Rain fell hard against the stone walls of the Keep of Sunhold, thick and relentless. Through the narrow slit of the archer's window, Rylan watched as droplets pooled on the broken cobblestone below, running in rivulets through the mud, pooling around the worn boots of the palace guards. The night had fallen hours ago, yet no rest came in Sunhold; the clang of steel, the stamp of boots, and the low hum of war songs filled the air as preparations echoed through the castle's halls.

The soldiers of Eryndor readied themselves for battle. And Rylan? He was stuck in the barracks.

He pressed his hand against the cool stone, trying to ignore the prickle of envy. The men out there, wearing the colors of Eryndor, were battle-hardened, their armor scarred and scuffed. He, meanwhile, wore the plain leathers of a scout, hand-me-downs that barely fit his frame, the mail shirt slouching awkwardly over his lean shoulders. He had yet to earn his place among them. His was the blood of a common family; the name of "Rylan of Tressam" meant little to anyone outside his forgotten village.

And yet, tonight felt different. As he watched the men gather by the great gates, sharpening weapons and whispering hurried prayers to the Goddess of Light, he felt the pulse of excitement building in his veins. It wasn't every day that the King's armies mustered their full strength, not since the truce was struck with the Iron Empire last winter. A truce that now seemed to be hanging by a thread.

A shadow loomed across the archway behind him. Rylan spun, startled.

"Well, aren't you a little too comfortable here, Rylan?" The voice was smooth, tinged with the faintest hint of amusement.

Standing there was Captain Aldric, tall and stoic in his gleaming silver armor. His face was weathered from years of battle, but his dark eyes held a sharp intelligence.

"Captain!" Rylan straightened, feeling his cheeks heat. "I was just—uh, waiting for orders."

Aldric's lip twitched in something close to a smile. "Good answer. But tonight, you're more than a bystander." He tossed a roll of parchment at Rylan. "Take that to Lady Aria. She's expecting it."

"Lady Aria?" Rylan's pulse quickened. Everyone in Sunhold had heard of the King's daughter—a knight in her own right, feared and respected across Eryndor. She had the royal blood, the skill with a blade, and a reputation for kindness that left even hardened soldiers inspired. And she was said to have prophetic visions. There were whispers in the barracks that Lady Aria had seen a coming darkness, something twisted lurking in the shadows of the north.

"Try not to gawk when you see her," Aldric said, his voice gruff but his eyes betraying a hint of humor. "Now go, and don't waste time. There's a war meeting in less than an hour."

Rylan moved swiftly through the castle halls, weaving through courtiers and messengers. The stone corridors of Sunhold were cavernous, adorned with tapestries that told the stories of Eryndor's victories—dragons slain, ancient wars won, and the goddess's favor bestowed upon noble knights. At the heart of the keep lay the Hall of Dawn, where Lady Aria's quarters were. He paused outside her door, catching his breath, and knocked.

"Enter," came a voice, strong and unwavering.

Rylan stepped inside and froze. Lady Aria stood by a low-burning fire, her silhouette bathed in golden light. She wore armor, not the delicate silver filigree of noblewomen, but sturdy, battle-worn mail, layered with a deep blue surcoat bearing the crest of Eryndor. A sword hung at her side, its pommel carved with the sigil of the sun.

"Lady Aria," he managed, bowing awkwardly as he held out the scroll.

She took it, her fingers brushing his briefly, and unrolled the parchment. Her gaze flickered as she read, and for a heartbeat, Rylan thought he saw a shadow pass over her face. It was gone in an instant.

"Captain Aldric sent you?" she asked, her voice soft yet commanding.

"Yes, my lady," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "The captain said… well, that I should report to you for further instructions."

Aria's piercing blue eyes met his, studying him intently. "Rylan of Tressam, right?"

He blinked in surprise. "Y-yes, my lady."

"I've heard you have a talent for scouting," she said, tucking the scroll away. "The eyes of a hawk, Captain Aldric claims. I could use someone like that tonight." She turned to the table beside her, where a detailed map of the region was spread out, marked with symbols and annotations. She gestured for him to approach.

Rylan swallowed, stepping forward to look over the map. He could see the borders between Eryndor and the Iron Empire, the forests of Va'Korin, the enchanted rivers of Sylthir, and—far to the north—the shadowed lands of Krozaar.

"There are rumors of movement along the border with Drakkenfell," Aria said, tracing a finger along the Iron Empire's frontier. "Small, organized bands slipping past our watchtowers in the dead of night. Spies, perhaps, or advance scouts. We need confirmation."

Rylan's heart pounded. This was no routine scouting mission; this was something far more dangerous. "You want me to investigate, my lady?"

"I want you to confirm the presence of Drakkenfell soldiers." She looked at him, her gaze steady. "And if you encounter any of their scouts… dispose of them quietly."

He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words. This was more than he'd ever been asked to do. He had been on border patrols before but had never faced enemy soldiers alone. Still, the thought of turning down the assignment seemed impossible.

"Yes, Lady Aria," he said, his voice firming.

"Good." She turned to a satchel on the table, pulling out a flask of dark liquid and handing it to him. "This will mask your scent from trackers. Be cautious, Rylan. Drakkenfell's scouts are not like ours. They wield fire magic, dragon-born flames that can sear flesh in seconds. You'll have no chance if they spot you first."

He nodded, taking the flask with hands that he hoped didn't shake. "I won't let you down, my lady."

Aria's eyes softened, a flicker of something that might have been worry crossing her face. "The land is shifting, Rylan. The truce we hold with Drakkenfell hangs by the thinnest of threads. And there are whispers—whispers of a power stirring in the Forsaken Lands, something old and hungry." She paused, her gaze distant. "Eryndor cannot afford to be caught off guard. Nor can I."

"I'll make sure we're not," Rylan replied, summoning every ounce of courage he had.

"See that you do." She touched his shoulder, a brief but reassuring gesture. "The Goddess watch over you, Rylan of Tressam. Return with answers—or not at all."

Outside the castle, Rylan took a steadying breath. The rain had turned to mist, swirling around him in thick, ghostly drifts. He wrapped his cloak tighter, clutching the flask as he slipped through the castle gates and into the darkness beyond.

As he made his way into the wilds of Eryndor, Rylan's thoughts churned. The idea of crossing paths with Drakkenfell scouts, warriors known for their brutal efficiency and fire-magic, chilled him. But beneath his nerves, there was a flicker of something else: exhilaration. For once, he was a part of something significant, something that could change the course of history.

And as he moved quietly into the dark, mist-laden forest, he couldn't shake the feeling that the shadows themselves were watching.

This revised chapter introduces Rylan of Tressam as the protagonist, maintaining the tone and depth of his character and world.