Snow whispered across the rooftops of the Northern Banner's fortress, the white silence interrupted only by the steady sounds of feasting. Inside the grand hall, warm firelight danced on the stone walls as nobles, generals, and servants gathered around long oaken tables. Food was abundant—steamed meats, fire-roasted root vegetables, thick golden soups. And at the center of it all, sat the young lord who had captured the hearts of an entire banner.
Chalice.
His hair was still as golden as the stories said, but now longer, tied back in a regal tail that swayed when he laughed. And laugh he did—loudly, often, and at everyone. He was vibrant, chaotic, and wild in the way a comet is wild, brilliant in its fire but with a path only it understood. Though divine in origin, he now looked like a boy of sixteen. In truth, his divine blood marked him at over two hundred years of age, but no one in the Banner dared to speak of him as anything but the boy who had become their light.
"—and then I told her," Chalice said between bites, mouth half-full, "if the soup's hot enough to melt armor, maybe don't serve it to a man still wearing his gauntlets!"
Laughter burst out across the room. Even the old generals chuckled. The king's eyes, sharp but kind, watched the boy with the weight of a father's pride.
"Chalice," King Raevan said, lifting his wine. "To your sixteenth winter. You've honored this Banner more than any child of blood could have."
Chalice raised his glass with a wink. "To the old man who feeds me and teaches me how to hit things harder!"
More laughter.
Lord Vyrran, ever serious but with a faint smile tucked into his beard, leaned toward the king. "He's grown."
"He has," Raevan replied, voice low. "Faster than I expected. But the gods don't give children—they give storms."
Then, as if the weight of the world had crept back into the room, Raevan stood. The hall slowly quieted.
"There is war on the horizon."
Even Chalice's grin dimmed a little. He cocked his head. "What clan's foolish enough to rattle swords with the Northern Banner?"
Raevan did not smile. "The Crimson Vale. They've made a pact with devils."
A silence rippled through the room. Chalice's eyes sharpened. His thoughts flickered back to when he was only a crying child—how his father, the war god, had vanished into the heavens to wage the holy war against those very devils. He hadn't returned. Not yet.
"When?" Chalice asked.
"We march in a week."
Chalice nodded, as if it were a simple matter. "Then I'll get my armor polished."
General Vyrran, seated near the boy, narrowed his eyes. "Are you ready for war, boy?"
The question was sharp, deliberate. But everyone in the room already knew the answer. Chalice smirked, licking grease from his fingers before replying.
"I was born from war, wasn't I?"
Vyrran exhaled and nodded. "That you were."
And then the room relaxed. The feast resumed. But beneath the table, Chalice's fingers tapped in rhythm on the hilt of the ceremonial blade he carried—not because he was nervous, but because something stirred inside him. Something old. Something divine.
Something that had been waiting to return to war.
Chalice's armor shimmered faintly under the dull winter sky, polished silver layered with the dark blue sash of the Northern Banner. The northern wind bit at his cloak, but he hardly noticed. Snow had melted into a crisp mist, painting the landscape in a hushed gray silence. His boots echoed softly as he strolled through the main courtyard—one last walk before war.
"Still hammering with your eyes closed?" Chalice called to a grizzled blacksmith near the forge.
The old man barked a laugh. "Still running your mouth, young lord?"
Chalice grinned. "Wouldn't be me if I didn't."
He paused and gave the man a firm clasp on the shoulder. "Keep this place warm for me."
"Aye. And you keep that sword clean."
He wandered on, passing through the bustling fortress, exchanging nods with archers on the ramparts and tossing an apple to a stable boy. Every corner of the Northern Banner had become a home to him—its people, a family.
But there was one he had to see before leaving.
She was in her usual spot, folding linens near the servants' hall. Her hair streaked with age, her hands calloused but steady. Chalice slowed his steps.
"I brought your favorite," he said, holding up a small pouch.
She looked up and squinted. "It better not be those awful nut candies again."
"It is," he smiled. "Because they're your favorite."
She sighed but took them. "You're still a brat."
He leaned down and hugged her tightly. "Don't worry. I'll be back before they go stale."
She hit the back of his head lightly. "You better."
The march began under pale morning light. Rows of disciplined troops moved in unison, the Northern Banner's insignia fluttering above them—blue and steel-gray. Chalice rode beside King Raevan, golden hair catching the light like a beacon. His blade sat lazily at his hip, and his mouth, as always, moved faster than his horse.
"Do you think devils have table manners?" Chalice asked the rider beside him. "What if they eat like dogs?"
A few soldiers chuckled. The king arched an eyebrow.
"I think you'll have the answer soon enough," Raevan replied.
"Oh I plan to ask one. Right before I stab it."
A few more laughs broke out. But not all. Some men looked forward, jaws tight and eyes steeled. Chalice noticed.
They're scared…
And who could blame them? The Crimson Vale was no ordinary enemy. They'd made deals with the devils. They wielded cursed powers. This wasn't just a war—it was an invocation of nightmares.
Chalice kept talking anyway. Joking, teasing, even singing a little. If they laugh, they won't think about dying. That was his gift. He could read people. He just couldn't save all of them.
Then the swamp mist thickened—and chaos arrived.
"AMBUSH!" shouted the king, standing in his stirrups.
Flashes of red cloaks burst from the bog, arrows whistling through the fog. Screams rang out as soldiers dove from their saddles or raised shields in panic.
The mages were fast—Northern incantations flaring as they conjured a thick fog to match the enemy's. Echoes bounced in every direction. Horses shrieked. Steel met steel.
Chalice swung off his horse mid-gallop, landing with the grace of a cat.
"Right," he murmured, drawing his sword. "Let's get to work."
He became motion. Silent. Lethal. Every step was smooth, every slash elegant. He didn't roar or curse—he smiled. A focused, serene kind of smile. Like this was what he was meant for.
One enemy came at him with a burning blade, flame snaking around its edge. Chalice sidestepped, disarmed the man in two strikes, and dropped him with a third.
Another enemy split into two—a mirror technique. Chalice didn't blink. He cut both in a single, spiraling slash.
Around him, the Crimson Vale's soldiers fought like demons. Powers laced their movements—lightning, smoke, phantom limbs, spectral blades.
They all have abilities…
He pivoted, parried a strike laced with frost, and retaliated with a swift slash across the ribs.
Is it because of my father…?
He ducked under a spear, rolled forward, and came up slicing. Another fell. His breath came steady.
No fire, no ice, no tricks… just me.
He struck again—elegant and surgical. His golden hair whipped behind him like a banner in motion.
I don't have anything like that. I just… learn fast. I move well. I fight better.
Another opponent lunged. Chalice turned the blade aside with a flick of his wrist and kicked the man halfway across the battlefield.
Is it the divine blood? Or am I just… different?
He didn't know.
And right now, it didn't matter.
Because his swordsmanship was enough.
It had always been enough.
He looked around as the last of the ambushers fell. The Northern Banner's troops were regrouping, breathing hard but standing tall. The fog began to thin.
Chalice exhaled and sheathed his sword. No blood on him. Not a scratch. Just sweat and silence.
The swamp road belonged to them now.
But this was only the beginning.