The Anomaly: Crownless Heir

Three Knights

The air within the military camp was thick with a tension that would not settle, not even after the coronation had ended and the banners of House Valdros swayed proudly under the torchlight. Soldiers murmured amongst themselves, word of Kenneth’s duel with Marek still alive on every tongue, the humiliation of the veteran knight replayed in their minds like a song they could not quiet. Yet what weighed heavier now was not the defeat of Marek, but the trial that Kenneth himself had declared.

Three knights had been chosen. Three of the best in the camp, sworn to the new general, sworn to the crown, sworn to him. They stood in the training grounds at the heart of the camp, where a wide circle of packed earth had been cleared for the spar. Soldiers crowded on all sides, restless for spectacle. The torches flared as if eager to illuminate the clash that would soon unfold.

Prince Kenneth Valdros stood at the center of the ring, his black hair falling across his brow, the faint glow of his unnatural blue eyes catching the firelight in an almost unsettling gleam. His twin katana blades were sheathed at his hip, yet his hands hung loose, relaxed, as though he needed nothing more than his fists. The air around him was different from the other vampires. It was colder, sharper, as though the shadows themselves bent around his presence.

“General,” Dorian Kael said, his voice low, booming, respectful yet weighted. “Are you certain you wish to do this with bare hands? We’ve all heard the tales of your speed, but we’re armed, and you are not. Even restraint can wound.”

Murmurs rose from the watching crowd, but Kenneth tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into something between a smirk and a warning.

“You think I fear wounds?” Kenneth asked, his voice calm, almost too calm. “No. What I fear is being surrounded by knights who hold back against me. If you dare treat me like porcelain, I’ll show you what it means to be shattered.”

The words sent a ripple through the crowd. Selene Veyra shifted uneasily, her slim frame taut with focus. The bow across her back gleamed, and the quiver at her hip shimmered faintly with blood-infused arrows. She had heard rumors of Kenneth’s cruelty, but when she looked into his eyes, she did not see cruelty. She saw fire—wild, restrained only by will.

Kaelen Drayce smirked, silver hair catching the light as he spun his twin short blades in a lazy circle. “I like him already. Reckless. Let’s test just how reckless he is.”

Kenneth’s gaze swept over the three. Selene, the marksman with precision sharper than steel. Dorian, a giant whose strength could crush boulders. Kaelen, a prodigy with every weapon. He had chosen them for a reason. If they could withstand even a fragment of what he could unleash, then they were worthy to stand at his side.

“Draw your weapons,” Kenneth said, his tone cutting through the crowd like a blade. “Fight me as if your lives depend on it. Because one day, they will.”

The circle went silent.

The three knights exchanged brief looks. Then, as one, they stepped forward.

Selene’s bow rose, an arrow already nocked, the tip glowing faintly crimson with the essence of her blood. Kaelen twirled his short blades, lowering into a stance that spoke of lethal efficiency. Dorian’s gauntleted hands clenched into fists, and though unarmed, the sheer weight of his body promised devastation with every swing.

Kenneth dropped into no stance. He simply stood there, hands loose, chest rising slow.

“Begin,” he said.

Selene loosed her arrow first, the twang of her bowstring slicing through the air like a whip. The blood-forged arrow screamed across the distance, faster than mortal eyes could follow—yet Kenneth was already gone. He moved with such speed that the soldiers in the crowd gasped, their eyes struggling to catch up as his form blurred. The arrow struck empty air where he had been standing, embedding itself deep into the wooden post beyond the circle, the wood splintering with a hiss.

Kaelen surged forward, blades flashing. One slashed low, the other high, perfect synchronization honed through years of training. Kenneth slipped between them like smoke, his body bending unnaturally, his speed an insult to Kaelen’s precision. A sharp c***k followed as Kenneth’s elbow slammed into Kaelen’s ribcage, forcing the knight back with a grunt.

Dorian came next, bellowing as he swung his massive arm down like a hammer. Kenneth caught the strike with one hand—one hand—and twisted, using Dorian’s momentum to flip the giant of a man onto his back. The ground shook from the impact, and the crowd roared.

But Kenneth did not pause. He pivoted, vanishing in a blur, and appeared behind Selene just as she drew another arrow. His hand closed around the shaft mid-flight, the blood-tipped edge inches from his eye. He snapped it in half and dropped the pieces at her feet, his gaze piercing into hers.

“You hesitate,” he said, his tone sharp.

Selene’s heart hammered, but she gritted her teeth and nocked another arrow, firing point-blank. Kenneth tilted his head, letting it graze past his cheek before his knee shot upward, striking her bow arm with just enough force to numb it without breaking bone. She hissed, stepping back, but her eyes never left him.

“Better,” Kenneth murmured, before spinning away, intercepting Kaelen’s next strike with his bare forearm. Steel met flesh with a screech, yet Kenneth’s skin did not yield. His other hand lashed out, open-palmed, slamming into Kaelen’s chest with a thunderclap that sent him sprawling.

The soldiers cried out, half in awe, half in disbelief. The three knights regrouped, bruised, panting, their pride stung.

Kenneth rolled his shoulders, his breathing steady, his eyes aglow with faint blue fire. “Is this all the king’s finest can offer? Strike me. Make me bleed. Make me regret sparing my blades.”

His words were not taunts. They were commands.

The knights surged together this time, no longer holding back. Selene’s arrows rained like crimson meteors, Kaelen’s blades flashing in relentless arcs, Dorian charging like a war beast, fists breaking the earth with every strike. The circle became chaos, yet within that chaos, Kenneth moved like a phantom.

Every strike they threw was met with counterstrikes faster than thought. Kenneth’s fists cracked like thunder, his kicks slammed with the force of siege weapons, his body weaving between arrows that should have skewered him. His speed was so absolute that the knights could not land a single touch—not even a scrape.

And yet Kenneth did not make it easy. He pressed them, forced them, driving Selene to fire until her arms ached, driving Kaelen to swing until sweat stung his eyes, forcing Dorian to pour every ounce of strength into blows that never connected. His ferocity was unrelenting, his strikes brutal, his restraint the only mercy keeping them alive.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of clashing steel, whistling arrows, and the thunder of fists, Kenneth halted. He stepped back, his chest rising just a fraction faster than before. His eyes swept over the three knights, their bodies battered, their weapons trembling, their pride wounded but their spirits unbroken.

He exhaled slowly. “Enough.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

“You’ve passed,” Kenneth said at last, his voice carrying through the camp. “Not because you defeated me. You didn’t. But because you forced me to fight. You made me focus. You made me use nearly all of my speed. That is more than I can say for most generals I’ve met.”

The words struck like a revelation. Murmurs spread through the crowd—respect, awe, even fear.

Kenneth’s gaze softened slightly as he looked at the three knights. “Go. Prepare your things. We march by nightfall.”

The three bowed their heads, though Selene lingered as the others left. Kenneth’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Selene. Stay.”

She stiffened, then stepped forward, standing before him.

“How old are you?” Kenneth asked, his tone softer now.

“Seventeen,” she replied, her voice steady despite the bruises on her arm.

“The same as me,” Kenneth said, studying her. “Do your parents approve of you marching into war? Of fighting in battles where you may not return?”

Selene’s eyes dimmed, though her chin lifted. “My parents are dead, General. I have no family. Only my fellow knights.”

For a moment, Kenneth’s expression shifted. The faintest flicker of sorrow crossed his features, gone as quickly as it appeared. He said nothing more, only nodded.

“Go,” he said quietly. “Prepare yourself.”

Selene bowed her head, then turned to leave, her steps echoing against the packed earth.

Kenneth stood alone in the circle, the murmurs of the camp rising around him. His fists still tingled with the memory of the blows he had delivered, his blood still simmered with the restraint he had forced upon himself. He had proven his command. He had chosen his knights. And by nightfall, they would march into the darkness together.