Sixteen Years ago...

The horns wept from the castle walls approximately three hundred yards ahead. Spotlights shone from the top of the cornered towers, almost blinding Ranun as he assessed Falcon Hill, Soucrest’s capital city. This was his city, his hometown.

Those on top of the walls wanted to bar him from entering. The entire war hinged on this siege.

Opposed from the walls, Ranun had his army set up their tents the night prior, constructing right as they arrived at the city’s doorstep. Though, they would take them down before nightfall, one way or the other.

He never had a necessarily large army, though his men were good. Damn good. The best. Tonight they would be tested, but no more brutally than the five years before now. The men behind him were all different. Ranun could remember each of their names, as well as the friends they’ve all undoubtedly lost.

Tonight, they would celebrate their victory. And tomorrow, they would mourn.

Take the city now, and win the war, Ranun thought. He stood staring at the city walls, thirty feet from base to top. Mythstone, unbreakable. Darker than death itself. Cannons had been around hundreds of years since Peyton Guilis’ Reign, but mythstone could withstand anything thrown at it. Too heavy to wear or wield, however. And too heavy to lift a bridge made of it up either. So, Ranun’s eyes honed in on the wooden drawbridge behind the moated river separating Falcon Hill from their liberators.

Ranun sighed, looking around. Gordon struck up a campfire behind Ranun, building it instantly when Ranun had struggled to draw so much as a single spark. He dressed around the fire with a ring of stones, feeding wood to the fire to form a pyramidal shape. So competent. The better brother.

Yet, Ranun Spring, not his brother, at the center of this rebellion. Gordon had been father’s favorite, his successor, though he deserted him to join Ranun in rebelling instead. Gordon was better with the sword, though he did have four years over Ranun. His face, at times, made that gap look like twenty. Hardened, defined, the cheekbones made his face look prismatic like a diamond. Meanwhile, Ranun was considered among others to be handsome and babyfaced below his thick blond beard.

The heat coming from the fire felt warmer going through the leather on his back than the skin of his hands. He approached the fire, placing his hands above the smoke. He felt the heat, though when he removed them, they still felt cold. “Is it too early?” Ranun asked.

“Early?” Gordon snorted. “It’s been almost five years! Most rebellions get squashed in two seasons, max.”

“Right,” Ranun said. “But I suppose that doesn’t tell us what to do when the revolting side stands a chance.”

“The Reece Riots proved that crowns can’t oppress the people,” Gordon said. He wore his heavy set of steel armor, painted orange, which shone a more crimson red as the firelight bounced off of his suit. Like all Colorswords, he was sworn to his armor and his blade. The latter of which leaked pink mist from the Soulgem enchanted to its hilt. He was perfect for the job Ranun gave him. Head General of the Colorswords. “We can change things for the better. You’ll make Soucrest a better kingdom.”

Ranun sighed. “Reece was different. They changed things from the inside by protests and complaints, eventually inspiring Lent Trant to challenge the king. He won, taking the crown fair and square. But what are we doing? We aren’t playing the meritocracy like King Lent did; we are an outside entity, taking it not by honor, but by force.”

Gordon shook his head, staring into the fire rather than Ranun’s eyes. “You don’t get it. You never have. What you’re fighting for, you still think it’s about you. But you’re ever wrong. Still a child after six years a warrior, huh? There are people inside those city walls, and when you enter, they won’t boo at your arrival but cheer. You are not their conqueror Ranun, but their liberator.”

“He called me a coward,” Ranun said, thinking about King Nolan Whyte. The old king shouted that Ranun was too cowardly to take the crown with honor through a duel. Assassin after assassin, Ranun had to kill because the self-proclaimed honorable king wanted him and his rebellion squashed. “But he’s the one who won’t settle this like the man he claims to be. He’d rather risk the lives of not only his soldiers but the ordinary civilians inside.”

“Honor always prevails,” Gordon quoted. Peyton Guilis’ last recorded words before his death. “You’re the one with real honor. Hell, if he’d been honorable, he’d give the crown to his brother. That freak…”

When it came to crowns, the strongest ruled over their respected nations. Which made what Ranun was about to do questionable, but only to himself. To his army, Ranun was the best among them. But in reality, Gordon was the better fighter. The stronger warrior. If a man should be king, then that man better be Gordon. So Ranun thought, deep down.

“So you hate him too,” Ranun said. Aidan, Ranun’s squire, had complained a lot about him as well. They had valid reasons to hate the man who had claimed so many lives for the enemy. At his right hand, King Nolan had a killing machine in the form of his brother, yet he’d never sent him to Ranun directly. Perhaps it hurt the king’s reputation to rely on his brother to do all of his killings. “I think even his brother hates him. Did you hear of the rumors? His own army turned on him in the middle of battle. Both Colorswords and Dullswords swarmed him, forming a temporary alliance.”

“They are rumors for a reason,” Gordon grunted.

“Only because when the chaos ended, there were so few left alive that nobody could confirm if that was what happened or not.”

“If it did, wouldn’t you think Symond would charge back into his city and kill his brother for his betrayal?”

“Perhaps he loves him too much to kill him,” Ranun said, grabbing his chin. Symond might be inside with Nolan, and if he was, Ranun doubted he could handle both of them at the same time.

His goal tonight, ultimately, was to take the crown. It wouldn’t be easy, but nothing ever truly was. All the time Ranun spent fighting and plotting alongside his brother, he could hardly be there for his two-year-old son. Fortunately, Aeryn had the blessings of the most wonderful woman in the world being his mother.

“A Whyte hates while the other loves? Unlikely. Stop thinking about Symond. Your target isn’t him, but Nolan. You take his crown at dawn.”

Ranun nodded, reluctant. He had complained too much about his predicament with the crown to bring it up now, at the rebellion’s climax. Ranun looked to the walls again, blinded by the spotlights shining on him and his army, watching and waiting for them to begin the assault.

Ranun reached his fingers inside the collar of his Colorplate. He had orange on too, though only on his leather, while the steel was unpainted. The color of the leather surrounding his chest plate chipped away to wear—threads dangling and folding around the metal plate protecting his upper chest. Ranun tapped his heels together, pink mist rising from his Soulsmithed boots, named Accelen’s Boots. They, by far, had been the most metal anywhere on his body, reaching halfway up his calves. Though, the boots were anything but obtrusive to Ranun’s movement. They didn’t hinder his movement but enhanced it.

The large Soulgem, split into halves for each boot, gave the armor a unique power. Something unreplicable.

“Master,” a deep voice came from behind. Ranun turned away from the blinding lights to see Aidan Payne approach the fire. “When should I ready the men?”

“We attack at dawn,” Ranun said. He turned to Gordon. “Tell your men to spare as many lives as possible. Kill only when necessary.”

Gordon nodded. He didn’t protest, though Ranun could tell when his brother was skeptical of the order. He always seemed to twitch his mouth whenever he disagreed. For some reason, Gordon respected Ranun enough not even to question his orders, despite their different approaches to this war.

Ranun turned back to his squire. “Tell your men the same thing. Your job in the city, however, is to secure the civilians, let them know that they aren’t in any danger.”

“Should be easy,” Aidan said. “The enemy praises you, master.”

“Stop calling me master,” Ranun said. When he looked into the youth of his squire’s eyes, he could only hope his son would turn out to be half the man Aidan bloomed into. “You’ve grown up too much to use such a word with me. And don’t call them the enemy either. They are our own.”

“Should I say ‘Your Majesty’ instead?” Aidan jested. Even in-joke, his words reached too deep, unsettling Ranun.

Ranun frowned. “The crown makes a man a king,” he said. “But it won’t make a man a good one.”

“The crown is a simple object,” Aidan said. “You will lead the kingdom like you’ve led the rebellion. Your influence has poisoned Nolan long enough. When his own villages provide food to keep our army alive and stable, you know you’re doing something right. The people are who matter in the end.”

Ranun nodded. Sometimes, Ranun saw a better leader than himself in the eyes of the little warrior in front of him. Twenty years old, four younger than Ranun, he had a baby face, unfitting his voice. His strong chin made him look truly fit to rule a country from the side. Maybe, when Ranun takes the crown, he should pass it down to him after a few years.

A thud and a wind strike hit from a distance behind, toward the city. Another came, and Ranun turned his head to the walls. Blinded, he could barely see the showering arrows strike the ground between Ranun’s army and the castle walls. They sounded like rain on a rooftop, piercing the wet ground.

Aidan walked up to stand by Ranun, observing the barrage unfold a distance away. The arrows came nowhere near close to harming the army. Ranun had set these tents three hundred yards apart from the walls for that reason.

Gordon remained on his log, holding a fish over the fire. He didn’t seem to care for the sight.

“Analysis, Aidan,” Ranun said. He folded his arms; his hands still felt cold and brittle.

“The arrows reach about two hundred and fifty yards,” Aidan said. He shielded his eyes from the spotlights with his hand, looking past in the fields where he otherwise couldn’t see. “And the shortest distance is about a hundred feet less than that. The archers are mixed between trained and untrained. There are possibly even civilians on that castle wall.”

Ranun nodded. Exactly. These people didn’t want to fight, nor did they want to die for their tyrant of a king. So, why should Ranun, the glorified Savior of Soucrest, take their lives? How many men and women have to die so two men could settle a difference?

If Ranun was going to be Soucrest’s savior, that meant he would save everyone. He would exorcize away the evil before filling the void with something better.

“Do you know why they are firing arrows into nothing but field?” Ranun asked. It was an important lesson for his squire to learn, understanding not only the enemy but their leaders. Aidan was bright but still a young man.

“No sir,” Aidan frowned. “Why?”

“They want to stall us,” Ranun said. “They likely have enough arrows for hours. We would be fools to charge into a barrage like this, but if we were less fortunate, we might have to. Our army, by all means, is small. They want reinforcements to arrive and flank us. Then, they’ll lower the bridge and let their army out to charge us. We can’t let that happen.”

“So, what do we do now?” Aidan asked.

Ranun kept quiet for a moment, looking up past the city walls, behind the clouds, to see the top of the Tower of Levi. The diamond-shaped head tinted orange, growing a tad brighter every second. It caught the sun rising before the horizon behind them.

“It appears dawn has come early,” Ranun said. His hands suddenly felt warm and comfortable, and he stood a little taller. He turned to Aidan and his brother. “Go ahead and prepare your men. Charge the gate when the arrows stop.”

They nodded. Gordon finally got up from his log, stretching his arms, a cooked fish pinched between his teeth as he turned. Aidan stood unmoving for a moment. “Are you sure about this?” Aidan asked. “If you go in there and die, we’ll lose everything we’ve fought for.”

“It must be done,” Ranun said. “There is no other way.”

“We could have brought cannons!” Aidan shook his head. “We could have broken the gate and crossed the river to enter.”

“But we would lose more men than we have to,” Ranun grabbed his squire’s shoulders. It was crazy how much a four-inch difference between the two men really was. At six-foot-four, Ranun felt like he had a little brother of his own, someone who looked up to him as much as Ranun looked up to Gordon. And like how Gordon saw so much of Ranun’s potential, Ranun saw even more in Aidan. “It’ll be okay. This is the best outcome. For both sides.”

Ranun pulled off from Aidan, turning back towards the wall, unsheathing his sword. His sword's sharp edge was chipped, bent even in some places. He used the same sword ever since the rebellion began. Like his armor, he hadn’t replaced it. Few men armed rebellions. And the men his army did kill, Ranun refused to steal another warrior’s sword or armor for himself. That crossed a line.

“Do you want my sword for this fight instead?” Aidan asked. His sword was still shiny. It hadn’t yet been stained by enough blood to lose its sparkle. Not like, unfortunately, Ranun’s own.

Ranun turned from the young man, tapping the iron toes of his boots on the earth, kicking up dust as he readied himself. He rolled his shoulders, lifted his sword up in the air, then twisted, flipping the blade around, the battered end toward Ranun. “I prefer the blunt side,” he said before charging forward.

The ground couldn’t hold Ranun as he dashed across, his sword gliding with the rushing wind that matched Ranun’s sprinting speed. He was light as a feather; Accelen’s Boots boosted his speed, but not only at his feet but everywhere. He sprinted as fast as a galloping horse, all while having complete control of where he was going.

Entering the barrage of arrows, Ranun dodged and weaved his way through. The spotlights turned down to highlight him as he ran through the darkness, but Ranun ran faster than they could pull the lights down. Each step kicked the earth under him like jolts of lightning exploding under him. Behind himself, a dust storm that he himself had made.

The horns yelled louder, warning of an assault. They expected the entire army to follow Ranun’s charge, but they were wrong. Ranun shot himself out over the other end of the arrow storm, uninjured. His sword vibrated in his hand, ticklish with his ramping speed.

Ranun reached the river, though water stood no chance against him, as Ranun approached the water no different than how he did the dirt ground. As Ranun ran across the bed of water, the only noticeable difference had been the sound of water snapping under him. The loud pounding was soothing as the water misted around him, giving an icy-breeze texture to the air as he passed. But that feeling vanished fast, as after the river came the mythstone wall.

Ranun leaped from the river up to the wall, catching it with his left foot, before pushing up to his right. Before he knew it, he was running up the wall by the tips of his boots.

“Where is he!” an officer yelled from atop the walls. “Damn it! Look down! He’s probably attacking the gate!”

Three bows at the top showed before their archer’s heads. Ranun crossed his right hand around his chest, flipped his sword back to his sharp end, then sliced the bows in a single slash, cutting them all into halves. When Ranun reached the top of the walls, he launched up in the air. Looking down, he saw the stunned expressions of the archers on top of the wall.

The officer wore his black, collared vest. Old and frail. Of course, he would lead archers instead of what Nolan considers to be true warriors down below guarding the gate.

Ranun fell down on two men, pinning them to the ground. The wall platform crowded with archers; about three men stood back to back extending down and into the towers ahead, which housed even more of the bowmen. They had hundreds of them up on this wall platform alone. And below, by the front gate, men stood posted, waiting behind the wooden gate for Ranun’s army to enter their city.

The archers weren’t well trained, but at least they weren’t stupid. None of them drew their bows, putting their comrades on the wall in any danger. But they approached Ranun, ready to use their bows as clubs to take him down.

Ranun opened up, flipping to his dull edge, and whacked three men on the sides of their heads. Each fell to the ground, eight in pain or knocked unconscious. The men rushed Ranun, but some, if not most of them tripped over the fallen bodies. Ranun swung in a circle, picking off more by their heads, before he dashed forward, chasing after the fleeing officer. Ranun alternated slicing bows and using his free hand to punch and jab the men. Some men, he shoved off the walls entirely to the inside, where the roofs broke their falls.

Most would at worst be injured, and Gem God forbid, a few might die.

The officer gained some ground, despite Ranun’s Soulsmithed boots. The men in the crowd were intent on bringing him down, though they were no match for his swift and slippery attacks, going down and under swings, passing through like wind through a cracked window. Eventually, the officer gained too much ground in his retreat. Ranun jumped, soaring in the sky, gliding down to land on two more men.

A valley formed among the men on the walls, all dumbfounded by Ranun’s acrobatics. It was all thanks to his boots, where he became nearly inhuman simply by wearing them. A trail of pink mist followed everywhere he went. He dragged his sword across the wood below, keeping it out of harm’s way of the archers ahead of him. The officer ran for his life, as it was clear Ranun was after him.

“Get out of my way!” the officer yelled, heading toward a wooden door to enter the tower.

A few men gained enough courage to put themselves between Ranun and the officer. Ranun lowered his shoulder, trucking through them, throwing them forward to bowl over the others. While Ranun felt light as a feather, his body had all of its weight and strength.

The officer panicked, turning back toward Ranun and losing his footing, crashing his back into the tower's wooden door behind him. Ranun approached, careful, non-aggressive.

“Let’s talk for a moment,” Ranun said. “All I need you to do is open—”

The officer whipped out a pistol. His crooked finger squeezed the trigger.

“Idiot!” Ranun bellowed, extending his sword in a swoop of his wrist. The tip of his sword barely knocked the gun out of his hand, but not before the shot discharged into the sky. Ranun gripped the officer by his shirt, pulling him inward, twirling him before bringing his sword, the sharpened end opposite his neck. He wouldn’t kill. “Did you not think about the backstop? How can even untrained men have greater discipline than their commanding officer? Or do you believe your life more valuable than theirs?”

His scolding raised concern among those around him listening in. The archers gave Ranun and the officer some space. The door to the tower opened, and three archers walked out. They were uniformed in dark gray attire, professional archers, which they stationed higher in the towers.

“Order your men to stand down,” Ranun demanded. “And you’ll all live. On my honor!”

The trained archers drew their bows, holding them on Ranun, waiting for their officer to issue the command. Ranun believed the man wouldn’t be any more foolish, now that he was in his grip, with bows aimed at them both.

“Men,” the officer said, extending his hand outward, giving a signal. He sighed before swinging his hand back, grabbing Ranun by his hair, tugging, pulling. “FIRE!”

The archers hesitated, long enough for Ranun to crouch down, freeing himself from the officer’s grip as the archers loosened their strings. The first arrow pierced through to the officer’s back, his body staggering to the mortal wound. As a mercy to the man, Ranun grabbed the back of the man’s vest before pulling him, throwing him off the side of the wall toward the outside river. Seconds later, Ranun heard the splash. The officer was dead. Ranun would rather he die quickly than suffer the few more minutes he had left.

By my hands, Ranun thought. But now was not the time to dread this incident. Ranun stepped up, and the archers didn’t draw another shot. They saw his expression and went into a neutral stance. He lowered his brows, and his frown was over it all. As he assessed what happened with the two other arrows, he noticed one strike into the ground a distance away and another through the head of a bystander. It was fortunate only two had died from the group shot.

Ranun turned to the archers. They were speechless, quivering at what they had just done. Killing an officer was a punishable offense, despite being ordered to do so. They obviously regretted what they had done. They reeked of animosity found from youths only following orders.

“Men,” he addressed the three archers, serious. Ranun had to ease their tensions. If he couldn’t do that, how could he heal the nation as king? “You’ve done your duty to your commanding officer. It was not your bow that took his or the bystander’s life, but his own command.”

The archers had their backs against the wall as they twisted and turned their heads left and right, seeking a way out, still frightened.

But Ranun pressed on. “If you want to follow a command to be proud of, lower the bridge. Let us reunite as brothers once again.”

He left them there. The door behind the archers burst open, and men pushed through, charging forward, drowning out the three stressed archers. A few had axes this time, rushing Ranun. Dangerous, to run with an ax on such a narrow walkway with so many bodies.

Ranun fought, kicking knees when he had to, shoving men to the rooftops inside the city. He resorted little to the blunt attacks to the head, though throwing them from heights was arguably more dangerous, considering they could land on their necks. It was just too hard to be pacifistic in a time like this, but Ranun gave it his best shot, charging through, making his way to the wooden gate, disrupting the barrage of arrows. They stopped firing, turning their attention to Ranun.

His boots didn’t enhance his senses, but in a way, Ranun felt like they had somehow. Without these boots, he would be nothing, overwhelmed to a crowd as large as this. But he danced, striking with every step; his entire body was a weapon, peacefully disarming those he passed.

This much combat was tiring nonetheless. And Ranun still had a king to kill. When the men gave him a short rest to breathe, he appreciated it. He wouldn’t show his fatigue if he could, but he couldn’t easily hide his breath either.

But cheers and screams came from under him. Ranun had lost track of time fighting. As he looked below alongside everybody sharing the wall’s broad platform and saw the Colorswords in their glorious armor, orange like the now rising sun, clashing with the Dullswords. Even when instructed to spare as many lives as they could, the colors overwhelmed Nolan’s forces.

Light always prevailed.

“Take a strong look, men,” Ranun said, smiling slightly. The men around him leaned to catch a glimpse of their soon-to-be king. “These men are your liberators. Lay down your arms. Soon, we will need your help repairing the city.”

Ranun caught a glimpse of Nolan’s palace, with tall spires on every corner. The middle of the building had a golden dome roof with large dark tinted windows. He’s there, Ranun thought. He took a few steps back before dashing, launching himself in the air, light in his step; he leaped tens of feet, jumping onto the rooftops inside Falcon Hill, on his way to kill a king.