Chapter 8: The Awakening of the Blade

  "I told you, I know nothing!" Aeron shouted, his frustration boiling over. He and Richard were mounted on a snow-white horse with a massive, flowing mane that rippled like silk as they galloped through the night.

  "I saw the Mark clearly on your arm!" Richard countered with absolute certainty. "How could it simply vanish like that?"

  "Look!" Aeron snapped as sweat began to bead on his brow. "I’ll admit I feel stronger, and my eyes see through this darkness as if it were dusk. But that doesn't mean I understand what’s changing inside me. And that 'Holy Sword' Tonga I pulled from the stone? It’s just a stunted, ugly wooden stick. Are you sure this legend isn't just one grand hoax?"

  "Appearances can be deceiving, Aeron," Richard replied. "Perhaps the Mark and the sword aren’t ready to manifest their full power just yet. But the Mark has slept for a thousand years; I don't believe it chose the wrong man."

  "You said Signers were born with that power, didn't you?" Aeron challenged.

  "Yes," Richard nodded, ignoring his hood as the wind tore it back. "Some are born Signers. Others must fight for it. You are a special case—the Mark chose you. It is possible your Sireoris—the Signer's thread of fate—was never severed, but remained dormant. When you touched the Holy Sword, its power ignited the Mark within you. It’s just not time for you to master it yet."

  "Not time?" Aeron cried. "I’m about to face a high-ranking mage and it's 'not time'?"

  Richard let out a short, helpless laugh at the youth’s disbelief. "I don't know the ways of the stars, lad. I truly don't."

  The crescent moon was fading as the first warm glows of the sun began to peek over the distant mountains. Vearo’tiz Forest loomed ahead, shrouded in a thick mist that clung to the leaves and dampened the lush grass growing beneath the dense thickets.

  Sir Sar’Gour, Princess Chiryl, and the loyal Royal Guards were waiting at the forest’s edge. Royal hounds with long snouts were already sniffing frantically at a cluster of fallen trees.

  The white horse let out a long neigh and skidded to a halt.

  "Did you get it?" Sar’Gour asked eagerly the moment Richard dismounted.

  "Better than expected," Richard replied. "That mage is about to face our Signer."

  "A Signer?" both the Princess and Sar’Gour gasped. "Who?"

  "Him." Richard pointed to Aeron, who was currently scratching his head and swinging a gnarled, short, and frankly hideous wooden sword. "What he’s holding is the Holy Sword Tonga. Do not let its appearance fool you. I saw it ignite the Mark on his arm with enough energy to hurl me across the tower."

  "Are you certain he’ll be alright with... that?" Sar’Gour asked, his doubt clear.

  Richard didn't blame him. Even he, who had witnessed the blue light of justice, found it hard to fully trust the boy.

  "Aeron," Richard said, pulling the boy aside before he entered the forest with the Princess. "This is the sword my father used to quell the southern rebellion. It has been in my family for generations. When I was a young man, no older than you, I was full of myself. I forged my own blade and used it until today. My father’s sword shouldn't be a mere decoration. If you need it..."

  "Thanks!" Aeron accepted the sword without hesitation. "The speech was touching, but let’s save it for later." He offered a grin and stepped into the forest, waving back at the Knight of Beche. "Don't worry, I'll bring it back in one piece!"

  "Just like we used to be, eh, old friend?" Sir Sar’Gour smiled, stepping up beside Richard.

  Richard said nothing. He narrowed his eyes, watching the two silhouettes vanish into the mysterious, dense shadows of Vearo’tiz...

  "Hey, Sixteen!" Chiryl teased as they reached the heart of the forest. "Are you really... a Signer?"

  "It’s just you and me in here," Aeron snapped. "Don't think I'll treat you like a Princess if you keep calling me that. And yes, I’m a Signer. Half-baked or not, you’d better pray to your gods it works."

  "Fine," Chiryl said, her voice regaining its royal dignity. "What is your plan?"

  "We confirm the King is safe, then I’ll demand an exchange," Aeron replied. "Once it starts, I’ll hold them off. You fire the signal flare for the reinforcements."

  "And you?" Chiryl stopped in her tracks.

  Aeron didn't look back. "Worry about yourself and His Majesty first. Even if I block the assassins, getting out won't be easy. As for my life... I know how to keep it."

  "You’ve turned into a different person overnight, haven't you?" The Princess smiled.

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  She was about to tease him further when the sound of snapping branches echoed from above. Aeron signaled her to stop. He drew Richard’s sword, his eyes scanning the high canopy where a faint, flickering light danced.

  "Maybe just monkeys..." he muttered.

  Clang!

  A small throwing knife streaked down, striking his blade and nearly knocking it from his hand.

  "Well, monkeys don't throw knives," Aeron quipped, his humor refusing to die even in the face of death.

  A dark shadow descended through a cloud of strange brown smoke. Vines suddenly dropped from the surrounding trees. In an instant, they were surrounded by eight elite assassins and a man in a long robe, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.

  "You... you are the mage who took the King?" Aeron shouted.

  The mage, Pentrius, smiled. He pulled back his hood to reveal a gaunt face covered in scars and burns. His eyes glowed a predatory red. With a snap of his fingers, his subordinates brought forward a large burlap sack and dropped it before them.

  "As promised, I return the King to you," Pentrius hissed, his lips stained dark by poisons.

  Chiryl rushed forward, embracing the sack. She frantically tore at the knots as the assassins let out sick, wheezing laughs. When the final layer of cloth fell away, she let out a piercing scream and collapsed over the blood-soaked body of her father.

  The King had been dead for a long time.

  "Bastard!" Aeron roared.

  A wave of hot blood rushed to his head, his heart simmering with a fury he had never known. Snatching up his fallen sword, he lunged at the men approaching the unconscious Princess. The eight elite assassins laughed, letting their lower-ranked minions handle the boy. Pentrius watched with morbid curiosity, eager to see the wrath of a boy he had deemed insignificant.

  Clang!

  Aeron’s blade struck with sudden, violent force. Though the minion blocked with a dagger, the raw strength behind the blow sent him sprawling into the muck. The second minion was caught off guard by the sixteen-year-old’s power and took a kick to the chest that sent him rolling to the feet of the waiting assassins.

  One of the black-clad assassins shook his head and stepped forward, drawing his sword with a merciless intent. Aeron struggled to parry the onslaught. The Holy Sword had activated his Signer strength, but his skill was nonexistent.

  In less than a minute, his hand was sliced open, and Richard’s sword was sent flying into a thorn bush. Fear, the old friend he always tried to hide, began to explode within him.

  Thud.

  A kick sent him sprawling next to the Princess and the King’s corpse. Covered in mud and dazed, Aeron looked up to see a blade raised high, ready to end him.

  The assassin looked to Pentrius. The mage gave a slow, cold nod.

  In that desperate moment, a survival instinct flared. Betting everything on a whim of fate, Aeron reached for the Holy Sword tucked into his belt and drew it.

  There was no sound of clashing steel. Instead, a thunderous explosion rocked the forest. The canopy above was shredded, leaves blasting upward into the blue sky. Through the gap, a beam of pure light struck the clearing, illuminating Aeron’s mud-and-blood-stained face.

  Even the mage recoiled, raising his hands in a defensive stance as he realized his comrade had been reduced to a broken, lifeless form by a single, horrific stroke of the Holy Sword Tonga.

  Aeron stared in horror. He had never killed. He didn't want to kill. The rage and the will to live had turned him into something he didn't recognize. The Mark on his arm burned white-hot, screaming beneath his sleeve. Aeron ripped the fabric away, letting the Mark’s fury blind everyone around them.

  "Sig... Signer..." Pentrius stammered. "You are a... Signer?"

  Aeron heard nothing. He was lost in a void of blinding white. His body moved on its own, driven by an invisible force that turned his eyes a brilliant, glowing blue. With a circular swing, Aeron unleashed a wave of golden, fiery energy that dwarfed Pentrius’s power, blowing the mage away. The remaining assassins fared worse; with no magic to shield them, they were disintegrated as a portion of the woods was leveled.

  Aeron collapsed, his strength spent. His eyes returned to normal, and the Mark faded. Gasping for air, he tried to look toward Chiryl... but the world went black as dark silhouettes began to close in from the distance.

  "No!"

  The scream echoed through the top floor of the Kroneous Tower. Richard Tuckerham burst through the door to find Aeron fallen from his bed, drenched in sweat and shaking, his fingernails digging into his palms until they bled. The sharp scent of burnt wood and ozone still clung to his hair.

  "Are you alright?" Richard asked softly, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Aeron noticed his own hand was wrapped in clean white bandages, the slice from the forest now a dull, throbbing ache.

  "Where am I? Where is the Princess?" Aeron scrambled in Richard’s grip.

  "She is safe, Aeron. She is unhurt," Richard replied. "You did something incredible. I suspect your name will be legend across the Oracle continent soon."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You defeated a high-ranking mage, killed his assassins, and leveled a portion of the woods. The light was so intense it pierced the forest canopy, reported even by scouts stationed at the outskirts," Richard said with unconcealed admiration.

  Aeron let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "I couldn't control it. I... I killed them."

  "Aeron," Richard sighed, sitting beside him. "When I was young, I felt the same the first time I had to... take a life. No matter how evil the man, the feeling is never pleasant. I’m glad you don't enjoy it. But in this world, we cannot always avoid it. Perhaps one day peace will cover the land and swords will be for sport. But today, we destroy evil to protect the good."

  "No!" Aeron turned toward the window. "I won't use Tonga again. Not until I can control it. I don't want to kill. I believe I can solve things without taking lives."

  Richard smiled, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He simply pondered the boy’s words. Perhaps the youth was right.

  "You’ve been unconscious for over a day. Today is the King’s funeral. Will you come?" Richard asked, breaking the heavy silence. "The Princess will want to see you. She hasn't spoken a word since we returned."

  "Go ahead. I need to think," Aeron replied quietly.

  Richard nodded and left the attic room. But before he closed the door, he placed a longsword beside the entrance, its hilt engraved with the eagle-and-serpent crest of House Tuckerham.

  "You earned this with your courage. My father would be proud to see it in your hands. Since you won't use the Holy Sword, you’ll need this to protect yourself and the weak. Don't forget, you are a knight."

  The door clicked shut. Aeron sighed and stared at Richard’s gift. The sharp, bitter lines of his face softened, replaced by eyes that shone with a clear, renewed pride.

  "Yes," he whispered. "I have the duty of a knight."

  Outside, the sun climbed high, shining upon a kingdom draped in the white of mourning. The people of Lorencine had lost a kind King. The children of House Shiratius had lost a father.

  As the Queen became the Queen Mother, she knelt to kiss the ring on Prince Aravirel’s hand, her eyes vacant with grief amidst the deafening shouts of: "Long live the King!"