plains, its banners golden against endless fields of wheat. But when the northern empire of Draegoth descended upon it with fire and steel, the jewel cracked. Villages burned. Men were taken. The soil drank the blood of the innocent.
Among the ruins walked Kael Varyn, a blacksmith's apprentice from the hamlet of Fenreach. His hands had forged swords for nobles he'd never met, yet now he wielded one himself—rusted, notched, and too heavy for comfort. His home was ash. His father was gone. His mother's grave lay under the collapsed roof of their cottage.
Kael had no grand destiny. Only rage.
When the sun rose red over Fenreach, Kael joined the line of ragged survivors trudging toward the last free stronghold—Ardent Keep. There, the remnants of Elarion's army gathered under Lord Commander Sereth Alden, a man both revered and feared.
The journey took days. Kael shared stale bread and silence with strangers who had lost everything. The roads were littered with corpses, crows feasting without fear.
At Ardent Keep, the gates loomed tall, iron-clad and unwelcoming. Soldiers on the battlements shouted orders. Inside, the air reeked of sweat, smoke, and desperation. Kael found work in the forges again, hammering spears for soldiers who could still fight. But each clang of metal felt hollow. He wanted to strike back, not shape tools for others to die with.
That chance came sooner than expected.
On the fifth night, horns blared through the camp. Scouts had spotted Draegoth raiders near the river crossing. The alarm tore through the barracks like lightning. Kael's hammer dropped. His heart thundered.
Without thinking, he grabbed a sword from the rack—a real one this time—and ran to the ramparts.
There, under the burning torches, he saw them: black-armored riders sweeping across the plains, their war cries echoing like thunder. Arrows streaked through the night sky. The battle had begun.
Kael fought beside men twice his age, slashing wildly, blocking instinctively. He wasn't trained—but grief made him fearless. He saw comrades fall, their screams torn by wind and chaos. He struck back, again and again, until his blade was red and his arms trembled.
By dawn, the raiders were slain or scattered. The river ran crimson. Kael stood among the bodies, chest heaving, barely believing he was still alive.
"Name?" a voice barked behind him.
Kael turned. A tall man in dented armor, his cloak embroidered with a sunburst crest, was watching him. It was Lord Sereth Alden himself.
"Kael," he said hoarsely.
Sereth nodded slowly. "You fought like a man with nothing left to lose. Report to the muster hall tomorrow. Elarion needs soldiers like you."
Kael's fate shifted that morning, as the smoke of dawn rose over the ruined fields. He was no longer a blacksmith's apprentice. He was a soldier of Elarion.