North-east of the Storland Kingdom lay the proud Kingdom of Arindor. As the sun rose over the kingdom, the first rays of light illuminated the lush forests and towering mountains that surrounded it. The trees, thick with emerald leaves, rustled in the gentle breeze as magical creatures flitted about, their iridescent wings glinting in the morning light.

But it was the center of the kingdom that truly captivated the eye. In the capital city of Dawngriffin, the towering spires of the castle reached towards the sky, their smooth white walls adorned with intricate designs of ancient runes. Surrounding the city were barriers of shimmering magic, protecting its inhabitants from any and all potential threats.

As for the people who lived within those walls, there was a diverse mix of classes and backgrounds. Humans mingled with elves and dwarves, while magical beings such as unicorns and dragons roamed freely among them. Despite their differences, there was a subtle harmony within society, each group coexisting peacefully under the watchful eyes of their rulers.

In the center of the crowded training ground, Sir Eamon stood with a grin, eager to see what his guardsmen in training had up their sleeves this time to defeat him in their traditional morning duel. His sword felt like an extension of his arm, the familiar weight comfortable in his grip as he sized up his opponents— four of them, each wearing a determined expression. He was used to this sort of challenge by now, facing multiple foes at once was one of his specialties, and he had no intention of letting them beat him without earning it.

For a moment, there was only stillness. The air hung thick with anticipation, and then, the first guardsman made his move. Eamon’s eyes flicked to the side, tracking the guard’s approach as he closed the distance, quickly followed by the other three. They moved in concert, trying to surround him, displaying the mastery of the sword he had done his best to instill in them. Eamon’s gaze darted between them, reading their stances, their intent, calculating the precise measure to each of their movements, biding his time for the perfect moment to strike.

Two of them swung their blades down toward him in unison, their swords glinting in the morning sun. In a blink, Eamon deflected both attacks, his movements swift and precise, the clash of steel ringing out across the field. With a twist of his wrist, he parried their strikes, knocking them back onto their rears with a single, well-placed motion.

“Sloppy! Your guard is wide open, Eadric! And Constance, too slow! You’re telegraphing your moves!” Eamon instructs as he moves his attention to the remaining two.

The other two guardsmen hesitated for just a fraction of a second, then rushed in, determined to finish what their comrades could not. But Eamon was ready. He moved like water, flowing between their attacks, his sword flashing as he struck with perfect timing. Before either could understand what had happened, they too were on the ground with their companions— bruised, embarrassed, and once again bested by their mentor.

A murmur of admiration swept through the crowd of onlookers, but Eamon only chuckled, extending a hand to the nearest fallen guardsman. “Up you get,” he said, light in his tone. “Don’t beat yourselves up too much. You’re improving and besides, there’s always next time.”

Before any of the defeated guardsmen could utter a word, Sir Gerard, one of the most highly decorated guardsmen, strode over, a smirk on his face. “Still wasting your talents down here with the pups, I see,” he remarked, his voice tinged with amusement.

Eamon chuckled and turned to his pupils. “That’s it for me today. I’ll see you lot in the morning, bright and early. For the remainder of the day, go and train with Manfred.” The young guardsmen saluted quickly before taking off, eager to escape before they got roped into more sparring.

Now alone with Sir Gerard, Eamon crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “I take it you need my advice on something, or else you wouldn’t be here.”

“Aye,” Gerard replied nonchalantly, “No hi? How are you? Just straight to business? Not a single kind word for your old Master?”

Eamon stared at him, “Well, man, spit it out.”

“Fine, fine,” Gerard sighed, conceding. “Rumors are beginning to circulate of unrest in the surrounding lands. It’s looking more and more likely that your homeland might invade. His Majesty wants to know if you have any insight into their intentions. The holy men keep saying that dark times lie ahead for the people of Arindor. We must preserve peace at our borders, no matter the cost.”

Eamon’s expression hardened. “I haven’t been back to Drakoria in years. What insight would I have?”

Gerard shrugged. “More than the rest of us. They haven’t marched against us in decades— not since the Great War.”

“I’m afraid all the insight with my homeland lies with my father,” Eamon replied, resignation beginning to show in his voice.

“I understand.” Gerard replied, nodding solemnly, “Sadly, he never shared anything with us before his passing. He was still a true inspiration to all of us– a true guard through and through.”

Eamon smirked slightly, “A true guard protects their kingdom until their last breath— yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before.”

“I understand,” Gerard said, nodding. “We’ll have to make do with what we have. I’ll escort you to the palace. His Majesty wishes to speak with you personally.”

With no way to deter his old master, Eamon followed Gerard to the grand halls of the palace, where the atmosphere was thick with anticipation. After a brief wait, he was ushered into the king’s audience chamber. The meeting was formal and urgent. The king outlined the potential threat and sought Eamon’s insight. The weight of the conversation pressed heavily on Eamon’s shoulders.

Eamon offered what little insight he could. He explained that, while he was unsure if the movements were preparations for war or just routine, he could provide a basic overview of Drakorian society. He described them as war-loving people who train their children in the art of combat from birth.

Having shared his knowledge, Eamon was about to leave when he caught a fleeting glimpse of the princess. Her presence was a brief but striking image in the doorway. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, and then she was gone, leaving him with a lingering impression of her grace and poise.

With the meeting concluded, Eamon made his way out of the palace and into the surrounding woods. He walked a well-trodden path to a secluded garden where his father's grave lay. The quiet of the forest was a stark contrast to the tension he had just left behind.

Kneeling beside the grave, Eamon spoke softly, as though confiding in an old friend. “Hello, Father. You’d never believe it but there are rumors that our countrymen might try something again. I know you’d be worried about what’s coming. I promise you, I’ll be as much of a guardsman as you were. I won’t let our new home or these people down.”

After paying his respects, Eamon rose and straightened his sword. Deciding to go into the woods and patrol the area for any signs of Drakorians nearby. With unwavering vigilance, ready to defend his kingdom against any threat that might arise.

He set out on his patrol, the forest’s shadows stretching long as the day waned.The light of the setting sun filters through the dense canopy of the forest, casting long shadows on the forest floor. Eamon, clad in his armor, is on patrol, his senses alert as he guides his horse along a narrow path. The forest is unusually quiet, the kind of silence that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He pulls on the reins, bringing his horse to a halt, and listens carefully. A faint rustling in the bushes catches his attention, and he draws his sword, the blade glinting in the dim light. Cautiously, he dismounts and approaches the sound, every muscle in his body tense.

As he pushes aside the undergrowth, he suddenly comes face to face with— a rabbit, looking for its next meal. Taking a sigh of relief, he begins to place his sword back into his scabbard. He turns around and is shocked by an old crone standing between him and his horse. Her appearance is startling—tattered ebony robes hanging from her frail frame, and most unnerving of all, her eyes, faintly glowed with an eerie, luminescent light. Eamon tightens his grip on his sword’s handle, but he is unable to draw it again, frozen in place by the crone’s presence.

In a voice that echoes as if it comes from the very ground itself, “The shadows lengthen, warrior, and with them comes the encroaching darkness that will swallow your world whole.”

Eamon feels a chill run down his spine. He tries to speak, but the words catch in his throat. After a moment of struggling, finally, finding his voice, “Who are you? And what is this darkness you speak of?”

The crone’s expression remains unreadable, her eyes boring into his as if seeing straight into his very being and dissecting every piece of his soul. “It is ancient, older than the stones beneath your feet. It rises now, hungry, driven by hatred and sorrow long forgotten by men. It will consume all if left unchecked.”

Eamon feels a cold sweat break out on his brow. He’s faced countless threats before, but something about this woman, about her words, fills him with a dread he cannot shake. Stepping forward, desperation in his voice, “How do I stop it? What must be done?”

The crone’s lips curl into a faint, almost sad smile. “The path is shrouded in shadow, brave one. You must find the light, she will dispel the darkness. If not all shall be lost.”

With that, the crone begins to fade, her form dissipating into the air like mist. Eamon reaches out, but she is already gone, leaving him alone in the silent, ominous forest.

He stands there, trembling, the weight of her words pressing heavily on his mind. Slowly, he drops to his knees, realizing that if everything that woman said turns out to be true, then the kingdom’s greatest battle may not be fought with steel alone.

Eamon mounts his horse and rides back toward the kingdom, the trees closing in around him as if the forest itself is holding its breath. The foreboding atmosphere clings to him and though the festivities are just days away, a seed of fear has taken root in his heart. He knows he must warn the others, but deep down, he wonders if anyone would believe him, if it will be enough.