Ethan's eyelids fluttered open, the sting of poison still throbbing in his ribs. The air smelled of damp moss and iron. He lay on a bed of ragged cloaks in a shallow cave, its walls slick with condensation.
Outside, rain hissed against the Ironwood's skeletal trees. Lira crouched by a sputtering fire, her bow across her knees. Across from her, Master Varyn sharpened a dagger, his face lit by the flame's orange flicker.
"You're alive," Lira said flatly, not looking up. "Don't make me regret dragging your carcass here." Ethan winced as he sat up. "Where… is Varsak?" "Gone," Varyn growled. "For now. But he'll return. Men like him always do." Varyn unrolled a tattered parchment—a map of Roudnam. Ethan recognized Valenhold's jagged silhouette, but the rest was foreign: ash-strewn plains, coastal cities, and mountain ranges clawing at the sky.
"You've never seen your kingdom, have you?" Varyn jabbed a calloused finger at the capital. "Valenhold's a gilded cage. But here—" He dragged his finger north, "—the Ash Plains burn. Crops rot. Children starve. And here—" He tapped the Frostspire Mountains, "—clans sharpen blades, waiting for Roudnam to bleed." Lira tossed a dried apple at Ethan. "Eat. You'll need strength to survive the royals' games." "Games?" Ethan bit into the fruit, its bitterness making him grimace. Varyn snorted.
"The king is a hollow puppet. His children carve the kingdom like a roast. First Prince Cedric hoards armies. Princess Elara whispers revolution. Second Prince Dorian trades secrets with Vostra, our enemy. And Princess Isolde…" He trailed off, scowling. "Ideals won't feed the starving." "Why did you save me?" Ethan demanded, his voice edged with pain.
"You serve Cedric." Varyn's eyes narrowed. "Cedric wants power. I want survivors. You've got aura, boy—raw, stupid aura. The kind that dies young." He tossed Ethan a rusted medallion. It bore nine stars. "Lord Eryndor's. Found it in the Ironwood. He vanished because he refused to kneel to crowns." Ethan traced the engraving: "A swordmaster's duty is to the soil, not the crown."
"Swordmasters aren't just killers," Varyn said. "We're ranked by stars—one to nine. Eryndor was the last Nine-Star. Cedric's Blackthorns? Five-Stars, loyal as hounds. You?" He smirked. "You're not even a One-Star. But Elara's parading you like a prize because you're a symbol. A gutter rat who defies nobles." Lira spat into the fire. "And when she's done using him?" Varyn's gaze darkened. "He'll die. Unless he learns to be more than a spark."
A cold wind howled outside. Ethan's wound ached, but his mind raced. "Elara said the kingdom's rotting. Is it true?" Varyn leaned back, his voice a graveled rumble. "Roudnam's dying. The Eldertrees—ancient sources of aura—were burned in the Vostra War. Without them, aura fades. Crops fail. Swords shatter. The nobles cling to relics, hoarding power while the slums starve." Lira added quietly, "Elara's not wrong. But she's no savior.
She'd burn Valenhold to rule the ashes." Ethan stared at the medallion. "What about the king?" "Aldric?" Varyn barked a laugh. "He tried to reignite the Eldertrees years ago. The ritual broke his mind. Now he drools on the throne while his children plot. The queen plays regent, but her loyalty shifts with the wind." Ethan stood unsteadily, clutching the cave wall. "Why tell me this?" Varyn rose, his shadow monstrous on the stone.
"Because Cedric will send more assassins. Dorian will poison your name. Elara will demand your loyalty. And you?" He gripped Ethan's shoulder, his voice a blade. "You'll need to choose: die as a pawn or live as a swordmaster." Lira nocked an arrow, her eyes on the trees. "We need to move. Varsak's close." As they gathered supplies, Ethan slipped the medallion into his pocket. It burned against his leg, a silent echo of Eryndor's legacy.
That night, Ethan dreamed. A colossal tree loomed before him, its trunk charred, its branches ablaze. Beneath it stood a shadowed figure—Eryndor?—his voice a whisper in the smoke. "The Eldertrees are dying… and with them, Roudnam. Reignite the aura, Ethan Ardent… or watch this kingdom burn." Ethan reached for the flames, but they seared his skin.
He woke gasping, his hands smoldering with a faint golden glow. At dawn, they prepared to leave. But pinned to the cave wall by a dagger was a blackthorn rose, its petals edged in crimson. Lira cursed. "Cedric's mark. He's here." Varyn ripped the rose free, crushing it in his fist. "The prince doesn't give warnings. He gives graves." Ethan tightened his grip on the rusted sword. "Then we fight." "No," Varyn said. "We run. To Valenhold.
To the tournament." "Why?" "Because if you win," Lira muttered, "you'll have a army at your back. Lose, and you're just another corpse." They slipped into the Ironwood, the trees closing around them like a cage. Ethan's ribs screamed with every step, but the medallion's weight steadied him. Ahead, Valenhold's spires pierced the horizon—a city of lies and light. Varyn walked beside him, his voice low. "Swordmasters are ranked by stars, boy.
But remember: stars can fall… or they can blaze." As they vanished into the mist, a figure watched from the cliffs above. Varsak smiled, his twin blades gleaming. That night, Ethan knelt beside a stream, his reflection fractured by the current. He dipped Eryndor's medallion into the water, the nine stars shimmering. "I won't be a pawn," he vowed. The water stilled.
For a moment, his reflection showed not a boy, but a man—a swordmaster, his blade aflame with golden aura. Then the current broke the image, sweeping it into the dark.