In the training grounds of the kingdom of Sylvara, a young boy of merely fifteen swung a wooden blade around. For four years, he had been at it. His three older brothers made fun of him behind his back, preferring to learn the traditional magic of the royal bloodline—“Water.” But the young prince, Einar, swung his blade with determination, striving to become a great swordsman. His long black hair was tied back, still flowing down his back; if one didn’t know his identity, they might have mistaken him for a girl.

Despite four years of training, Einar never improved. Every time he challenged a guard, he was either humiliated or they deliberately let him win—it was obvious. Swing after swing, through breathless nights and much torment from his brothers, he persisted.

It was the sixth of July, the day his favorite author was releasing a new book. Einar’s passion for reading was substantial; whenever he wasn’t outside swinging that wooden blade, he was inside his room, lying on his king-sized bed, lost in books. His favorite book, published two years ago, had captivated him, so he was thrilled about the new release.

He told his father about it, and the king arranged for a horse cart to bring the book from the author, who lived outside the capital. A guard was sent along to accompany the journey.

_

On the cart, Einar sat alone inside, while the guard whipped the horses to keep them moving. Minutes passed. Outside the walls of the capital, it was eerily quiet. Einar gazed out the cart’s window, his eyes fixed on the capital. Sparks flickered above the castle, and then, in less than a minute, a beam of light crashed down upon it, vaporizing every single civilian — including his family. The beam was instantaneous, appearing and vanishing in the blink of an eye.

“N-no…” Einar whispered, his face filled with fear.

“Did you say something, young master?” the guard asked, hearing him mutter.

“Stop the cart at once,” the prince commanded. The guard obeyed immediately.

Einar leapt out of the cart and stared toward where the castle should have been. The guard, who had been sitting in front of the cart, stepped down and approached Einar from behind, also looking in the same direction. There was nothing.

“What…” the guard murmured.

“It’s all gone…” Einar said, his voice heavy with sorrow.

Einar looked back, catching a glimpse of the guard's expression—it was terrified, perhaps even more than his own.

"Are you alright?" Einar asked.

After a few seconds, the guard snapped out of it and removed his helmet, revealing a face hidden until now. He had short brown hair, a trimmed beard, and sharp eyes that now met Einar's.

A nod was his only reply. Then, silently, he dropped to one knee, bowing his head before the last surviving prince.

"I pledge my loyalty to you, young lord" he said, driving his sword into the dirt as a sign of his vow.

Einar stared at him, surprised.

"Stand up...and let's keep moving," he said, still in shock, after all, his whole family and people were vaporised.

The guard rose to his feet, removing the rest of his armor. Now dressed simply in a brown shirt and black trousers, he looked more like a man than a soldier.

"Call me Leonard, sire"

"Very well," Einar replied quietly.

They returned to the cart, and leonard took the reins, whipping the horse gently as they continued forward—into the forest, towards the kingdom of Calvia, which is in the South.

Einar once looked back, north, to the cliff of the continent, which once was a lively kingdom.

The rhythmic gallop of hooves echoed through the dense forest of Valemar Wood, a stretch of ancient, whispering trees that marked the southern border of what once was the proud Kingdom of Sylvara. Dappled sunlight filtered through the thick canopy, casting shifting shadows along the winding dirt road. The royal cart moved steadily, its golden crest—a now meaningless symbol—still gleaming faintly on the polished wood.

It wasn’t long before they reached the outer gates of Eldhollow, a southern trade village once loyal to the crown, now left to its own devices in the power vacuum left behind. A lone guard posted at the gate squinted as the royal cart approached, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the seal. He turned to the second guard across the gate.

“Go. Notify Chief Rennard,” he said quickly. The younger guard gave a nervous nod and darted through the wooden gate into the village.

Leonard brought the cart to a halt. He exchanged a glance with the remaining guard, who stood a little straighter now.

“Good day, sir,” the guard said respectfully, voice low. “You may proceed.”

Even without an army, the presence of the royal cart still commanded attention.

As they entered Eldhollow, villagers paused mid-task—merchants froze at their stalls, children stopped playing in the dirt streets, and farmers carrying baskets of apples glanced up with wide eyes. Whispers spread. Some stared in awe. Others in suspicion. In a world unraveling, symbols of the old order made people uneasy.

They passed modest stone houses with thatched roofs, ivy growing along the walls, and shops carved from timber and slate. At the center of the village stood a stark contrast—a lavish mansion, left over from a time when Eldhollow was a favored waypoint for the noble class during summer hunts.

Leonard climbed down from the driver’s bench and opened the cart door. Einar stepped out, long black hair catching the breeze. He stood tall, even if his title now rested on ashes.

Inside the mansion, the village chief, Rennard, greeted them. He was a wide, round man with a bald, sun-darkened head and a large hooked nose. His robe was expensive—imported linen dyed deep green—unusual for someone governing a border village. He bowed deeply but with a smirk that betrayed a lack of genuine respect.

“Welcome, Prince,” he said smoothly, eyes glittering. “What do I owe the pleasure of your presence in our humble village?”

Einar’s gaze was firm. “I’m here for the rent you owe the crown.”

Rennard raised an eyebrow. “Ah yes... though isn’t that a matter typically handled by your father or one of the high generals?”

Einar's voice softened, tinged with grief. “My guard and I are the only ones left.”

The room fell quiet.

“Pardon me?” Rennard asked, his smirk fading. “What do you mean by the only ones?”

Einar didn’t flinch. “The capital... the castle… my family. Vaporized. A single beam of light fell from the heavens and turned the heart of the kingdom into glass and smoke.”

The chief’s eyes widened for a moment—but the shock twisted into opportunity. A grin began to curl at the corner of his lips. Leonard, watching closely, placed a hand on the hilt of his sword.

Einar raised a hand to stop him.

“Now pay up,” Einar said flatly.

Chief Rennard stood up to his full height, towering over the young prince. “You’re no king. No court, no throne. Just a boy with a cart.”

Then he raised his voice, dripping with venom.

“Guards! Kill them both.”

Steel rang as half a dozen armed men rushed in from the side chambers, swords drawn.

But Leonard moved first. In a blur of motion, his sword flashed through the air, slicing through the guards like wheat before the scythe. Within moments, the room was silent again—save for the slow drip of blood pooling on the marble floor.

Einar didn’t even blink. “Did you think being alone made us weak?”

Rennard fell to his knees, trembling. “A-All right! You can have the money! Just take it and leave, you lunatics!”

He barked an order to a maid, who returned with a sack of golden coins. She tossed it toward Einar’s feet.

“Now leave,” the chief hissed, his voice shaking.

Einar looked to Leonard and gave a quiet nod.

A flash of steel. A thud. The chief’s head rolled across the stone floor, his body slumping behind it. Leonard’s blade was already sheathed again.

They left the mansion without a word, returning to their cart. The village behind them fell into silence—some in mourning, some in fear, others perhaps in relief.

Their next destination: Caelwyn, the Royal Capital District—a sprawling, fractured city where the last surviving nobles hoarded wealth behind high walls, and peasants swarmed the outer rings, clinging to the ruins of order.

In the distance, dark clouds gathered.