Chapter 11: The Name That Shouldn't Return
The aftermath of the siege trial sparked a different kind of war.
Not on the battlefield—but behind closed doors.
Noble houses convened in secret halls, whispering of the "Shadowborn Hero." Caedros' Council of High Seats debated whether Andrew should be honored or eliminated. Half the court praised his leadership. The other half feared what might come next.
And King Aramon?
He said nothing.
He only watched.
In the royal sanctum of the Caedros Archive, a hidden vault was unsealed for the first time in centuries.
There, in dust and quiet magic, a librarian with shaking hands traced a name etched in ancient steel:
Ashren.
The sword of the Endblade.
Below that, barely legible, a prophecy half-burned into old parchment:
"When the Ashren stirs and the shadows walk, the Endblade rises not to rule—but to finish what was left undone. Light will flee him. Night will follow. And the world will have but one question—"
"Will he destroy it again?"
Andrew was unaware of these echoes. He spent his days in the tower barracks, helping younger competitors train, fixing broken weapons, and reading everything he could about shadow-manipulation and soulbound artifacts.
But peace never stays long.
And that night, something came for him.
He woke to frost on the windows.
Not natural frost—mana-frost, the kind left behind by creatures not born of this world. Ashren pulsed from across the room. He rose and stepped out into the corridor.
And there it stood.
A creature draped in dark ice and blackened robes, eyes like twin lanterns—its body shifting, insubstantial. A Wraith of Vel'sari.
Extinct. Erased.
Or so he'd thought.
The wraith knelt before him, voice like splintered glass.
"You breathe again, Endblade. We felt your soul touch the Wound. The balance trembles."
Andrew gripped Ashren tightly. "I'm not him."
The wraith lifted its head.
"That is not your choice."
With a flicker of motion, it lunged—not to kill, but to test. Its blade clashed with Ashren, and the shadows exploded across the hall.
Andrew moved with instinct—but this time, not alone. He could feel a presence behind his swing. The Endblade was watching.
Guiding.
With three strikes, Andrew shattered the wraith's sword.
A fourth sent its essence dispersing into icy smoke.
But before it vanished, it whispered:
"They are waking too, my lord. The ones who remember you. The ones who survived you."
By morning, the tower was sealed off.
The council had been alerted.
The shadowborn had been targeted.
But word spread fast.
Not of fear.
Of awe.
And in the slums of the capital, far from gold and crowns, children had already started whispering a new name for him.
"The Hero of the Shadows."