Blood written legends
Night had fallen over the Kingdom of Zephyr.
The barracks lay wrapped in a restless silence, broken only by the distant clang of steel and the low murmur of soldiers unwinding from another unforgiving day. Torches flickered along stone walls, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to breathe with the tension of the castle itself.
Lylan Ardent sat near the outer training courtyard, his back against a cold pillar of marble.
Across from him, Lucas paced.
Restless.
Agitated.
"You're not listening to me," Lucas muttered.
Lylan's gaze remained forward, calm but distant. "I am."
Lucas stopped. "No, you're hearing me. Not listening."
The torchlight caught the sharp edges of his frustration. A year of brutal training had hardened his body, but not dulled the fire in his spirit. When Lucas felt something deeply, it showed.
And tonight, doubt weighed heavily on him.
"We made it," Lucas continued, his voice quieter now but edged with unease. "We survived Rael's training. We're soldiers of Zephyr."
Lylan nodded faintly.
Lucas turned sharply toward him.
"But now what?"
Lylan's brow shifted slightly. "What do you mean?"
Lucas exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair.
"I mean your dream."
Silence lingered between them.
Lucas stepped closer.
"The princess."
Lylan's expression did not change, yet something flickered behind his eyes — something guarded, something immovable.
Lucas' voice softened, though worry pulsed beneath it.
"We're in the army now, Lylan. Fine. But what chance do you truly think you have?"
Lylan remained still.
"You're not a noble," Lucas pressed. "You're not born into wealth or legacy. You're not someone the royal court would even consider worthy of her hand."
The words were not cruel.
They were honest.
Painfully honest.
Lucas knelt in front of him.
"I believe in you more than anyone," he said. "But dreams like that… they break men."
For the first time that night, Lylan lifted his gaze.
Steady.
Unshaken.
"I know who I am, Lucas."
Lucas' jaw tightened. "Then why cling to something impossible?"
"Because," Lylan said quietly, "I do not believe it is."
Lucas blinked.
Lylan's voice carried no arrogance.
Only certainty.
"I cannot explain it," he continued. "But I feel it. As strongly as I feel the air I breathe."
Lucas stared at him.
Half frustrated.
Half unsettled.
Before he could respond —
Slow clapping echoed through the courtyard.
Mocking.
Deliberate.
Both men turned.
Gregory emerged from the shadows, flanked by a squad of soldiers. The torchlight danced across their armor, revealing smirks, cold eyes, and the unmistakable posture of men who had not come for conversation.
Gregory's gaze locked onto Lylan.
"So the little legend speaks of destiny."
Lucas rose instantly, tension snapping through his frame.
Gregory stepped forward, his expression dark with something far uglier than amusement.
Hatred.
"You embarrassed me," Gregory said flatly.
The courtyard stilled.
Lucas' fists clenched.
Lylan stood slowly.
Calm.
Unthreatened.
Gregory's voice dropped.
"And pride demands repayment."
Steel hissed as swords slid from sheaths.
One.
Two.
Ten.
Twenty.
Lucas' eyes widened slightly.
They were surrounded.
Gregory tilted his head.
"Kill them."
The soldiers moved as one.
Lucas reacted instantly, drawing the only weapon within reach — a small pocket knife strapped discreetly at his side.
Beside him, Lylan did the same.
Twenty armed soldiers.
Two men.
Two knives.
The first attacker lunged.
Lylan moved like instinct given form.
He twisted aside, blade flashing — a precise strike to the wrist. A sword clattered across stone. Before the soldier could recover, Lylan's elbow drove into his throat.
Lucas collided with another opponent, ducking beneath a heavy swing and driving his knife upward with savage efficiency.
Chaos erupted.
Steel clashed.
Boots thundered.
Gregory watched with widening disbelief.
Because what unfolded was not a slaughter.
It was a storm.
Lylan flowed through attackers with terrifying precision, every movement economical, lethal. Lucas fought like wildfire — aggressive, relentless, fearless.
But numbers pressed hard.
A blade sliced across Lucas' shoulder.
Another cut Lylan's ribs.
Blood stained stone.
Still they fought.
Still they stood.
One soldier fell.
Then another.
Then five.
Then ten.
The courtyard transformed into a battlefield of shattered pride and rising terror.
Gregory's confidence fractured.
"This is impossible…" someone whispered.
Lucas, breathing hard, blood streaking his skin, laughed breathlessly.
"You picked the wrong night."
Lylan's eyes burned with icy focus.
Within minutes —
The last soldier collapsed.
Silence crashed down.
Bodies littered the courtyard.
Gregory stood frozen, horror etched across his face.
Lylan turned toward him.
Bleeding.
Wounded.
Yet standing with dreadful composure.
Gregory staggered backward.
And fled.
Pain came swiftly after victory.
Lucas collapsed first, strength finally surrendering to blood loss. Lylan dropped to one knee moments later, vision blurring as the world tilted violently.
Shouts echoed.
Running footsteps.
Darkness swallowed them whole.
They awoke in the wardens' chamber.
Bandaged.
Healed.
Alive.
Whispers filled the air like wildfire.
"They defeated Gregory's squad…"
"With knives…"
"Twenty soldiers…"
"Barely survived…"
By dawn, the entire castle knew.
By midday, Zephyr knew.
By evening…
The royal palace knew.
Even the King.
And from that day forward —
Lylan Ardent and Lucas were no longer merely soldiers.
They were legends.
Stars rising within the Kingdom of Zephyr.