March Toward War
1113 Words
The courtyard of obsidian stone rang with the clash of steel on steel, the hiss of blades slicing air, and the deep, rhythmic chants of old vampire war songs echoing faintly from the castle balconies. It had been a full year since the royal princes of House Valdros began their rigorous training, and now, beneath the crimson sky of dawn, five of the six brothers stood sweating and panting in the royal training grounds—each at different stations, mastering their respective disciplines.
Kenneth Valdros, now six, stood in the center of the weapons arena, his black curls damp with sweat, his young body bruised but unbroken. In his hands were the legendary twin katanas—Raelith and Nocturne—passed down from the King’s great-grandfather. Despite his potential and growing strength, Kenneth struggled to synchronize with their weight and rhythm. The blades were powerful, ancient, and sensitive to will. And Kenneth, for all his speed and power, had not yet found perfect harmony with them.
Each s***h he delivered was followed by a correction from a voice that had grown ever-familiar.
> “Too wide on the arc. Again,” said Varic, the Weaponmaster.
He stood like a granite monument at the edge of the platform, arms folded across his broad chest. His deep crimson armor bore the scars of a hundred campaigns, and the great zweihänder on his back never left its sheath unless it had to taste blood. Silent for the most part, he only spoke when necessary—his words short, heavy, and undeniable.
Kenneth exhaled, repositioned his stance, and tried again. This time, the blades moved faster—one slashing horizontally, the other thrusting upward in fluid succession.
> Clang!
Varic stepped forward and caught both with a single staff, stopping Kenneth’s momentum.
> “Better,” he said flatly. “But not perfect.”
Kenneth panted, frustration flickering across his face. He looked down at the blades in his hands, sweat dripping from his brow.
> “It’s like they’re too heavy when I move fast.”
> “It’s not the weight,” Varic said, circling him. “It’s your will. These blades belonged to a warlord who split mountains. They don’t listen to noise. They listen to intent.”
> “I am trying!” Kenneth snapped before catching himself. “I mean… I’m trying.”
Varic gave him a long look, then nodded once.
> “Then try harder.”
From the other end of the grounds, loud laughter echoed. Aurelius, now fourteen, had just bested three elite soldiers in a sparring match, his blade still gleaming as he sheathed it with pride. Darien stood to the side, observing quietly with narrowed eyes, while Lucien leaned against a column, watching everything with his usual detached amusement. Sevrin, calm and eerily expressionless, was in the distance practicing bloodcraft formations with runes burned into the air.
Marek, now ten, was locked in a brutal hand-to-hand drill with a hulking instructor twice his size—and matching him with every punch.
Kenneth was about to return to his stances when the heavy doors to the courtyard flung open. A royal guard, breathless and pale, sprinted in, falling to one knee.
> “Forgive the interruption!” the guard announced, lowering his head. “By order of His Majesty, Princes Aurelius, Darien, Lucien, and Sevrin are summoned to the throne room at once.”
The clatter of weapons quieted. The named princes exchanged quick glances.
> “Finally,” Aurelius murmured with a sharp grin, brushing dust from his armor. “Took long enough.”
Darien and Lucien said nothing, but Sevrin’s hand stopped mid-formation. His fingers twitched.
The four brothers turned away from the training yard, leaving Marek and Kenneth behind, and began the long walk through the colonnaded corridor toward the throne room.
---
The towering double doors of the throne room creaked open, revealing a long crimson carpet leading to the blackstone throne upon which King Vaelor Valdros sat, back straight and eyes like burning coals. He wore ceremonial armor—dark, regal, layered in sharp ridges with a crimson cloak flowing behind him like liquid blood. A dozen generals stood in formation behind him, and the tension in the room was palpable.
As the princes stepped forward and knelt, the King rose.
> “My sons,” he began, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. “The time has come.”
They said nothing. Even Aurelius knew to hold his tongue.
> “The werewolves have struck. District Thalos has fallen. Reports say the enemy numbers are large, their alphas bold. Our western flank is vulnerable.”
He descended the steps of his dais slowly, eyes hard.
> “You are no longer merely princes. You will now command.”
Aurelius lifted his head slightly, lips twitching.
> “We are ready, Father.”
> “You will be,” the King corrected. “You each will be given command of 1,000 knights—your personal division. You will report directly to your assigned generals and engage in the war effort from different strongholds along the border.”
Darien’s brow furrowed.
> “Am I to command apart from Aurelius?”
> “Each of you will stand alone,” the King replied. “No shadows to hide beneath. No brothers to lean on. You will forge your own legacy.”
Sevrin blinked slowly.
> “What of Marek and Kenneth?” he asked, voice cold.
The King’s eyes flickered.
> “They will remain here. They are not yet of age.”
> “Marek’s almost ready,” Lucien noted.
> “He will join the army soon. Kenneth…” the King paused. “...will continue training.”
Aurelius said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.
The generals then stepped forward, laying out scrolls and maps of the warfront across a long obsidian table. Discussions of troop movement, werewolf terrain tactics, and magical defenses began to fill the hall. The princes stood around the table, soaking in the gravitas of what lay before them.
---
Back in the training yard, Kenneth sat beside Marek on a bench, guzzling water from a crystal flask.
> “They were summoned,” Marek muttered. “You think they’re going to fight already?”
Kenneth nodded faintly.
> “The war’s getting closer.”
Marek cracked his knuckles.
> “Good. Let them have their fun. I’ll be there soon.”
Kenneth didn’t answer. He looked down at Raelith and Nocturne, resting across his knees. Something twisted in his chest.
They weren’t just swords anymore. They were a responsibility. A future.
- Writer
