Chapter Text
The clang of steel rang through the training arena, sharp and unyielding, echoing off the stone walls like the heartbeat of Valmere itself. Logan moved with precision and efficiency, each strike cutting through the air and landing with a force that rattled the blade of his opponent. His black armor was smeared with blood, both his own and the residue of the sparring partners who had challenged him, dirt streaking the angles of his sharp jawline. Across from him, Liam lunged with all the force of a trained Valmerian, his sword swinging in arcs meant to test Logan’s speed and precision.
“Faster!” Liam barked, grinning despite the sweat streaking his face. “You’re slower than yesterday!
Logan didn’t smile. He parried cleanly, the sound of metal on metal ringing in the dark stoned hall. A kick to Liam’s thigh sent him staggering back and Logan advanced, keeping his stance low, weight centered, blade angled for maximum reach. Every movement was measured and controlled. Lethal even, under different circumstances.
“You’re sloppy.” Logan said, voice flat. “Again.”
Liam gritted his teeth and swung, forcing Logan to pivot with fluid precision. The two men moved like dark reflections of one another, trading blows that could have maimed or killed. Every strike was sharpened by years of training, every step executed with the exacting discipline their kingdom demanded. There were no rules beyond skill, no mercy for hesitation. Young men take training in this arena seriously or they don’t walk out. Logan had seen many boys be made examples of over the years. Some lived to learn from it, some did not.
A slash to Logan’s side drew a thin line of blood, but he ignored it. His jaw clenched, muscles taut, blue eyes locked on Liam’s movements. That was both a perk and a disadvantage of sparring with a friend you grew up learning to fight with. Logan knew Liam’s movements, but Liam knew his too.
With a sudden feint and a sharp sidestep, Logan disarmed him, sending Liam’s sword skittering across the arena’s dirt floor. Liam stumbled, breathing hard, and Logan pressed the advantage. He held the blade’s tip an inch from his friend’s throat, cold enough to cut it if he was told to. Valmere demanded obedience, service to its banners. Even if against one of their own.
“Had enough?” He asked simply. He wanted to smirk like the cocky swordsman he was, but the King was watching from above. There was no room to play around right now.
When Liam’s hands raised in surrender, the clang of dropped weapons echoed. Both of the young men were spent, chests heaving with sweat and blood streaked across their faces. Logan stepped back, nodding slightly, expression unreadable.
“Again tomorrow,” he said. Not a threat. Not encouragement. Fact.
Liam nodded, sheathing his sword with a tired expression. He murmured a quick “see you then,” before disappearing through the arena doors.
Above the arena, King Alaric watched from his balcony, arms folded and eyes narrowed as he sat in his throne made of iron and steel. He sheathed his sword and wiped his hand across his tunic, looking up at the king. His father. He got a small nod and Logan returned the gesture. Logan didn’t need approval, but he didn’t flinch from it either.
Valmere did not coddle its warriors. It did not excuse weakness. Every king, every prince, every soldier was trained to survive. To win.
And Logan was the best of them all. He never lost.
The blonde made his way out of the training arena, removing the protective armor he was sparring with and placing it back on the stand it belonged on. His calloused fingers ran through his hair, wiping the sweaty strands off his forehead and effectively smearing dirt across his face as he did.
Alaric met him down in the hall, his presence immense, a dark shadow against the torchlight. “Come,” he said, voice low and even, carrying the weight of a kingdom. “There is something you need to understand.”
They walked together across the bridge back towards the castle gates, the moonlight illuminating their path as best as it could. The kingdom high up in the mountains was designed to be hidden amongst the stone, camouflage from those at the base of the range. Father and son walked side by side, icy blue eyes and lean but muscular figures that matched. Two shadows moving in tandem.
Alaric began his tale, one that every Valmerian knew. He recounted the story of the War of the Scarlands between Valmere and Aurelia, decades before Logan’s time, and the signing of the Treaty of Edevane, a pact of peace between the two kingdoms. King Andreas of Aurelia and King Nicolas of Valmere thought they were bringing peace to the land, but they had done just the opposite.
“King Nicolas,” he said, eyes hard, “ruined us. Our kingdom was founded by warlords who refused to bend the knee to the King of Aurelia centuries ago and even now, the people of Valmere carry that same defiance in their blood. But Nicolas… When he signed that treaty, he bound Valmere to the mountains, forbidding the warriors from fighting. Our warriors grew restless, my son. A king who will not wield his sword is a king who deserves to fall.” He slowed his pace, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I took what needed taking.”
Valmerians didn’t believe in birthright to the throne. If the royal family could not prove that they belong on the throne, it can be taken from them and another will be crowned. It is not treason to remove a King from their position if they are not living up to the crown, Alaric did not commit treason when he murdered King Nicolas.
“Nicolas fell because he allowed peace to chain Valmere. And now, that peace is near its end. King Andreas of Aurelia is dying. I have been sending scrolls for many months to plan a trip to negotiate anew with their prince.”
Logan’s head turned quicker than he thought possible, his legs halting in their place even though they ached for him to get to bed. “Peace?” He asked, his voice not wavering but the surprise evident in his features. “Father, you’re negotiating another peace treaty-”
Alaric cut him off, not bothering to acknowledge his son’s surprise. “Your time to prove yourself is upon you, Logan.” Alaric’s gaze bore into him, a weight heavier than any armor. “My time cannot last forever. When I step aside, the throne must not be empty, and it must not pass to someone who hesitates. If you do not act, someone else will, and your place will be taken. This is your moment.”
Logan listened, eyes like obsidian. His test was coming, whatever his father thought that to be. Surely it wasn’t something peaceful, that wasn’t their way. The pair began walking slowly once more, reaching the castle gates.
“You will go to Aurelia,” Alaric continued, voice now a blade in its own right. The screeching of the metal gate echoed off the mountains, the sound swallowed by the night. “The heir there, Prince Oscar Piastri, must be… removed. You will ensure that when I leave this world, Valmere rises unchallenged. Do you understand your duty?”
Oh.
Logan was not going to Aurelia for peaceful negotiations. Valmere would no longer be confined to the mountains, unable to take what they believed was rightfully theirs. Logan was going to Aurelia to kill the prince before he could be crowned king, to ensure that he could lead his army into a kingdom broken, without a leader to fight back.
“Yes, father.” He nodded, following him into the courtyard. “I understand.”
-
Steam curled through the air of his bathing room, rising off the long stone basins carved directly into the mountain. Logan stripped off his clothes piece by piece, each landing with a solid, deliberate weight on the bench beside him. His pale skin was smeared with dirt and blood, his own and others’, marking every clash of the day.
He sank into the water with no sigh of relief, no pause of pleasure. The heat was sharp enough to sting, seeping into old bruises and fresh cuts, but he welcomed the pain. Pain meant he had earned something. Pain reminded him that he was still moving.
Logan dipped his hands beneath the surface and scrubbed the grime from his skin until it burned. When the blood clouded the water, he watched it dissipate, thin ribbons twisting and vanishing into the heat.
A knock echoed through the chamber. The sound was sharp, metallic.
“Enter,” Logan called, his voice steady.
A knight stepped in, black armor polished, blue cloak drawn over one shoulder, head bowed slightly in respect. “Your father requests your presence in the Hall of Ancestors, my prince.”
Logan rose without hesitation and the knight slipped out of the room, waiting outside to escort him. The water slid from his skin in thin rivulets, darkening the floor beneath him. He reached for a cloth, wiped the last trace of blood from his hands, and got dressed, this time in a more princely outfit rather than training clothes. The Hall of Ancestors demanded more than grimy tunics and blood-stained trousers.
As he worked, his thoughts turned to the mission ahead. Aurelia. The name tasted strange on his tongue-soft, too easily broken. A kingdom that hid behind treaties and golden banners, one that had forgotten what power cost.
He would cross the Scarlands, find the heir, and end him. Simple. Efficient. Final.
It wasn’t vengeance. It wasn’t anger. It was duty, clean and absolute. The only thing Logan knew. His father was right: peace was a lie that made men weak. Valmere did not need peace. It needed victory.
Logan fastened the last silver buckle on his boots and adjusted the weight of his sword at his hip. He caught his reflection briefly in the polished metal of a wall torch-pale eyes, expression unreadable, framed by shadows and flame.
He looked like what Valmere had made him to be.
The knight waited silently at the door as Logan approached.
“Lead the way,” Logan said.
They walked through the dark corridors of the castle, boots striking rhythmically against stone. The deeper they went, the colder the air became. The torches dimmed to a shimmer as the hall opened into the long corridor of the Ancestors, the obsidian floor gleaming underfoot like still water.
Logan’s hand brushed the hilt of his sword as he walked. His pulse was steady. His mind was clear. By the time the great doors to the Ceremonial Chamber loomed before him, he had already accepted what must come next. There was no hesitation. No doubt. Only purpose.
The polished obsidian floor stretched endlessly, veined with dark streaks, hiding the crypts of past kings and queens beneath its darkness. Torches lit the way from their sconces along the wall and at the end of the hall, the passage opened into the Ceremonial Chamber, a cavity vast enough to swallow sound. The air was cool and heavy with the scent of burning wood and iron. The ceiling arched high, supported by pillars carved from black basalt, each engraved with the names of Valmere’s kings and queens.
In the center of the room stood the ceremonial table of lapis veined with silver, its surface scarred by time and by the countless rituals performed upon it. The stone pulsed faintly under the torchlight, its blue depths almost appearing to move. A reminder that the room itself seemed alive with memory. On the table, laid out on a silk cloth, was a beautiful dagger. Its blade was made of near black steel, metal that drinks in the light rather than reflect it, and along its edge ran a vein of sapphire, melted down to frame it. There was a single sapphire cased in iron on its pommel, the hilt in black, worn leather. A weapon meant for silence, not war.
Along the outer walls, suits of armor stood sentinel, each belonging to a king or queen who had ruled before, their visors lowered, their hands resting on the hilts of rust-darkened swords. Between them hung long banners of midnight velvet, embroidered with Valmere’s sigil, a crowned blade wreathed in flame, stitched in silver and sapphire thread.
The throne dais stood at the far end, raised upon three marble steps, the seat carved from the same basalt as the pillars and the seat lined in a layer of dark wool. Above it hung the sigil again, larger and heavier, wrought in pure black steel. The throne was not made for comfort. It was made to remind whoever sat upon it that power was a burden, not a gift.
And at the far end, behind the throne, a single archway of stone descended into the catacombs where the monarchs of Valmere lay entombed. It was said that the dead listened to every oath taken in that room, that the walls themselves remembered. When one entered the Ceremonial Chamber, it was impossible not to feel the weight of those who came before. The air hummed with expectation, with judgment, with the silent reminder that a Valmerian king was not born.
He was forged.
Logan walked forward, measured, deliberate. Each step of his echoed in the vast chamber, his chin held high and steady.
“Come, son.” Alaric’s deep voice boomed in the large room, the walls letting the sound bounce off them with ease. “Do you know why I have asked you here?”
“No.” Logan shook his head, his eyes scanning the lapis table between himself and his father. “I do not.”
His father picked up the weapon on the table delicately. “This knife… my own father had it made for me when I was a boy.” He smiled as if it brought back good memories only for the expression to grow sinister. “It’s the knife that I killed King Nicolas with, back when I was just a teenager. Younger than you are now.”
Alaric’s fingers closed around the hilt with a familiarity that made the hair at the back of Logan’s neck rise. The blade seemed to drink the torchlight, the sapphire veins swallowing the flame and returning only a cold glint. The king looked up at his son, the smile gone to nothing. In the hush of the chamber, his next words dropped like a stone.
“It remembers the first blood,” Alaric said. “It remembers the scream. It remembers who it chose to make a king.” He turned the knife in his hand so the pommel caught the torchlight. “It must remember you as well.”
Logan’s jaw tightened; he stepped forward until the lapis table filled his vision. The stone was flecked with veins of silver that made the knife’s dark body seem even darker.
Alaric knelt, a movement both ancient and commanding. He set the blade across Logan’s outstretched palms so the point faced towards Logan rather than safely away from him, the symbolism plain: obedience to the realm, not to the man.
The hall breathed around them. The torches flickered; shadows pooled beneath the banners. Logan met his father’s eyes and heard, in that look, the measured logic of a ruler who had remade a kingdom with blood and iron.
“You know why,” Alaric said softly. “You’ve trained for it. Every dawn has been practice. Every lesson has been a step toward this moment.”
Logan’s reply was not a question. It was a statement folded into steel. “I accept this burden. I will wield it with honor, and with the strength of my forebears. Let my hand be steady, and let this blade remember my will.”
Alaric’s voice answered, made to echo in stone. “Let it guide you. Let it judge your enemies. Let it bind your loyalty to Valmere above all else.”
Logan grabbed the hilt and turned it on himself, pricking his palm with the knife’s sharp tip, a small, swift motion–no melodrama, no tremor. A single bead of blood welled and the young prince turned his hand sideways, directing it to fall onto the pommel of the dagger. His blood was dark against the blue of the sapphire and the stone drank it as if it had been waiting for this taste for centuries. Just for a moment, the gem seemed to draw the light inward and hold it.
“The blade belongs to you now, my son. It has taken a king’s life before, it itches to do so again.” Alaric rose and laid a hand on Logan’s shoulder firm, not loving. “Do what you must,” he said. “Bring me the crown of Aurelia or bring me your head.”
Logan bowed his chin once, a soldier’s salute rather than an agreement from a son. He hefted the torch from its bracket. The flame licked against the blade, sapphire veins shimmered under his steady grip. He felt its weight and did not flinch.
They walked out together into the corridor, the hall’s torches casting long, fractured reflections across the obsidian. The crypt archway yawned behind them, a black mouth into the catacombs where kings slept. The banners of Valmere hung heavy, their crowned blade and wreath of fire stitched in silver against midnight cloth. The knights trailed like specters, each step an echo of oaths past.
“Get some rest tonight, Logan.” The king nodded at the knight behind Logan to escort him back to his room. “You leave at first light.”
The knight gestured for him to follow and he turned to, his voice steady even through his steps away. “You have my word, father. I won’t let you down.”
And he meant it. Oscar Piastri was a name to be erased. The throne was worth any cost.