Realm of logress

Chapter four

The bells of Naialara tolled with the first light of dawn, their chimes rolling through the streets like ripples of gold. The morning air smelled of cedar smoke and blooming thistle, sweet and sharp, cutting through the cool mist that curled over the rooftops. Arthur had not slept. He’d returned from the cave only hours earlier, the memory of the darkness and the faint hum of the sword still etched in his bones. He had hidden it beneath the cloth in his chambers, unsure what to do, unsure even what it truly was.

The city stirred. Servants hurried through stone corridors, banners were unfurled, horns sounded from the watchtowers. Today was the Day of Light — the annual festival marking the founding of Naialara. Arthur should’ve felt joy, pride, something. Instead, his chest carried a weight that pressed against every breath.

He stood at his window, watching the sunlight spread across the valley. Somewhere beneath that same light lay the cave, waiting, breathing in silence. The sword called to him even now — not with words, but with a presence, like something ancient had awakened and recognized him.

There was a knock at his chamber door.

“Arthur?” It was Sann’s voice — steady, familiar, grounding.

Arthur pulled the cloth tighter over the sword and turned. “Come in.”

Sann entered, wearing his ceremonial cloak of blue and silver. He looked excited, though his smile dimmed when he saw Arthur’s face.

“You didn’t sleep again, did you?”

Arthur shook his head.

Sann sighed. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I might have,” Arthur murmured.

Sann frowned, but before he could ask, a trumpet sounded in the courtyard below — the call for assembly.

“Come on,” Sann said. “Your father’s already waiting. Let’s not keep the King guessing why his son’s late.”

Arthur hesitated, glancing once more at the shrouded sword. He almost left it there. Almost.

But something in his chest whispered otherwise.

He wrapped it carefully, slid it beneath his arm, and followed Sann into the morning light.

The courtyard blazed with color. Flags snapped in the wind, soldiers stood in rows, and the high nobles of Naialara gathered in their polished armor. King Tarthain stood upon the dais, tall and broad-shouldered, the morning sun catching in his silver-threaded beard. He looked every inch the ruler the songs praised him to be.

When Arthur and Sann approached, the King’s gaze softened. “My son,” he said, voice echoing across the courtyard. “You’ve been gone these past days. Have you found what you sought?”

Arthur hesitated, glancing at the crowd.

“I… found something,” he said, unwrapping the cloth. Gasps spread like wind through grass.

There it was — the sword.

Even dulled by age and dirt, its beauty was unmistakable. The hilt was carved with strange runes that shimmered faintly beneath the light. The blade was long, flawless, untouched by rust or time.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Even the King stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “Where did you find this?”

“In a cave beyond the valley,” Arthur said. “It was buried in stone.”

At those words, murmurs broke out among the nobles. In stone? The old legend? Impossible.

The King raised a hand, silencing them. “Show me.”

Arthur drew the sword slowly from its wrappings. The sound it made was unlike any steel — a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in the bones of all who heard it.

The King’s eyes widened. He reached for it, but the moment his fingers brushed the hilt, the sword flared — a thin line of light, like a heartbeat. He withdrew his hand instantly, startled.

Arthur looked down at the blade, then back at his father.

“It recognized you,” the King whispered. “Just as it did your grandfather.”

That night, the halls of Naialara were filled with song.

Wine flowed, torches burned, laughter echoed against the walls. The people celebrated their prince, the one who had drawn the Sword of Kings — though Arthur himself sat in silence.

The sword lay beside him, its light now faint, pulsing as if alive. He felt uneasy, the praise of others rolling off him like rain.

Sann nudged him gently. “You should be smiling. You’re the talk of the realm.”

Arthur managed a small one. “Then maybe the realm should talk of someone else.”

Sann chuckled. “You’ve always been too serious. Just this once, enjoy it.”

But Arthur couldn’t. Something in the air had shifted.

And then — the hall doors burst open.

A rider, cloaked in dust and blood, stumbled into the feast. “Your Majesty!” he gasped. “Fires in the southern watch! Black banners in the hills!”

The music stopped.

King Tarthain rose. “Whose banners?”

The rider hesitated, trembling. “The sigil of the Broken Moon.”

The words hung heavy. The Broken Moon — the mark of Narlaig, the brother who betrayed the crown.

The King’s jaw tightened. “Sound the horns. Double the guard. And you—” he pointed to Arthur “—come with me.”

The night deepened. The moon hid behind a veil of cloud. From the high tower, Arthur watched as torches dotted the horizon — not stars, but fire.

“They move fast,” he said quietly.

His father nodded grimly. “He’s waited for this day.”

Arthur turned to him. “Then let me ride with the vanguard. We can intercept them—”

“No,” Tarthain said sharply. “You’ll stay here.”

“Father—”

“I said no!” The King’s voice cracked like thunder. Then, softer, “Your time will come, my son. But not tonight.”

They stood in silence for a long while. The torches below flickered, then vanished into the dark.

When Arthur finally returned to his chamber, he could not sleep. He sat by the window, watching the wind twist through the trees, his hand resting on the sword.

And then — he saw it.

A glow on the horizon.

Then another.

Then a dozen more.

Fire.

The warning bells screamed through the city.

Arthur grabbed the sword and ran.

He tore through the corridors, the air thick with smoke and shouting. Servants fled, soldiers clashed in the courtyards, and the scent of burning thatch filled his lungs.

“Sann!” he shouted, searching through the chaos.

He found him near the stables, sword drawn, face streaked with soot.

“They’ve broken through the southern gate!” Sann yelled. “The Black Warrior himself leads them!”

Arthur’s heart hammered. “Then we end it here.”

They fought side by side — steel flashing in the firelight, enemies pouring through the gates. For every foe they struck down, two more appeared.

“Arthur!” Sann shouted, pointing toward the keep. “Your father—”

A thunderous c***k split the air. The keep’s great doors exploded inward. From the smoke emerged a figure in black armor, his face hidden behind a helm shaped like a skull. The Black Warrior.

Sann charged — brave, foolish Sann — but the Warrior’s blade moved like lightning. One stroke, and Sann fell.

Arthur froze. The world narrowed to the ringing of steel, the rush of blood, the sight of his friend’s body crumpling into the fire.

He screamed — a sound raw and broken — and rushed the Warrior. Their blades met, sparks flying. The impact jolted through Arthur’s arms. He swung again and again, fury giving him strength. But the Warrior caught each strike with effortless grace.

“You are not ready,” the Warrior said, voice like gravel and thunder.

With a brutal backhand, he sent Arthur sprawling. The sword skidded from his grasp.

Arthur crawled toward it — but then he saw his father.

King Tarthain stood at the top of the steps, blood on his armor, a sword in hand.

“Leave my son,” the King commanded.

The Black Warrior turned slowly, almost reverently. “Your line ends tonight.”

Their blades met — light and shadow clashing, the sound deafening. Arthur struggled to his feet, reaching for his sword, but before he could move, the Black Warrior drove his blade through the King’s chest.

“NO!” Arthur roared.

Tarthain gasped, his hand reaching out — not for the sword, but for his son.

“Run,” he whispered. “Live.”

Then his body fell, and the hall was drowned in fire.

Arthur stumbled through the smoke, dragging himself out into the courtyard. Around him, Naialara burned — the city of light reduced to ash and screams. He fell to his knees beside Sann’s lifeless body, gripping his friend’s hand until the heat forced him to let go.

Tears cut clean tracks down his soot-stained face. He looked up at the dark sky, the embers falling like dying stars.

“I will come back,” he whispered, voice trembling with fury and grief. “I swear it. I will return, and I will make him pay.”

The sword’s light flickered once, as if it heard him.

And as Naialara fell behind him, Arthur turned and vanished into the smoke — a prince without a kingdom, carrying the last hope of a dying light.