The Anomaly: Crownless Heir

The General’s Trial

The military camp of the Eastern Vanguard sprawled across the crimson plains like a city of steel and discipline. Rows of obsidian tents, stitched with the blood-sigil of the House of Noctis, stretched far into the misty horizon, the banners snapping against the wind with hollow authority. Torches burned even though it was midday, their flames tinted violet by alchemical oils, warding off any lingering witchcraft that might creep this far into the vampire realm.

Five thousand knights made this place their home—hardened soldiers of the night, bound by loyalty, hunger, and pride. And today, they were expecting the arrival of their new General.

The sound came first. Not hooves, not the wingbeats of a beast—but the low, thrumming hum of a sleek, hovering machine. The knights turned their heads in unison, eyes narrowing as the air shimmered with the energy of an approaching royal vehicle. Its polished black metal reflected their sharpened stares, its angular design unlike the crude war chariots most generals favored. The vehicle descended slowly, suspensors whispering against the dirt, and with a hiss of escaping steam, the door folded upward.

From within, Prince Kenneth Valdros stepped out.

The camp fell silent.

He wore no crown, no cloak—only the plain, dark uniform of a commander, its edges lined in silver threads of his station. His hair, black as midnight, fell loosely around his pale face, and his eyes… those unsettling, piercing blue eyes, brighter than any vampire’s, scanned the camp with an expression that was neither pride nor arrogance but calm resolve.

At once, the superintendent in charge hurried forward. He was a lean man with short cropped hair, pale gray skin like marble, and sharp, nervous eyes. His name was Captain Veynar Dros, a veteran who had served under two previous generals before Kenneth’s sudden appointment.

“General,” Veynar said, bowing low, though his voice betrayed a hint of unease. “Welcome to the Eastern Vanguard. We are honored by your presence.”

Kenneth gave a curt nod, his gaze moving past the man to the thousands of armored figures now standing at attention. Rows upon rows of knights—disciplined, dangerous, skeptical.

“I’m not here for ceremony,” Kenneth said evenly. His voice was low, almost too soft for the soldiers at the edges to hear, yet it carried a weight that made them straighten their backs unconsciously. “I am here for three knights. Just three. I will be leading a mission of great risk, and I require only the best.”

Veynar blinked, caught off guard. “Three… out of five thousand, my lord?”

“Yes,” Kenneth replied simply.

The superintendent swallowed, then turned sharply to the soldiers and barked, “All units, assemble at the central square! Your General and Prince has come to choose three among you for a mission beyond peril—a mission rumored to face the threat of Super Wolves at the Eastern border!”

A murmur swept through the ranks. The words Super Wolves alone were enough to stiffen spines and pale even hardened veterans. The creatures were said to be faster, stronger, and crueler than the common werewolves that haunted the frontier. Some knights had only heard whispers of them; others had seen them firsthand, and bore scars that never fully healed.

As the murmurs settled into silence, a voice rang out.

“So he comes to pick warriors for suicide.”

The speaker stepped forward, his armor clinking with each bold stride. He was broad-shouldered, his jaw scarred, his expression twisted in disdain. His name was Sir Halric Vorn, a knight whose reputation for arrogance was only matched by his skill.

“Even if you beat Marek,” Halric said loudly, “it doesn’t make you worthy of being our general. A lucky victory does not command respect.”

A ripple of unease moved through the crowd. Veynar’s face drained of color. He had seen Marek’s defeat with his own eyes, and he remembered the way Kenneth had moved—too fast, too sharp, too overwhelming. He prayed Halric would not provoke that side of him again.

Kenneth exhaled quietly, shaking his head. A whisper escaped his lips, so faint only those closest could hear. “Here we go again.”

He raised his voice just enough to carry. “Does anyone agree with him?”

For a moment, the square was silent. Then five more knights stepped forward, each one with hardened expressions, standing beside Halric in open defiance.

Veynar’s throat tightened. His palms grew clammy. He had seen Kenneth dismantle Marek, and he feared—truly feared—that if Kenneth lost his temper here, six men would not walk away alive.

But Kenneth only sighed. His eyes softened with something dangerously close to boredom.

“Veynar,” he said.

“Yes, General?”

“Bind my hands behind my back. And blindfold me.”

The superintendent froze. “My lord?”

“You heard me,” Kenneth said, his tone even but unyielding.

The knights murmured again. Some smirked, thinking arrogance had gotten the better of their young general. Others narrowed their eyes, sensing something more dangerous at play.

Veynar hesitated but obeyed. He fetched a length of iron-forged cord, usually used to restrain berserkers, and wound it tightly around Kenneth’s wrists. Then, with trembling fingers, he drew a strip of black cloth and tied it firmly over Kenneth’s eyes.

Kenneth faced the six knights, blindfolded, bound, yet standing tall.

“If one of you,” he said calmly, “succeeds in laying a single blow upon me, I will relinquish my position as General. But if I defeat you all, then you will relinquish yours.”

The six knights exchanged glances, grins curling across their lips.

“Arrogant fool,” Halric spat.

“Begin,” Kenneth whispered.

The first knight lunged, sword gleaming in the torchlight, cutting horizontally for Kenneth’s side. But before steel could find flesh, Kenneth tilted his body, the blade slicing nothing but air. The crowd gasped as Kenneth moved—not stumbling, not searching blindly—but gliding with purpose, each shift precise as though he could see every strike before it came.

Another knight attacked from behind. Kenneth twisted, ducking under the swing, his shoulder colliding into the man’s ribs with the force of a battering ram. The knight stumbled back, wind knocked from his chest.

The square erupted in shouts as the remaining four rushed him at once. Kenneth moved like water, weaving between blades, his blindfold never faltering. His bound hands forced him into a dance of avoidance, yet his body flowed faster than eyes could track. To the vampires watching, he was a blur—impossibly fast, impossibly graceful.

Halric snarled and aimed for Kenneth’s head. For a split second, it seemed the blow would land. But Kenneth tilted ever so slightly, the blade missing by a hair’s breadth. In the same breath, Kenneth pivoted on his heel, sweeping Halric’s legs out from under him.

Halric crashed to the ground, his sword clattering across the stones.

The others hesitated. That single moment of doubt was all Kenneth needed. He ducked under a spear, spun with inhuman speed, and drove his foot into the chest of another knight, sending him sprawling into two of his comrades.

Within minutes, all six lay groaning on the ground, weapons scattered, armor dented, pride shattered.

Kenneth stood over them, breathing steady, blindfold untouched.

“Pathetic,” he murmured, though not in anger—merely as though stating a fact.

The six knights, their arrogance crushed, scrambled to their knees and bowed their heads.

“Forgive us, my lord,” Halric rasped, clutching his bruised ribs. “We were blinded by our pride.”

Kenneth was silent for a moment. Then he sighed again, this time softer, almost weary. “Rise. All of you.”

They obeyed, shame etched across their faces.

“I hold no grudge,” Kenneth continued. “But let this be your lesson—never mistake restraint for weakness.”

The knights bowed deeply, voices unified. “Yes, General.”

Veynar, still trembling, quickly sought to move the moment forward. He gestured, and ten knights stepped from the ranks—six males and four females, each handpicked by their captains as the finest among them.

Kenneth studied them in silence, his blindfold now removed.

One female in particular caught his eye. She was tall and slender, her black hair braided back tightly, a quiver of obsidian arrows slung across her back. Her name was Selene Veyra, and her reputation as a marksman was whispered with respect—able to fuse blood into her arrows so seamlessly that each shot struck like a spell.

Among the men, one towered above the rest. Dorian Kael, a giant of a man, stood at nearly 6’7, his muscles straining beneath his armor, his sheer presence intimidating even in stillness.

And then there was the silver-haired knight. Lean, athletic, his eyes sharp as cut glass. His name was Kaelen Drayce, a prodigy who had mastered nearly every weapon put into his hands, from blade to spear to bow.

“These three,” Kenneth said at last, pointing to Selene, Dorian, and Kaelen. “You will accompany me.”

The chosen knights bowed deeply, but Kenneth’s expression hardened.

“Not yet,” he said. “First, you will face me together.”

A ripple of shock moved through the crowd. Selene’s eyes widened. Dorian frowned deeply. Kaelen’s lips parted, then pressed thin.

“My lord,” Selene began carefully, “that… would be dangerous. We are not worthy of striking at you.”

Kenneth’s gaze sharpened. “If you cannot stand your ground against me, then you will stand no chance against Super Wolves. This is not for my sake—it is for yours.”

Silence followed. Then, slowly, reluctantly, the three knights nodded.

“As you command, General.”

Kenneth’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles.

“Good,” he said.

And as the crowd held its breath, the three drew their weapons—Selene notching an arrow that pulsed with crimson light, Dorian tightening his gauntlets with a metallic growl, and Kaelen spinning a spear into his grip with fluid precision.

Kenneth stepped forward, unbinding his hands at last, his blue eyes blazing beneath the torchlight.

“Then come,” he whispered.

The clash had not yet begun, but the air already trembled with anticipation.