Echoes of the Forgotten Blade

The air in Varathen Hold crackled with unspoken tension. Kaelen felt it as he moved through the stone corridors—a pressure that seemed to push against his skin like the moments before a thunderstorm. For three days now, messengers had arrived breathless at the gates, their horses lathered with sweat, carrying sealed scrolls that disappeared immediately into the Lord Commander's chambers.

In the training yard, the clash of steel against steel carried a different edge. The knights fought with grim determination rather than their usual competitive spirit. Squires hurried through their duties with less banter and more urgency. And in the corners of the mess hall, older knights huddled together, their voices dropping whenever Kaelen passed near.

"Seven hells, they're saying it's happening again," Kaelen overheard one grizzled veteran mutter to another as he passed the armory. "A purge, just like in the old days."

Kaelen slowed his pace, pretending to adjust his boot.

"Keep your voice down," came the harsh reply. "The walls have ears, especially with that boy around."

Kaelen moved on before they could notice him lingering, but the word echoed in his mind: purge. What could that mean? And why did they fall silent at his approach?

As he turned a corner near the west tower, he noticed something peculiar. A stonemason and his apprentice were carefully repainting a sigil on the wall—the crossed silver swords on azure blue of House Varathen. The paint was fresh, gleaming in the torchlight, but what struck Kaelen was that the sigil had been perfectly intact yesterday. Why repaint what wasn't faded?

Later that afternoon, passing the map room, Kaelen glimpsed several knights and the castle historian hunched over ancient scrolls and yellowed maps. They traced lines across the parchment with careful fingers, arguing in low tones about boundaries and territories he couldn't quite make out.

"Those lands were cleansed in the third year of Lord Varr's reign," the historian was saying. "None should remain there now."

"Yet they do," replied a knight commander Kaelen recognized as Ser Tellen, a hard man with cold eyes. "Like weeds that survived the burning."

The door closed before Kaelen could hear more.

By evening, Ser Dain found Kaelen in the practice yard, where he had been absently running through his forms, mind elsewhere.

"Pack your things," Ser Dain said without preamble, his weathered face drawn tight with concern. "We're moving quarters tonight."

"Why? What's happening?" Kaelen asked, lowering his practice sword.

Ser Dain glanced around, ensuring they were alone. "The council has been called. All knights of the third rank and above."

"Should I prepare to attend with you?" Kaelen asked, straightening his posture.

Ser Dain's hand fell heavily on Kaelen's shoulder. "No. Not this time." There was something in his tone—caution, perhaps even fear. "You are to remain in our new quarters until I return. Do not wander the halls tonight, Kaelen. Do you understand?"

"But what's—"

"Do you understand?" Ser Dain repeated, his fingers digging into Kaelen's shoulder with unusual force.

Kaelen nodded slowly. "Yes, Ser Dain."

"Good." The knight's grip relaxed slightly. "There are... matters from the past being unearthed. Complicated matters. For now, it's best you remain out of sight."

As they walked to their new quarters—smaller and deeper within the fortress—Kaelen noticed servants removing tapestries from the main hall. One depicted a historic battle where the knights of Varathen had defeated seven enemy houses in a single day. As they rolled it carefully, Kaelen glimpsed the embroidered sigils of the fallen enemies—a serpent coiled through a crown, a red hand clutching flames, a crescent moon pierced by an arrow, and others he didn't recognize.

Their new quarters were little more than a stone cell with two narrow beds, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the eastern wing.

"Stay here," Ser Dain commanded before departing for the council, his hand resting briefly on the pommel of his sword—a gesture Kaelen had learned meant the knight was troubled. "Bar the door after me."

As Ser Dain's footsteps faded down the corridor, Kaelen had no intention of staying put. Not with mysteries swirling through the hold like smoke.

The council chamber of Varathen Hold was built for secrecy. With walls three feet thick and a single iron-bound oak door, it was a place where words could remain buried. But the architects of old had overlooked one weakness—a narrow ventilation shaft that connected to the ancient heating system of the fortress.

Kaelen had discovered this passage last winter, when drafts kept blowing out his candles. Tonight, he squeezed his lean frame through the cramped passage behind their new quarters, navigating by touch until he found the small opening that led to the shaft above the council chamber.

Lying flat on his stomach, he peered through the narrow slits of the grate. Below him, two dozen of Varathen's highest-ranking knights sat around a massive oak table, their faces grave in the light of many candles. At the head of the table sat Lord Commander Harren, his silver-streaked beard neatly trimmed, his eyes hard as flint as he surveyed the assembly.

"The reports are confirmed," the Lord Commander said, his deep voice echoing in the chamber. "The Houses of the Burned Sigils have risen again."

A murmur swept through the room. Ser Dain, seated near the middle of the table, remained silent, though Kaelen could see his mentor's shoulders tense.

"Impossible," declared an older knight with a scarred face. "Those bloodlines were extinguished three generations ago. Every man, woman, and child."

"Evidently not thoroughly enough," replied the Lord Commander. "Our scouts have identified their banners flying in the western reaches of the Mistwood. The serpent and crown of House Lyrath. The flame in hand of House Emris. The pierced moon of House Navarre. And most concerning..." He paused, his gaze sweeping the table. "The shadow-wolf of House Dareth."

The name Dareth sent a chill through the council chamber. Even from his hidden vantage point, Kaelen could feel the shift in the atmosphere.

"House Dareth was the first to fall," said Ser Tellen. "Their blood soaked the earth before the Great Purge even began. How could they return?"

An elderly knight with a thin white beard spoke up, his voice quavering but clear. "The Dareths were shapeshifters in more ways than one. They had a talent for disappearing, for changing their appearances and their names. It was why they were targeted first."

"Spare us your history lessons, Ser Orren," the Lord Commander cut in. "What matters is that these forgotten houses have gathered forces. They fly banners our archives claim were burned to ash. They've raided three villages under our protection in the past fortnight. And they've sent us this."

He tossed a scorched piece of parchment onto the table. From his limited view, Kaelen couldn't make out the words, but he saw several knights recoil.

"'The forgotten return to claim what was stolen,'" read Ser Dain, his voice steady but grim. "'Blood will answer blood. Fire will answer fire.'"

"It is signed with all seven sigils of the purged houses," the Lord Commander continued. "Houses that swore fealty to the Mirrored Blades, only to betray them. Houses that our ancestors rightfully destroyed for their treachery."

Kaelen's heart pounded against the cold stone. The Mirrored Blades—his ancestors. The family whose blood ran in his veins, whose techniques he struggled to master. They had orchestrated a purge of their own allies?

"They've timed their return well," observed a knight Kaelen didn't recognize. "With our forces stretched thin defending the eastern borders from the Crimson Kingdom..."

"It's no coincidence," the Lord Commander replied. "This rebellion has been generations in the planning. They've waited for our moment of weakness."

"What do they want?" asked Ser Dain.

The elderly Ser Orren answered before the Lord Commander could speak. "Vengeance, of course. The Purge wasn't just a military action—it was the erasure of entire bloodlines from history. Their lands were seized, their names struck from records, their sigils outlawed. We built our prosperity on their destruction."

"They were traitors," snapped Ser Tellen. "They plotted against House Varathen and the Mirrored Blades."

"So our histories claim," Ser Orren replied quietly.

"You question the truth of our own records, Ser Orren?" The Lord Commander's voice carried a dangerous edge.

The old knight lowered his eyes. "I merely observe that history is written by the victors, my lord."

"Enough," the Lord Commander said. "The question before us is how to respond to this threat. These houses were dissolved by royal decree. Their sigils were ordered burned, never to be displayed again. By flying these banners, they commit treason against the crown itself."

"We must send a message," Ser Tellen declared. "One they and all the realm will understand."

"What do you propose?" asked the Lord Commander.

"A symbolic act," Ser Tellen replied, a cold smile forming on his lips. "We still have representations of their sigils in our archives—for historical purposes only, of course. I say we burn them. Publicly. Tonight. Let them see that we remember how to deal with traitors."

A chorus of approval followed his words. Kaelen watched as Ser Dain's expression remained neutral, though his eyes betrayed concern.

"Do we risk inflaming the situation further?" Ser Dain asked. "If they've already gathered strength—"

"We show strength in return," the Lord Commander interrupted. "Ser Tellen's suggestion has merit. We will hold the burning in the great courtyard tonight. All residents of the Hold will attend. Let everyone see what becomes of those who challenge House Varathen."

The council continued discussing logistics, but Kaelen had heard enough. He carefully backed away from the grate and began the difficult journey back through the passage. His mind raced with revelations. The mysterious tension in the Hold, the whispers of purges, the repainting of sigils—all of it suddenly made terrible sense.

House Varathen and his ancestral House of the Mirrored Blades had built their power upon the ashes of their former allies. And now, those supposedly extinguished bloodlines had returned, seeking vengeance for a betrayal generations old.

As he squeezed back through the narrow opening into their quarters, Kaelen wondered which version of history was true. Had the purged houses truly been traitors? Or had they been victims of a power-hungry alliance between Varathen and the Mirrored Blades?

And why had Ser Dain been so insistent that Kaelen remain hidden tonight of all nights?

By nightfall, word had spread throughout Varathen Hold. Every resident—from the highest knight to the lowliest scullery maid—was ordered to attend the ceremony in the great courtyard. Kaelen had returned to their quarters before Ser Dain, arranging himself on the bed as though he'd never left.

When his mentor returned, Ser Dain's face was granite.

"There is to be a burning tonight," he said without preamble. "You will attend, but you will stay at my side. Do not wander, do not draw attention to yourself. Understood?"

"Yes, Ser Dain," Kaelen replied, carefully keeping his expression neutral. "May I ask what's being burned?"

Ser Dain hesitated. "Symbols of treason," he finally said. "Nothing more than that need concern you."

But it did concern him, Kaelen knew. Something about this rebellion connected to him personally—he could feel it in the way the older knights fell silent in his presence, in how Ser Dain sought to shield him from the council's discussions.

When the bell tolled for the gathering, they joined the somber procession moving toward the courtyard. The night air was cool and still, heavy with anticipation. Stars glittered coldly above the high stone walls of Varathen Hold, and the waxing moon cast long shadows across the cobblestones.

The great courtyard had been transformed. A massive pyre stood at its center, stacked with wood and kindling. Around it, torches blazed in iron brackets, creating a circle of flickering light. The residents of the Hold gathered in concentric rings around the unlit pyre, their faces grave and expectant in the dancing light.

On a raised platform stood the Lord Commander and the highest-ranking knights, including Ser Tellen, who looked almost eager. A large wooden chest rested at their feet.

Kaelen and Ser Dain took their places among the crowd. From their position, Kaelen could see beyond the courtyard to the outer wall and, beyond that, the dark line of the woods that surrounded Varathen Hold. Something about those woods made him uneasy—the way the shadows seemed to shift between the trees, as though the forest itself was watching.

"Brothers and sisters of Varathen Hold," the Lord Commander's voice boomed across the courtyard, silencing all whispers. "Tonight we face a threat from our past. Houses that were rightfully purged for their treachery seek to rise again. They bring fire and blood to our lands, thinking us weakened or forgetful."

He gestured to Ser Tellen, who stepped forward and opened the wooden chest. From it, he withdrew seven cloth banners, each bearing a different sigil. Even from a distance, Kaelen recognized the serpent and crown, the flaming hand, the pierced moon from the tapestry he'd seen being removed.

"These sigils were outlawed by royal decree," the Lord Commander continued. "To display them is treason. To rally beneath them is to declare war against the crown and against House Varathen. Tonight, we remind these forgotten traitors of their fate. As their banners burned before, so shall they burn again!"

A knight handed the Lord Commander a torch. With deliberate ceremony, he approached the pyre.

"First fell House Lyrath, whose serpent sought to strangle the crown!" He thrust the first banner into the flames, and the fabric caught quickly, the embroidered serpent blackening and curling as it burned.

"Then House Emris, whose flaming hand reached for power beyond their station!" The second banner joined the first.

One by one, the Lord Commander consigned the banners to the growing blaze, naming each house and their supposed crimes. The fire grew higher with each addition, sending sparks spiraling into the night sky. The heat pressed against Kaelen's face, but a deeper chill had settled in his bones.

"And finally," the Lord Commander declared, holding up the last banner, "House Dareth, first to betray and first to fall. Their shadow-wolf sought to devour us from within, but found only destruction!"

The final banner bore the image of a black wolf, its body seeming to dissolve into shadows. As the Lord Commander held it aloft, a strange sensation crawled up Kaelen's spine—a prickling awareness, as though the sigil itself called to something within him.

Before the banner could touch the flames, a voice spoke directly behind Kaelen—so close he could feel the breath on his ear.

"Burn their names, and their vengeance will rise in smoke."

Kaelen whirled around, but the crowd behind him was packed tight. Faces looked past him toward the ceremony, none appearing to have spoken. Yet the voice had been unmistakable—a harsh whisper, neither male nor female, old nor young.

He turned back to the pyre just as the final banner caught flame. The shadow-wolf seemed to writhe in the fire, its form distorting as the fabric blackened. For an instant—so briefly Kaelen thought he might have imagined it—the burning wolf's eyes flashed not with orange flame but with ice-blue light.

The Lord Commander raised his hands. "Let this fire be our message! House Varathen remembers its enemies. House Varathen prevails!"

A cheer rose from many in the crowd, though Kaelen noticed not all joined in. Some, particularly the older residents, watched the burning banners with expressions that spoke more of fear than triumph.

As the ceremony continued, Kaelen scanned the crowd, searching for whoever had whispered the prophecy. Near the edge of the gathering, a hooded figure stood apart from the others. Though the face was hidden in shadow, Kaelen felt the stranger's gaze fixed on him.

He nudged Ser Dain. "Who is that?" he asked, nodding toward the figure.

But when Ser Dain looked, the hooded observer was gone, melted away into the darkness beyond the torchlight.

"Who?" Ser Dain asked, frowning.

"Nothing," Kaelen muttered. "I thought I saw someone I recognized."

His attention returned to the burning pyre, where the seven banners were now little more than ash and embers. The Lord Commander was concluding his speech, promising swift retribution against any who rallied to the forbidden sigils.

Then Kaelen's eyes were drawn again to the woods beyond the wall. There, between the trees, points of light appeared—torches, dozens of them, moving through the forest toward Varathen Hold.

Before he could speak, before he could warn anyone, the first arrow arced over the wall and plunged into the courtyard.

"To arms!" The cry rang out as more arrows followed the first, whistling through the night air to find targets among the gathered crowd. People scattered, screaming in confusion and pain.

"Stay close!" Ser Dain shouted, drawing his sword with practiced speed. He pushed Kaelen toward the inner wall, where stone would shield them from the aerial assault.

But in the chaos, they were separated. A surge of panicked servants pushed between them, and suddenly Kaelen found himself alone in the maelstrom of confusion. All around him, knights rushed to defensive positions while civilians fled toward the inner keep.

The archers beyond the wall had timed their attack perfectly—catching Varathen Hold with its entire population gathered in a single location, many unarmed. And as Kaelen watched in horror, he realized this was only the first wave.

Dark figures appeared atop the outer wall—infiltrators who must have scaled the fortress while attention was focused on the burning ceremony. They descended into the courtyard like shadows given substance, their faces obscured by half-masks decorated with sigils Kaelen recognized from the burning banners.

"Defenders to the gates!" The Lord Commander's voice cut through the chaos. "They come from the west road!"

Indeed, a thunderous battering had begun at the main gates, visible across the courtyard from Kaelen's position. Soldiers rushed to reinforce the entrance, but they were spread thin, divided between multiple threats.

Kaelen drew his sword, the weight familiar yet strange in his hand. He had trained countless hours, yet had faced real combat only once before. That battle had awakened something in him—techniques flowing through his body that he'd never formally learned, movements belonging to the Mirrored Blades tradition supposedly lost to time.

A masked attacker noticed him—a tall figure wielding dual short swords, the half-mask bearing the serpent and crown of House Lyrath. The warrior moved with deadly purpose toward Kaelen, blades gleaming in the light of the still-burning pyre.

The first strike came fast—too fast. Kaelen barely parried, the impact jarring his arm to the shoulder. The second blade sliced toward his ribs, and he twisted awkwardly to avoid it, nearly losing his balance.

I'm outmatched, Kaelen realized with a flash of fear. This was no training exercise. This was a warrior who had killed before and would kill again without hesitation.

The attacker pressed forward, blades weaving a deadly pattern. Kaelen retreated, desperately trying to recall his training. He attempted a counterattack—a straightforward thrust Ser Dain had taught him—but the masked warrior batted it aside contemptuously.

"You wear a knight's blade, boy," the attacker hissed from behind the serpent mask, "but not a knight's skill."

Another flurry of strikes drove Kaelen back against a stone wall. He parried one blade, ducked another, but a kick to his midsection sent him sprawling onto the cobblestones. His sword clattered away.

The serpent-masked warrior advanced, dual blades raised for the killing blow.

Something shifted in Kaelen then—the same strange awakening he'd felt in his first battle. Time seemed to slow. His awareness expanded, taking in every detail of his opponent's stance. The particular way they gripped their weapons. The slight favoring of their left leg. The rhythm of their breathing behind the mask.

When the blades descended, Kaelen moved—not as Ser Dain had taught him, but with a fluid grace that seemed to flow from somewhere deep within his muscles and bones. He rolled, retrieving his sword in a single motion, then came up in a fighting stance that mirrored his attacker's own.

Confusion flickered in the eyes visible above the serpent mask.

Now Kaelen attacked, employing the same dual-blade technique despite wielding only a single sword. His weapon moved as though it were two, attacking high and low simultaneously, creating the illusion of multiple blades through sheer speed.

"What are you?" the masked warrior growled, suddenly defensive, recognizing their own style turned against them.

Kaelen didn't answer. He couldn't. He was as surprised as his opponent by the movements flowing through him. It was as though his body remembered what his mind had never learned.

Their blades clashed again, but now the advantage had shifted. Kaelen anticipated each move before it came, countering with the perfect response, almost as if he'd rehearsed this exact duel a hundred times before.

A shout from across the courtyard broke his concentration—a young page, no more than twelve years old, cornered by another masked attacker bearing the sigil of the pierced moon. The boy clutched a dagger that looked too large for his small hands, terror evident on his face.

Without thinking, Kaelen disengaged from his opponent with a spinning move that created momentary distance. He sprinted toward the endangered page, knowing the serpent-masked warrior would pursue.

The attacker threatening the page raised a mace, ready to strike. In that frozen moment, Kaelen analyzed the new threat—the grip, the stance, the particular way the attacker shifted weight before striking. All different from the dual-blade technique he'd just faced.

Yet somehow, as Kaelen intercepted the blow meant for the page, his own body shifted. His sword grip changed, his footwork altered, his balance redistributed. He moved not as someone countering a mace-wielder, but as a mace-wielder himself—matching the attacker's style perfectly, then exceeding it.

The masked warrior faltered, thrown off by the unexpected expertise. Kaelen pressed the advantage, driving the attacker back with movements that felt both foreign and innate to his body.

"Run!" he shouted to the page, who didn't need to be told twice.

A whistling sound from behind warned him of the serpent-masked warrior's approach. Caught between two opponents, Kaelen should have been overwhelmed. Instead, his body shifted again, blending the two distinct fighting styles into something new—a fluid, adaptable technique that borrowed elements from both.

He pivoted between the attackers, using each one's momentum against the other. Where the mace-wielder struck with brutal force, Kaelen was quick and precise. Where the dual-blade fighter was lightning-fast, Kaelen responded with grounded power.

It was as though he danced to music only he could hear, a rhythm that synchronized perfectly with the chaos of battle around him.

One of his strikes found its mark, slicing across the serpent-masked warrior's arm. Another blow disarmed the mace-wielder. Both attackers retreated, joining the larger battle that now raged throughout the courtyard.

Breathless, Kaelen looked around for Ser Dain but couldn't locate his mentor in the confusion of combat. What he did see sent a chill through him despite the heat of exertion—the battle was not going well for Varathen Hold. The attackers, though fewer in number, fought with desperate ferocity and surprising coordination.

And everywhere Kaelen looked, he saw the forbidden sigils—on shields, masks, and armbands. The shadow-wolf of House Dareth. The serpent and crown of House Lyrath. The flaming hand of House Emris. The pierced moon of House Navarre. And others he didn't recognize—all the supposedly extinguished houses, risen again from history's ashes.

The burning of their sigils hadn't weakened them. It had summoned them, just as the whispered prophecy had warned.

Burn their names, and their vengeance will rise in smoke.

The battle raged for what felt like hours but might have been only minutes. Time stretched and compressed in the rhythm of combat. Knights of Varathen Hold rallied, forming defensive positions around the civilians. The attackers, realizing they couldn't take the fortress in a single assault, began a strategic withdrawal.

Kaelen fought his way across the courtyard, searching for Ser Dain. His body ached, muscles burning from the unfamiliar movements they'd executed. His mind struggled to comprehend what had happened—how he had so perfectly mimicked his opponents' fighting styles, adapting and blending them into something new.

He found himself near the pyre, which still burned hot despite the battle that had raged around it. The ceremonial platform where the Lord Commander had stood was now empty, its occupants drawn into the fight.

Movement near the pyre caught his eye—a hooded figure, the same one he'd glimpsed during the ceremony. They stooped near the edge of the fire, retrieving something that had fallen or been placed there.

Without thinking, Kaelen approached. "Who are you?" he called over the diminishing sounds of combat. "What did you mean about vengeance rising in smoke?"

The figure straightened but didn't turn. In their hands was a cloth bundle—another banner, Kaelen realized, that had never been thrown into the flames.

"The seventh house is not yet burned," the hooded stranger said, voice muffled and indistinct. "One sigil remains."

They turned then, and Kaelen saw that their face was concealed not by a mask but by elaborate scarring—ritual marks that spiraled across the visible portions of their features.

"What seventh house?" Kaelen demanded. "The Lord Commander burned all seven banners."

"Six," the scarred figure corrected. "He named seven but burned six. The true seventh was hidden, protected. As you were protected."

Before Kaelen could question this cryptic statement, the stranger tossed the cloth bundle toward him. Instinctively, he caught it. The fabric unwrapped partially in his hands, revealing the edge of an embroidered sigil—a black wolf dissolving into shadow.

"House Dareth," Kaelen whispered, recognizing the sigil he'd seen burn last. "But how—"

"Look into the flames," the stranger commanded. "See what the fire reveals."

Despite himself, Kaelen turned toward the pyre. The heat pressed against his face, making his eyes water. Yet he couldn't look away as the flames seemed to shift and reshape themselves. Within the heart of the fire, images formed—ghostly scenes from some distant past or possible future.

He saw a warrior fighting beneath the banner of House Dareth, the shadow-wolf rippling in an unseen wind. The warrior's face was hidden, but there was something familiar in his stance, in the way he moved between opponents with that same fluid adaptation Kaelen had experienced.

The vision shifted. Now the same warrior fought alongside knights bearing the sigil of the Mirrored Blades—Kaelen's ancestral house. Another shift, and he defended rebels marked with the forbidden sigils of the purged houses.

The warrior turned, and through the flames, Kaelen glimpsed his face—a face so similar to his own that it might have been a slightly older reflection.

"Who is he?" Kaelen whispered, though he already suspected the answer.

"The last scion of House Dareth," the scarred stranger replied. "And the first guardian of the Mirrored Blades. One man with two loyalties, two bloodlines, two destinies."

"My father," Kaelen said, the truth settling into his bones with cold certainty.

"Your legacy," the stranger corrected. "The blood of both oppressor and oppressed runs in your veins. The techniques of both flow through your limbs when you fight. You are Mirrored Blades, yes—but you are also Dareth. Shadow-wolf and silver sword both."

The revelation struck Kaelen like a physical blow. It explained so much—the strange fighting instincts that awakened in battle, the whispers that followed him, Ser Dain's protectiveness.

"Does Ser Dain know?" he asked, tearing his gaze from the hypnotic flames.

But the scarred stranger was gone, melted away like a shadow at noon. Only the cloth bundle in Kaelen's hands remained as proof of the encounter—the unburned sigil of House Dareth, the house of his father.

A shout from across the courtyard broke his trance. Ser Dain was searching for him, calling his name with increasing urgency. Quickly, Kaelen tucked the banner inside his tunic, feeling its weight press against his chest like a secret heart.

"Kaelen!" Ser Dain spotted him, relief visible even from a distance. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm unharmed," Kaelen called back, moving away from the pyre to meet his mentor.

As he walked, the vision from the flames stayed with him—the warrior with his face, fighting for both sides of a conflict generations old. A conflict that had just been rekindled, with Kaelen caught in its center.

Dawn broke over Varathen Hold, revealing the toll of the night's attack. The great courtyard was littered with evidence of combat—bloodstains on cobblestones, broken weapons, the charred remains of the ceremonial pyre. Knights and servants worked together to tend the wounded and restore order.

In the council chamber, grim-faced leaders assessed their losses. Kaelen stood behind Ser Dain's chair, his presence tolerated now that the emergency required all hands. The hidden banner of House Dareth remained concealed beneath his tunic, a weight he felt with every breath.

"Three knights dead," reported Ser Tellen, a bandage wrapped around his forearm. "Twelve wounded severely enough to be unfit for duty. Seven civilians killed in the initial arrow volley."

"And the attackers?" asked the Lord Commander, whose imposing figure seemed somehow diminished in the morning light.

"Eight bodies recovered," another knight replied. "No prisoners."

"Their masks bore the sigils of the purged houses," Ser Dain added. "Just as the scouts reported."

The Lord Commander's fist struck the table. "They time their attack to coincide with our ceremony. They make a mockery of our ritual burning."

"Perhaps," Ser Orren said carefully, "the burning itself was what they waited for. A signal fire, drawing them to us."

Silence fell as the implications settled over the assembly.

"You suggest we played into their hands?" the Lord Commander asked dangerously.

"I suggest," the elderly knight replied with quiet dignity, "that symbols hold power. In burning their sigils, we may have invoked something we do not fully understand."

Kaelen's hand instinctively pressed against his tunic, feeling the outline of the hidden banner. He thought of the scarred stranger's words: Burn their names, and their vengeance will rise in smoke.

"Superstitious nonsense," Ser Tellen scoffed. "They attacked because they saw an opportunity, nothing more."

"Regardless of why they came," Ser Dain interjected, "the fact remains that Varathen Hold is now vulnerable. Our eastern forces cannot be recalled without exposing the borderlands to the Crimson Kingdom. We must prepare for the possibility of a more sustained assault."

The council debated strategies for strengthening their defenses and sending for reinforcements from allied houses. As they talked, Kaelen observed a subtle shift in the dynamic. Fear had entered the chamber—not just concern over tactical disadvantages, but a deeper unease about facing an enemy they had believed long extinct.

"We should launch a counterattack," Ser Tellen proposed eventually. "Find their encampment in the Mistwood and destroy it before they can gather more strength."

"And spread ourselves thinner?" Ser Dain countered. "We don't know their numbers or resources."

"What we know," the Lord Commander said, "is that these rebels have committed treason against the crown. They fly forbidden banners. They attack a royal fortress. The law is clear: such actions demand the harshest response."

Several knights nodded in agreement.

"I propose a crackdown throughout our territories," he continued. "Any household suspected of harboring sympathies for the purged houses will be investigated. Any found displaying the forbidden sigils will face immediate execution."

The words sent a chill through Kaelen's body. Would the hidden banner against his chest condemn him if discovered?

"My lord," Ser Orren said, "such measures might create more enemies than they eliminate. There are many who remember the old houses with fondness, who question the necessity of the Great Purge."

"Then they question the authority of the crown itself," the Lord Commander replied coldly. "And reveal themselves as traitors."

The vote passed with only Ser Orren and Ser Dain opposing the harsh crackdown. Orders would be dispatched throughout the territory by midday.

As the council disbanded, Ser Dain pulled Kaelen aside in a quiet corridor.

"You fought well last night," he said, studying Kaelen's face carefully. "I heard reports of your actions. Saving the page. Facing multiple attackers."

Kaelen nodded, uncertain how much to reveal about his experience. "I was lucky."

"Luck," Ser Dain repeated softly. "Is that what you would call it? Or was it something else that guided your blade?"

The question hung between them. Kaelen realized that Ser Dain wasThe question hung between them. Kaelen realized that Ser Dain was offering him an opening, a chance to discuss what had happened during the battle. But could he trust his mentor with the truth? With the revelation about his dual heritage?

"I..." Kaelen hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I felt something take over. As though my body remembered movements I never learned."

Ser Dain's expression remained neutral, though his eyes sharpened. "The blood remembers what the mind forgets," he said quietly. "Your fighting style—it changed during the battle, didn't it? Adapted to your opponents?"

Kaelen nodded slowly. "You knew this would happen."

It wasn't a question, but Ser Dain answered anyway. "I suspected. It's why I've been training you differently from the other squires. Why I've kept certain... aspects of your heritage from you."

"House Dareth," Kaelen said, the name feeling strange on his tongue. "I know, Ser Dain. I know I carry their blood alongside that of the Mirrored Blades."

A flash of alarm crossed Ser Dain's weathered face. "Who told you this?"

"The flames showed me. And there was someone—a stranger with a scarred face. They said I belonged to both bloodlines."

Ser Dain glanced quickly up and down the corridor, ensuring they were alone. "Listen carefully, Kaelen. What you've discovered places you in grave danger. If the Lord Commander learned of your connection to House Dareth—especially now, with this rebellion—it would mean your death."

"But why? What happened between these houses? Why was House Dareth purged?"

Ser Dain sighed heavily. "It's a long and bloody history, not as simple as the official records claim. The truth is—"

The sound of approaching footsteps cut him off. Ser Tellen appeared around the corner, his eyes narrowing at the sight of their private conversation.

"Ser Dain," he called. "The Lord Commander requires your presence. We're organizing scouting parties to track the rebels' retreat."

"Of course," Ser Dain replied smoothly. To Kaelen, he said, "Return to our quarters. We'll continue your training tomorrow."

The meaningful look in his eyes told Kaelen that "training" would involve more than swordplay.

As Ser Dain departed with Ser Tellen, Kaelen made his way through the fortress, his mind churning with questions. The attack, the burning sigils, the revelation of his heritage—all pieces of a puzzle he couldn't yet assemble.

In their quarters, he carefully removed the hidden banner of House Dareth from beneath his tunic. In the privacy of the small room, he unfolded it fully for the first time. The black wolf seemed to ripple across the fabric, its edges dissolving into shadow, its eyes—stitched with silver thread—catching the light.

A sudden impulse made him hold the banner up to the small window, where the morning sun streamed in. The light passed through the finely woven fabric, revealing a pattern invisible in normal viewing—intricate lines forming a map, with locations marked by tiny symbols that matched the sigils of the purged houses.

Kaelen's breath caught. This was no mere banner—it was a message, a guide to something the rebel houses deemed important. Something worth infiltrating Varathen Hold to protect from the ceremonial burning.

He quickly folded the banner and searched for a secure hiding place. Beneath a loose stone in the floor, he created a small cache, placing the Dareth sigil inside and covering it carefully.

From the courtyard below came the sounds of preparation—horses being saddled, weapons being distributed. The fortress was mobilizing, preparing to hunt down the rebels who had dared to attack them. Rebels who, according to the scarred stranger, shared blood with Kaelen.

He moved to the window, watching as knights assembled in formation. Among them, he spotted Ser Dain, now outfitted for a scouting mission. His mentor looked up, as though sensing Kaelen's gaze, and their eyes met briefly across the distance.

In that moment, Kaelen understood that everything had changed. The night of burning sigils had marked the beginning of a war—not just between Varathen Hold and the resurgent houses, but within Kaelen himself. Two bloodlines, two loyalties, two possible futures.

The ashes from the ceremonial pyre were being swept away, carried by the morning breeze over the outer wall toward the Mistwood beyond. But the fire had already done its work. It had awakened something long dormant, both in the realm and in Kaelen's blood.

As Ser Dain had said: The blood remembers what the mind forgets.

And Kaelen's blood, it seemed, remembered both sides of an ancient conflict. A conflict that was no longer confined to history, but had burst into the present like flames from a smoldering ember, ready to consume everything in its path.

The smoke from the pyre rose into the brightening sky, and with it, the unspoken question that would shape Kaelen's path forward: When forced to choose between two loyalties, which would he honor? The house that raised him, or the blood that flowed in his veins?

The answer, like the shifting forms he'd glimpsed in the flames, remained elusive—a shadow-wolf waiting to take shape.