The wind howled like a wounded beast through the hollow peaks of Velmire, slapping against the ancient walls of House Kaelthorn's estate. The citadel stood high above the valley, etched into the mountain like a scar. Its stone walls had seen centuries of fire, blood, and betrayal—but nothing had ever felt as uneasy as tonight.
In the courtyard below, sixteen-year-old Kaelen Kaelthorn knelt in silence, his breath steaming in the chill of the twilight air. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of the practice blade strapped to his side, though the true reason for his stillness was buried much deeper than training.
The shadows had begun to speak.
It had started as a whisper—soft, elusive, almost dismissible. But now they lingered. In his sleep. In his thoughts. In the silence between footfalls. They spoke of an inheritance older than his family's name, of power sealed beneath stone and secrecy. Of a blade not forged by man.
"Heir of dusk, child of the bound... wake the blade, or the blade shall wake you."
Kaelen blinked hard and stood, brushing the dust from his knees. He hated that voice—the way it seeped into his thoughts like ink into water. He hadn't told his father, Lord Tharic, or his swordmaster, or even his twin sister Elira. What would they think if they knew he heard voices no one else did?
His family had ruled this land for generations. Warriors. Nobles. Tyrants, some whispered. He was the youngest son, expected to learn command, not question shadows.
But tonight, something felt different.
He turned toward the old chapel at the far end of the estate—the one no one entered anymore. Its door was chained, its windows dark. Rumors said the last person to step inside had been driven mad.
Kaelen stepped forward anyway.
The wind died.
His fingers touched the rusted iron chain across the door. Cold—not from the weather, but from something older. Forgotten. The moment his skin made contact, the shadows inside his mind surged like a tide.
"It begins where it was sealed. Your name is not your own. Blood calls to shadow."
The chain snapped without effort. As if it had waited for him.
Inside, dust hung thick like mist. Cracked murals lined the walls—depictions of a sword plunged into a mountain, surrounded by hooded figures and a black sun. At the center of the altar stood a pedestal made of obsidian, and on it rested a blade.
But not just any blade.
The metal pulsed like a heartbeat.
It was as if the sword had been waiting too.
Kaelen took a step forward. Then another. And as his fingers closed around the hilt, the chapel shook.
A wave of memory—not his own—crashed into him. Battles he never fought. Faces he never knew. A scream swallowed by shadow.
He gasped, stumbling back.
A voice—clearer now—spoke from the blade itself:"The shadow does not choose lightly. You are bound now. Heir of the forgotten flame. Wield me, or be consumed."
And just like that, Kaelen Kaelthorn was no longer just the youngest son of a powerful house.
He was the Shadowbound Heir.