Kael Ardyn was never supposed to be a hero.
He was born the third son of a failing noble house, too far from the line of succession to matter, too proud to fade quietly into the dirt. If not for the war, he would've ended up a minor knight, a handsome footnote in someone else's story.
But the world fell apart, and Kael stood in the rubble, smiling.
People needed something to believe in. And Kael knew how to become it.
---
He remembered the day they started calling him the Hero of Solis.
It wasn't after his first victory, or the first time he saved a village from a monster pack. It was the day he stood in front of the Council, bloodied and bruised, and refused to abandon the borderlands.
He was seventeen.
"We don't retreat," he'd said, voice clear as a bell. "We rise."
They ate it up.
They always did.
---
Now, standing in the palace courtyard again, Kael felt the same anticipation he used to feel before a duel—the thrill just before impact.
The sky was soft with morning light. The banners fluttered above. And Elira Vane, with her quiet eyes and healer's hands, walked through the garden archway like nothing had changed.
Because for her, it hadn't.
Not yet.
---
Kael had always liked Elira.
Not just for her beauty—though she was beautiful—but for her softness. Her belief. She looked at him like he was the answer to every prayer she never dared to say out loud.
He needed that.
He needed her.
"You're early," she said, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her tone was casual, but her cheeks were pink.
Kael smiled. The kind of smile that made bards write ballads.
"I was afraid you'd change your mind."
She laughed softly. "About taking a walk? What danger could there be in a garden stroll with the kingdom's favorite knight?"
Danger? None.
Not yet.
---
As they walked beneath the white blossoms, Kael let their silence stretch. He liked the way she walked—graceful, unhurried, grounded. A healer's walk.
He didn't know yet why he felt a strange tug in his chest.
Something off. Something wrong.
She wasn't looking at him the same way she used to.
---
Later that day, in the war room, Kael met with the Council again. They talked of border movements, of supply routes, of signs that the Deadlands were stirring. The usual.
He played his part. Listened. Nodded. Smiled.
But his mind was on her.
Elira had asked him something strange before they parted.
"If you had to choose between saving the kingdom… or saving me—what would you choose?"
He'd laughed, tried to brush it off. But her eyes had stayed serious.
Why would she ask that?
He didn't know it yet, but something had shifted.
---
That night, Kael stood in the training yard, swinging his sword long after the others had gone. Sweat rolled down his neck. His thoughts spun.
He was supposed to be the hero.
He was the hero.
So why did he feel like he was already losing?
He didn't notice the figure in the shadows at first.
Aeren.
Leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed, face unreadable.
"You're overthinking again," Aeren said quietly.
Kael wiped his blade. "About what?"
"Her. The war. Yourself."
Kael gave a tight smile. "Isn't that what heroes do? Think of everyone else?"
Aeren didn't smile back.
"No. That's what people trying to be heroes do."
Kael looked at him. Really looked.
For a moment, something cold and sharp flickered between them—like a sword being drawn just out of view.
Then it was gone.
"You think I'm trying too hard?"
Aeren shrugged. "I think you're trying not to fall."
Kael said nothing.
Because he didn't know how to admit it.
He felt it too.
Like the edge of something vast and dark was creeping closer with every breath.
And for the first time in years… Kael Ardyn wasn't sure he would survive it.