He cold breeze rustled against his skin as he sat atop the mountain peak, cloaked in silence. Clouds drifted below him like rivers of mist, swallowing the world in softness. He sat still, crimson eyes fixed on the endless sky, lost in a quiet ache that even time could not soothe.
"You're here again, brooding like some lonely god," a familiar voice broke through the hush.
Typhon didn't turn. "The clouds speak more honestly than most people I've met."
Footsteps crunched softly over stone until his friend stood beside him. "Well, the palace is alive today—war drums and polished armor. All the noble princes from every dynasty are arriving."
Typhon arched a brow.
"There's a competition. Trial of Blades. Your father's watching from the grand terrace." His friend smirked. "You should enter. Maybe this time, he'll look at you like a prince instead of a shadow."
Typhon exhaled, slow and deep. "He won't be impressed by a blade. He's waiting to see a legacy."
"Then give him one," his friend said, eyes gleaming with challenge. "Win it so brilliantly he can't look away."
HIS POV
I arrived at the grand stadium, my steps echoing against the polished marble as I ascended to the upper royal chambers. My father sat there already, robed in his ceremonial cloak, his eyes scanning the arena below. The moment he saw me, he sighed—half relief, half restrained pride.
"So, you came… finally."
"Yes," I said, taking my seat beside him. "How could I miss the moment where every dynasty's prince has gathered? And somewhere in me… I want to know just how strong I really am."
My gaze swept across the stadium's upper levels. Seven grand chambers stood in a circle, each hosting a royal line—the rulers of the seven realms seated beside their heirs. Every crest, every aura, every glance was thick with tension.
"I'm glad you came," my father murmured, a rare softness in his voice. "Let's enjoy the ceremony. I forgot to mention—before the competition begins, each prince will witness the Sword Trial."
"Sword Trial?" I turned to him, curious.
"Yes," he nodded. "It's a traditional battle where ancient swords, bound by spirit and memory, fight in their true forms. Each prince must observe—watch how the blades move, read their nature. After the duel, comes the choosing. The auction begins."
My eyes lit up. "I've never seen swords battle like that… in their true forms?"
"They'll shine with their soul flames," he said, smiling faintly. "And the strongest blade will reveal itself."
Just then, the stadium drums began to hum—deep and thunderous, shaking the very sky. The crowd fell silent. And I leaned forward, heart beating faster.
Let the games begin.
As the final drumbeat echoed into silence, a circle of flames erupted at the center of the arena. Seven swords emerged—each levitating in mid-air, their hilts glowing with ancient runes, their blades whispering forgotten oaths. They hovered in silence for a moment, as if sensing one another… and then, with a sudden flare of light, the battle began.
Steel clashed against steel, not by any human hand, but with the fury of spirits long sealed within them. Sparks flew like shooting stars, and the ground trembled under the sheer pressure of their strikes. Each blade moved with intent—some elegant and fluid like water, others brutal and feral like beasts.
But then… one sword caught my eye.
It didn't shine the brightest. It didn't strike the hardest. But it moved with grace that silenced the chaos around it. A long, slender blade with a delicate curvature, glowing faintly with violet and silver—like moonlight wrapped in a whisper.
Its hilt was engraved with an unfamiliar sigil… a flower blooming through flame. Every time it struck, it didn't just land—it danced, weaving around its opponent, slicing through with precision rather than force.
I couldn't look away.
"That one…" I murmured.
My father followed my gaze. "Ah. You noticed it too," he said. "It belonged to a warrior no one speaks of anymore. They say it was forged in the breath of an eclipse and bound to its wielder's soul."
The sword paused mid-air, hovering as if staring directly at me.
And for a second—I felt something pull inside me.
Familiarity. Recognition.
As though the sword was waiting for me.
One by one, the princes of the seven dynasties stood from their seats, each stepping forward to choose their destined blade. Murmurs rippled through the crowd as hands extended and connections were sealed—some with a burst of light, others with eerie silence.
But I… I waited.
Not because I hadn't found the sword that pulled at my soul—but because I felt the battle wasn't over.
At the heart of the arena, only two blades remained.
They hovered opposite each other—still as death, yet heavy with tension. The crowd held its breath. Then…
A pulse of ancient magic echoed, and both swords ignited with power. The air twisted. Light bent. And before our eyes—steel became flesh.
From the slender violet blade, a woman emerged.
Not just any woman—she was elegance carved in war. Her armor shimmered like starlight woven with shadows, hugging a form built for battle and beauty alike. Long silver-white hair flowed down her back like a silken river, swaying with her steps. Her eyes were amethyst fire—burning with quiet defiance and silent longing.
She held herself with the pride of a queen, yet moved like a ghost through moonlight. Each motion—flawless, fluid, purposeful. No wasted strength. No hesitation.
Her opponent—hulking, brutal, forged from a blade meant for destruction—charged forward.
She didn't flinch.
With a twist, she spun past him like a whisper on the wind. Her hand brushed the ground, and in one sweep, her blade slashed through the air—a gleam of violet light singing death.
The battle lasted moments.
She stood victorious.
The arena exploded into roars, gasps, and awe.
Trumpets blared.
"The final sword has revealed its soul!" the announcer cried. "Let the bidding begin!"
Kings and generals leaned forward. Voices rose with numbers and promises—land, gold, power. A war was about to be waged not with blades, but with greed.
And I—
I stood.
Without waiting for permission, I stepped down from the royal chamber and into the arena, silencing the crowd with every footfall.
"I choose her," I said, voice steady.
Eyes turned.
Gasps echoed.
My father stood in shock.
The sword—the woman—turned her gaze to me.
For a second, something flickered in her eyes.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
Like she had been waiting for this moment.
Waiting for me.