The world did not wait long after Kael pulled the sword.
The very next morning, as frost rimed the branches and the first desperate birds cried into the gray dawn, riders in black and crimson breached the valley.
Their banners bore no king's crest.
Only a thorn coiled around a broken crown.
Seric Blackthorn's sigil.
And at their head rode a herald — not armored, but cloaked in tattered velvet, his face painted in pale ash, his voice carrying like a cracked bell across the fields:
"By decree of Seric Blackthorn, Keeper of the True Flame, all able-bodied men and boys are summoned.
Those who kneel will live.
Those who resist will burn."
A hush fell over the valley.
Mothers clutched their sons.
Farmers gripped rusted tools.
Kael stood among them, Maerin's hand firm on his shoulder.
"Not yet," the scribe whispered.
"Not here."
But already Kael felt it — the hum of the sword at his back, restless, alive.
The herald rode closer, scanning the villagers with eyes like river stones — cold, smooth, and gray.
When his gaze passed over Kael, he paused.
The painted face tilted.
The cracked lips twisted into a mockery of a smile.
"You," he said.
"Step forward."
The crowd parted, frightened.
Kael hesitated only a moment.
Then he stepped.
The herald leaned down from his saddle, voice oily and sweet.
"You are called."
"By who?" Kael asked, his voice steady.
The herald's smile widened.
"By the new dawn.
By the reckoning.
By the man who will shatter your false kings and raise a kingdom built not on lies, but fire."
Kael said nothing.
The wind pulled at his cloak, revealing the worn hilt of the sword at his back.
The herald's smile faltered.
For a heartbeat, fear flickered in those stone-gray eyes.
"You carry old weight, boy," the herald whispered.
"Be careful. Old things tend to break... or break you."
Then, louder, for all to hear:
"Three days. Three days to kneel, or to burn."
He wheeled his horse and rode off, his black-cloaked soldiers thundering after him, leaving churned mud and terror in their wake.
That night, the fires of Blackthorn's army were visible from the ridge — a ring of red around the valley, like wolves circling wounded prey.
The village held council in the longhouse.
Old men argued.
Young men clenched fists.
"We can't fight them," said a farmer.
"They'll slaughter us."
"Better to die with a blade in hand than a rope around the neck," spat another.
Kael listened, silent, until Maerin touched his elbow.
"You must decide," the old scribe said softly.
"Me?" Kael blinked.
"You pulled the sword. Whether you like it or not... they will follow."
Kael stepped outside, away from the shouting.
He looked up at the bruised sky — stars faint behind swirling stormclouds.
Three days.
Three days to choose.
Kneel.
Or burn.
He found Jorren sharpening his axe by the dying light of a torch.
The old knight did not look up.
"You're thinking too hard," Jorren said gruffly.
Kael sat beside him on the stone steps.
"I don't want to be their leader."
"Good," Jorren grunted. "Those who want to lead are the ones who should never be trusted."
They sat in silence for a while.
The torch sputtered, casting long shadows on the dirt.
Finally, Kael spoke.
"If I stand, they will die.
If I kneel, they will still die.
Is that what it means to lead?"
Jorren nodded once, a slow, sad gesture.
"It means carrying their deaths with you... and still walking forward."
Kael closed his eyes.
The weight of the sword pressed against his back like a hand.
He thought of Corren, still coughing in his mother's arms.
He thought of Maerin, who had taught him letters and patience.
He thought of the old oak tree he had once promised himself he would plant when all wars were over.
Maybe it would never be planted.
Maybe planting anything in this world was a kind of rebellion.
He opened his eyes.
The decision crystallized, sharp and terrible, inside him.
He would stand.
Not because he believed he could win.
But because someone had to.
Because the world would not heal itself.
Because the gods would not save them.
Because the kings had failed them.
Because sometimes, all that remained was a boy with a sword, standing against the night.
Three days later, as the first red banners appeared on the ridge, Kael walked alone to the center of the village.
He drew the sword.
It did not shine.
It did not sing.
It simply existed — waiting for burdens.
Kael planted the blade into the earth at his feet, deep enough that the soil trembled.
And he spoke, voice ringing clear across the fields:
"We will not kneel.
We will not burn.
We will stand."
The villagers came.
One by one.
Silent, grim, terrified.
But they came.
Old men, young boys, mothers with hatred carved into their hands.
They came.
The Reckoning had begun.
And Kael — boy no longer — stood at its heart.