Chapter 15: Chapter 14-Auren

They didn’t even let him near the chamber. Auren stood at the edge of the upper training yard, half-dressed in a sleeveless tunic, leather bracers strapped to one arm. From this height, the Grand Hall's high spires jutted above the rest of Faeyren like spears of marble and gold — beautiful, untouchable. So much ceremony. So many people who weren’t him. He inhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the grip of his practice blade. The wood creaked faintly, already worn from a dozen frustrated strikes against stone posts.

“You’re not ready,” his father had said that morning.

As if readiness could be measured like rainfall. Beiron hadn’t even raised his voice. That made it worse. His calm was always a mirror, reflecting everything Auren hated in himself. Auren’s boots scuffed the dirt as he circled the training dummy again. Three strikes. Reset. Again. His breath fogged in the late autumn air, chest rising and falling in sharp rhythm. Not enough. He struck once more, then tossed the sword aside and let out a slow groan.

“They’re all in there,” he muttered, wiping his brow. “Talking about the fate of kingdoms.”

And here he was. On a hill. Sweating into the dust. He grabbed a towel from the edge of the rack, slung it over his shoulders, and began the short walk toward the lower balcony baths. The steam drifting off the stone tubs was already visible, lit gold beneath the early sun. He barely noticed the crystal at first, until it started humming. A soft, low tone — the kind that resonated beneath the skin more than the ears. Auren froze. One of the crystal inlays embedded in the support arch above the bath had begun to glow — faintly, then brighter. It flickered like a heartbeat.

“That’s not right…”

He narrowed his eyes, then stepped onto the overlook just past the arches. From here, he could see the southern reaches — the land beyond Faeyren’s protective ridge. Normally, a haze of trees, mist, and distant farmland. But not today. Auren blinked. The trees were moving. Shaking. No, not the trees. The land beneath them. He dashed back into the tower, rummaged behind the supply crates, and pulled out an old spyglass. He snapped it open, braced himself against the marble frame, and peered through the lens. His stomach dropped.

“Stricken,” he whispered. “Gods below—”

They were pouring through the distant hills like a disease come alive. Blackened, wrong. Too many. Far too many. He turned on his heel and ran. The hall entrance was already sealed when he reached it. Two of Beiron’s honor guard stood firm at the inner gates, adorned in full ceremonial armor — glaives crossed, blocking the way.

“No admittance,” one said sharply. “Orders from the High Sovereign himself.”

Auren skidded to a stop, breathless, sweat and panic dripping down his spine.

“There’s a horde of Stricken on the southern approach!” he barked, stepping forward. “Thousands. I saw them with my own eyes—”

“Still no admittance—”

He shoved one glaive aside.

“Move!”

The younger of the two faltered, caught off guard. The other reached out, but Auren ducked under and slammed through the inner doors, bursting into the Grand Hall—just as the stained glass began to tremble. The doors thundered open. Dozens of heads turned at once — queens, envoys, soldiers, legends — all staring at him as though he’d dragged in a storm. And in a way, he had.

“They’re coming!” Auren shouted, voice cracking with urgency. “The wards are cracking—something’s breached the city!”

Beiron turned mid-step, just as the crystalline glow at the Tenth Pillar spiked, pulsing red like a heartbeat fed by something ancient and cruel. And then — the shatter. The stained glass above the summit ruptured in a cascade of color, and from the spiraling fracture of dama, the Drekon emerged, armored in ancient ruin, crowned in twisted bone. Its very presence made Auren’s lungs tighten — the weight of it, the wrongness. Behind it, Stricken came howling through — from the shadows, the walls, glyphs woven into the marble weeks ago. An ambush long in motion. Screams followed. Some guards turned to protect their sovereigns. Others fell where they stood, struck down by blades conjured from dark magic. And then Beiron moved.

“For Faeyren!”

Auren’s father lifted Oathwake, the blade drawn like a stroke of sun. Its light was not gentle — it was blinding, righteous, terrible. The symbols etched along the fuller lit up in sequence, ancient binding runes pulled from the leyline beneath the city. He brought the sword down in a wide arc. Stricken caught in its wake combusted, bodies incinerated mid-motion, their forms reduced not to mist but to fine, silent ash, falling like gray snow onto the marble tiles.

“Is that all?” Beiron said, leveling Oathwake at the Drekon’s chest.

The Drekon didn’t answer with words. It answered with laughter. A deep, grinding sound that echoed like stone cracking across a tomb floor. It vibrated through Auren’s chest, even as he scrambled toward his father, arm outstretched, eyes locked on the stump of Beiron’s missing limb. Then a pulse radiated outward from the warped plate of the Drekon’s chest, like a second heartbeat. A summons. Glyphs that had once blended seamlessly into the walls now flared to life in coils of red light. Symbols melted open like wounds torn across the pillars. And from the cracks, they came. The ambush truly began. Hollow Vows, pouring from illusions and sigils and shadows — figures clad in obsidian silence, cloaked in threads of unreality. Some struck with twin daggers, others moved in tandem with flickering afterimages. Auren had never seen anything like it. Tools collided with Faeyren’s royal guard, illusion spells distorting distance and trajectory. Stricken continued to emerge, now from doorways long sealed, warping the air as they came. And then, two of the larger figures, masked and radiating power, moved for Beiron. Auren’s breath caught.

Assassins.

They lunged in from opposite angles. And Beiron — despite his injury, despite the blood streaming down his side — cut them down in four movements. Two clean strikes. A backstep. A pivot. A final arc of Oathwake’s burning light. They fell. But it wasn’t enough. The chamber was fracturing beneath the weight of it all. Screams echoed between the stone pillars. Blades clashed in time with the pounding in Auren’s ears. And then he saw it. A figure dropped from the rafters. Fast. Too fast. Not falling — diving. Silent. Controlled. Purposeful. She was one of them. She moved like them. Moved like she had always been one of them, but she was heading toward the throne line — toward the monarchs. Toward— Auren turned too slowly. So did his father. Beiron’s eyes flicked toward the blur. He moved instantly — the same perfect swing, the same devastating arc of power. Auren knew that strike. It had felled monsters. And it missed. The shadow slipped beneath the cut — impossibly smooth, impossibly fast. She slid under the blade like a whisper under breath. Beiron froze, eyes wide.

“...I missed you,” he said under his breath, stunned.

The figure — a girl, Auren realized now, cloaked, lean, silent — didn’t even glance back. She was already at the dais. She tackled one of the veiled monarchs, driving her to the marble platform and pinning her beneath a single arm. Auren blinked, not comprehending.

What is she doing? Who—

Her voice carried, just enough to reach where he still knelt beside the broken throne.

“I need answers.”

The veiled woman, still as stone, didn’t resist. Her hands remained at her sides. She only looked up. And spoke one word. It was like the world stopped. Auren saw the cloaked girl stagger back from the dais, a flash of glass vanishing from her hand — a potion? Her breath hitched, her knees struck stone. And then— Light. Her eyes went white first — not the hue of magic, or heat, or anything he’d been taught to guard against in war. White like the pause before dawn. White like the first breath before a god speaks. The black runes on her skin — those grim, carved chains of the Hollow Vows — began to glow. Not red, not void. White. One by one, they flared along her collar, her arms, even her jaw — and they no longer looked like scars. They looked like the truth. And then her hair. He had barely registered the black — the sleek, storm-dark curtain of it — before it began to change. Silver-white bled upward from her scalp, flooding each strand like moonlight overtaking ink. Her fur shimmered with the same impossible hue, catching light in a way that felt celestial. She rose. Not like a warrior. Not like a survivor. Like something the world had forgotten it needed. Auren couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. The room stilled around her. Even the Hollow Vows wavered. Even the Stricken hesitated. She turned slightly.

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And someone screamed, “Traitor.”

One of the Weapons — masked, armored, fast — lunged toward her. And from the side— Cael, he would later find out, wasn’t supposed to be there, but he came anyway. Steel flashed. He met the attacker mid-lunge, intercepting with a crash that sent sparks flying. For a second, it looked even. It wasn’t. He twisted, struck, and drove the Weapon back. Then he turned.

“Shade—what are you—?”

His voice broke halfway through her name — not in fear but in wonder. Auren saw the way Cael moved. Protective. Familiar. As if he knew her. As if he had always known her. Shade didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Something about her shimmered now — not her skin, not her body, but the space around her. Like reality itself had bent to accommodate her presence and was trying desperately to understand how. And then came the Hounds. Three of them, silent and massive, adorned in armor that looked like it had been grown from bone. Their faces were covered — sewn, scarred, and sealed — but their intent radiated from them like heat. Auren didn’t breathe. Cael turned, ready. He didn’t stand a chance. The first Hound struck him with a shoulder check that carried enough force to crush a pillar. It launched him — launched him — across the chamber. He hit the far wall. A sickening sound followed. Auren winced — his throat tightened — but the girl didn’t scream. She only stared, then something inside her snapped. Not like a weapon unsheathed — but like a storm unchained. Auren blinked, the radiant image of the silver-haired girl seared behind his eyes. Then—a scream. A man’s scream. His gaze snapped back. Beiron. The old sovereign fought still, shoulder bloodied, chest rising and falling in ragged bursts — and yet somehow, he was winning. The Drekon swung low, blade trailing cracks through the stone, and Beiron met it with a parry so clean it lit the air with sparks. Oathwake danced in his hand like an extension of will, light slashing across armor, catching the edge of the Drekon’s horned plate, carving gashes through corrupted steel. The Drekon stepped back. Auren’s heart surged — He’s turning it. And then— The Drekon roared, arm snapping up. A sickly green pulse launched from its palm — not fire, not magic, something in-between, like liquid plague given shape. It streaked across the battlefield like a curse set loose. Toward him. Auren couldn’t move. His limbs locked. Beiron moved.

Always first.

He stepped between the two, and the poison struck his side. There was no explosion, no scream — only the flicker of Oathwake’s light dimming for a moment. His body locked, his footing stumbled. He felt slowed. The Drekon saw it and seized the moment. His next strike was brutal. Unrelenting. Beiron blocked one, then two, but the third tore through his defense. The Drekon's jagged sword came down with such force that the air cracked — and it found its mark. Beiron’s right arm fell. It landed with a dead weight beside him, sword still half-gripped. Auren froze. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The man who had stood unshaken through two wars, who had burned down siege towers and broken entire warbands with a single charge, Fell to his knees. Blood pooling at his side. Head lowered.

Father—

The Drekon loomed overhead, weapon raised. Auren moved before he understood what he was doing. He ran. Feet numb. Heart thundering. He knelt beside the fallen sword. Oathwake. His fingers wrapped around the hilt — still warm, still thrumming with ancient power. It pulsed in his grip like it remembered its true wielder — and didn’t understand why it wasn’t him. But Auren didn’t let go. He turned, faced the monster, and raised the blade. The Drekon turned slowly. Its eyes, if they could be called that, locked onto Auren. Oathwake trembled in his hands. Not from fear. From weight. From the knowledge that this blade was never meant for him. That it bore the burden of kings, of wars, of light drawn in blood — and he was just a boy, gripping it because there was no one else left. Still, He didn’t run. His arms shook. His knees threatened to give. But he stood. He stood over his father. Auren started to charge. No theatrics. No words. Just a single, brutal step forward and the lift of its blade — an executioner’s motion, final and certain. Auren couldn’t lift Oathwake fast enough. The blow came—and never landed. She was there. A blur of silver and white. Not teleportation — not magic — just speed so pure and precise it defied every rule of movement. Two blades flashed — her twin shortswords, summoned mid-motion, crossed above Auren’s head. They caught the Drekon’s greatsword with a clash that lit the room. The impact knocked Auren off his feet, launching him backward with a rush of wind and raw force. He slammed against the dais, breath torn from his lungs. But he felt no pain. Only the echo of what he had seen. He blinked, gasping. And saw her. Ashanti. No longer cloaked. No longer lost in the silence of a forgotten name. Hair like moonlight. Runes glowing like sacred script across her arms. Eyes wide and burning white. She stood before the Drekon with blades drawn, not shaking. Not wavering. A wall between Auren and death.

She saved me.

The thought landed heavy in his chest, not just as relief, but as revelation. She hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t thought. She had moved for him. Auren stared at her like she was a celestial body given form. Not a monarch. Not a soldier. Something far more fragile and far more terrifying. Divine. And still somehow—He swallowed hard, chest rising with each shallow breath—Beautiful. She turned slightly, light catching the curve of her cheek, the rise of her shoulders. Auren reached for Oathwake again with trembling hands. But for just that moment, blade forgotten, blood rushing in his ears— All he could do was watch her. Like the world had stopped again. And this time, he didn’t want it to start again. He shouldn’t have been able to stand. But he did. Auren braced himself against the crumbled stone of the dais, every bone aching, Oathwake heavy in his grip. His vision swam—blood, light, chaos. But it all centered on her. Her body moved like a blur of silver light, white hair flowing behind her, runes blazing across her skin. She struck faster than he could follow, blades dancing in impossible arcs, leaving behind trails of radiant silver blood whenever the Drekon’s claws found her. She bled like starlight. And still, she fought. He watched her summon weapon after weapon from nothing. Not steel, not iron—hardened dama, called from the void with a single flick of her hand. A bow, a spear, curved kama, a scythe—all used and shattered by the Drekon one by one. Each time, she fell a little harder. Her body slowed. Her precision dulled. And still she rose. Auren's breath caught as the Drekon stepped forward, mocking her.

“What’s it going to take, Shade? How many more of your pathetic little weapons are you going to waste before you understand?”

Shade—Ashanti, though he didn’t know the name yet—staggered, chest heaving, eyes dimming. Auren reached for her in his mind, though his lips didn’t move.

Don’t fall.

And then—he felt it before he saw it. The air around her froze. Not from cold but from pressure. A silence settled, thick and absolute, as her hand rose. Not to conjure, nor to run. But to answer a whisper none of them heard. A greatsword appeared in her hands, formed from the void but glowing silver—light and shadow perfectly entwined. Its weight bent the space around it. The moment it arrived, the world stopped. Even the Drekon halted, expression faltering. The blade hummed in her grip, pulsing with something older than magic—something sacred, terrible, undeniable. Reality paused as it attuned to her. The wind died. The red moon above Faeyren—still bleeding—touched its pale silver twin. And the sky turned crimson. Auren couldn’t speak. He couldn’t blink. She wasn’t just standing now—she was ascending. A gown of pure white dama clothed her like starlight woven into armor. Her skin glowed with power too vast to hold, too refined to shatter. Her eyes were closed, face serene. A hum reverberated through the chamber, deeper than sound, vibrating through his chest. And then—she opened her eyes. The glowing white Greatsword rose into the air. The Drekon tried to move—tried to strike, to mock her one last time— But he was too late. With one motion, she gathered the light and threw it skyward. The world turned white. Auren shielded his eyes as the explosion swept over them, warm, not burning. Cleansing, He felt it in his bones. In his breath. In his soul. All around them, the Stricken fell. But not in pain. They disintegrated into mist, into peace. Their bodies shimmered into dust that caught the light and vanished like morning fog. Beiron gasped. Auren turned and saw his father, whole. The arm was restored, and the poison was gone. He was… healed. All across the hall, gasps and silences gave way to tears and awe. But Auren’s eyes never left her. Ashanti. He didn’t know her name. He didn’t need to. He only knew the shape she made in light. The way her hair caught the heavens. The way her blood shimmered like silver thread.

She is not mine to reach.

But I will never stop following her.

The light faded. Not all at once. Like the last breath of a candle, the radiance that had swept through the Grand Hall dimmed in threads, until only the aftermath remained: stone scorched clean, blood turned to mist, silence echoing where screams had once lived. Auren didn’t move. Couldn’t. He stood there—Oathwake still gripped in both hands, shoulders shaking, sweat beading on his brow—not from fear, but from the weight of what he had just seen. She was still in the air. Suspended. The winds caught her hair, now silver-white, drifting around her face like a veil pulled loose from the divine. Her runes, once glowing like stars etched into skin, began to dim. Her weapon dissolved from her grip into the void from which it came. Her body floated downward, slowly, gracefully, like the last petal of a dying bloom. She touched down. Her white gown rippled once, the folds of dama-fabric softening, dimming to pale gray. Her hair fell against her shoulders in uneven waves. The glow in her eyes vanished. She turned. And then, for just a moment, she looked toward the veiled woman. Krysthalia had not moved. Tears streamed down her face, though her hands never trembled. Auren saw the silver-haired girl’s lips part. Saw her throat move. He didn’t hear the word. But he saw the shape of it.

Mom.

And then she collapsed. Auren’s chest seized. He took a half-step forward, his instinct screaming to catch her, to do something, to even speak—but he didn’t. He stood frozen, watching her fall into her mother’s arms. The white light was gone now. The silence broke. Someone shouted. Others ran. But Auren just stood, heart pounding, gaze fixed on the girl who had changed everything. She had no name. No title. No throne. But in that moment, she was everything. And he knew— He would never forget her. Not even if the world begged him to.