The wind howled through the ruined outpost as Marcus crouched beside a fallen tree, sharpening his blade with slow, practiced strokes. Veyrion watched from the shadows, eyes glowing softly in the dark.
The dragon had grown rapidly, now the size of a mountain lion, with small wings beginning to unfold.
Marcus didn't know where to go next. But instinct, and something deeper, told him to wait.
That night, they came.
—
The man wore Velmoran blue, his voice sweet with diplomacy. He arrived under a false banner, claiming to be a wandering scholar of dragon lore. But his eyes never left Marcus's hands—or his blade.
"You're younger than I expected," he said with a smile. "But then… prophecies rarely wait for permission."
Marcus said nothing. His instincts stirred.
"You've bonded to something powerful," the emissary continued. "But you don't know what it means. What it will cost you."
Marcus stood. "And you do?"
"I serve a queen who's spent her life preparing for your kind."
He stepped closer.
"I can bring you to her. Safely. No more hiding. No more fear. You were meant for more than this."
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "And if I say no?"
The smile vanished.
The blade came fast—curved and poisoned, aimed for Marcus's throat.
But Marcus was faster.
Steel met steel.
The wind snapped as blades danced in the dark. Marcus moved like a ghost, each strike recalling years of training under his adoptive father, Deren Vahl, once known as the Ghostblade of Sapphire—a swordsman feared by kings and assassins alike.
He parried with grace. Countered with precision.
Then—an opening.
One twist. One thrust.
The emissary collapsed, bleeding into the moss.
Marcus stood over him, chest heaving.
The man laughed once, blood on his lips. "You really are his son…"
Then he died.
—
Veyrion approached silently, sniffing the man's corpse.
Marcus wiped his blade, gaze distant.
"Others will come," he said.
And far beyond, in Velmora, Queen Selene heard the raven's report.
"The boy lives. And he fights like the Ghostblade."
Her lips curved in interest.
"Let's see how long he lasts."
—
Back in Sapphire, King Levi stared at an old sword hung above the hearth.
Deren Vahl's sword.
He closed his eyes.
And whispered, "Forgive me, old friend. Your son walks the blade's path now."