Written by: Chris Chret © 2026
It was evening.
The sun had not yet risen, but the horizon already glowed with a pale, aching light — like a wound that refused to close.
Nocten moved through the castle corridors.
Step by step.
Silent.
Resolute.
With him — a small group of men. Nothing more than shadows following behind.
No one spoke.
When they reached the door to Aurel's chamber, Nocten stopped.
He turned to the men.
— You will stand here — he said quietly. — If anything goes wrong… do not interfere.
A pause.
— I want my brother alive. If he falls… let him fall by my hand. This is my fight.
No one objected.
Nocten opened the door.
Slowly.
Aurel stood inside.
Waiting.
His sword was already in his hand.
— I was expecting you, brother — Aurel said calmly. — Tell me… why are you so thirsty for blood? Why so greedy for the throne?
Nocten smiled coldly.
— A powerful king rules alone. Not with a shadow beside him.
He raised his sword.
— Let us fight to the death. Whoever wins — will rule everything.
Aurel did not answer.
He only raised his sword.
And their weapons clashed.
Steel echoed through the room.
Sparks flew.
Furniture shattered beneath the blows.
Nocten attacked savagely. Without stopping. Without restraint.
Aurel defended himself.
He retreated.
He searched for a reason not to kill his brother.
Outside — chaos.
Aurel's knights arrived. Everything had been planned.
Swords collided.
Blood splashed across the walls, the doors, the curtains.
The fighting was loud. Brutal.
Eryndor Frostwyn was among those fighting for Aurel.
But something was… wrong.
Among the men was someone who moved differently. Fought differently.
He led the others.
Eryndor realized he had never seen him before.
And that he was not a knight.
It was Tharion Keldrake.
A criminal.
Unwanted by the crown.
Sought when needed.
This time — paid by Nocten.
They clashed.
Eryndor's spear against Tharion's strange weapon — long like a spear, but with blades on both ends, joined like two swords, with a short grip at the center.
Tharion was a master with it.
Eryndor was not accustomed to such a fight.
They exchanged blows.
Tharion was fast. Merciless.
Eryndor dropped to a knee to avoid a lethal strike —
A knee slammed into his jaw.
His head snapped back.
Blood flowed from his nose and mouth.
The world spun.
But he stood.
Wiped his face.
And continued.
Tharion attacked even more fiercely.
He gave him no room to breathe.
Eryndor grew tired.
It was the first time he had fought against such a weapon.
And his opponent was older. More experienced.
Then — Tharion threw the weapon.
It spun through the air.
Eryndor tried to deflect it.
A mistake.
The blade twisted and pierced directly into his shoulder.
Before he could react, Tharion was already in front of him.
A strike to the neck.
A strike to the chest.
The air vanished.
Eryndor fell to his knees.
A final blow from behind — to the back of the head.
He fell.
Nocten's group prevailed.
Inside — the chamber was in ruins.
Shattered furniture.
Broken walls.
Blood on the floor.
Nocten attacked without pause.
Aurel defended.
And then — blood burst forth.
Aurel was cut across the stomach.
Something inside him broke.
The true fight began.
The clash of swords was so powerful that Nocten was thrown backward.
His gaze fell upon something.
Their father's sword — Riven.
The former king.
Large.
Heavy.
A sword no ordinary man could even lift.
Nocten took it.
And advanced.
The strikes were brutal.
One blow with the blunt side slammed into Aurel's chest.
He was thrown back.
There was no air.
Nocten was already above him.
Aurel defended himself, but began to retreat.
He was bleeding.
His strength was leaving him.
He reached the terrace.
And then —
Nocten swung.
Aurel's back split open.
He crashed into the railing.
He turned.
And with his last strength, slashed his brother across the face.
Nocten's eye was destroyed.
Aurel jumped.
As he fell — he threw a knife.
The knife buried itself in Nocten's chest.
Pain.
Sharp. Deep.
But not the end.
"I did not expect to be wounded…"
he thought.
"But I did not expect it to be easy either."
His teeth clenched.
The blood warmed his chest.
"And least of all — that the fight would not end here."
A smile appeared on his face.
Crooked. Mad.
He began to laugh.
He gripped the handle.
Pulled the knife from his chest.
Blood dripped onto the floor.
He threw the knife aside.
— The battle between us is only beginning, brother — he whispered.
Aurel fell below.
Bones shattered.
Blood flowed.
But he survived.
He escaped.
Nocten's knights went after him.
He was gone.
By the water — a boat.
And a man waiting.
Morrek Vaelor.
An old man with white hair and a white beard.
A staff with an eagle at its top.
A real eagle — on his shoulder.
Everything had been planned.
They sailed away quietly.
The sun rose.
They reached the island of Grimreach Isle.
Edric was waiting.
Aurel escaped — wounded.
Nocten won — but wounded as well.
Eryndor was captured.
The kingdom was divided once more.
Dravion fractured.
The victory was won.
But the price —
was not something that could be buried.
It remained breathing within the walls.
Whispering through the corridors.
Waiting.
Some followed Nocten.
Others waited for a sign from Aurel.
The war was being prepared.
Not on the battlefield.
But in the hearts of those who survived.
End of Book I
And the beginning of something that cannot be saved by a crown.