A voice echoed in the darkness, soft yet timeless. It rose like a whisper from another world, weaving through the void and across the ages. It carried the weight of ancient memories, the fragments of a story long forgotten even by the gods.
"There was once a time when the world was one. A vast and radiant land where aether flowed freely, nourishing all that lived. Light and Shadow danced in perfect harmony. But that balance was shattered. A force born from the void—the Breaker of Life—devoured all that was, corrupting the aether and drowning the world in chaos."
The tone grew heavier, every word resonating with unshakable gravity.
"To save what could still be saved, the Goddess of Light divided the world into eight fragments. Eight Echoes. Each a flawed replica, a distorted reflection of the original. At first, these Echoes resonated in unison, but as time passed, they drifted apart, their stories carving unique paths.
Among them, the second Echo lost its light. The Dark King claimed his throne there, plunging the land into eternal winter. From the icy peaks to the ashen plains, nothing remained but shadows and ruin. Yet in the frozen desolation, there were those who defied the darkness. Brisombre. A land where the wind howls endlessly, where blood freezes, and where survival itself is a challenge. And it is there, in that cursed place, that the story of Galahad, last heir of Lysandor, begins."
The whisper faded, carried away by a biting gust of wind.
The wind howled, tearing shreds of snow from the jagged peaks and hurling them into the valley like icy claws. The night was thick, oppressive, yet not silent. Beneath the blizzard, there was something else—a low vibration, faint but relentless, like the breathing of a monstrous beast.
Galahad opened his eyes. His body felt heavy, not from the cold—he had mastered his mana well enough to ward it off—but from an exhaustion that gnawed at his very core. Every muscle ached, every thought moved sluggishly under the weight of endless days in Brisombre. The fires in the camp flickered weakly, too feeble to pierce the darkness. Around him, dozens of knights stood frozen in place, like statues trapped in ice.
He ran a hand over his face, brushing the damp fringe from his right eye. He always left it there, a subconscious habit, like a shield against the world. His blue-green eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the desolate landscape. Somewhere out there, beyond the veil of snow and shadow, he knew death was waiting.
The silence in the camp was deceptive. The knights breathed slowly, their mana circulating through their veins to keep the freezing winds at bay. But Galahad could feel the tension. He could see it in their faces, etched with the scars of countless battles. They were tired. All of them. Tired of fighting, tired of watching comrades die, tired of standing against an enemy that never seemed to waver.
Here in Brisombre, time had no meaning. Days and nights blurred together beneath a sky of endless grey. Survival wasn't living. It was enduring.
A heavy figure broke the stillness. Sir Alaric Vendreyn, his mentor, approached with slow, deliberate steps. His massive frame seemed carved from the mountains themselves, and his grizzled beard was dusted with frost. Every movement carried the weight of decades of war, but his dark eyes remained sharp and steady, a fortress of unyielding resolve.
"You feel that, boy?" Alaric's gravelly voice cut through the blizzard like a blade. It wasn't a question. It was a test.
Galahad closed his eyes, focusing. He let his mana flow, reaching out beyond the wind's howl. He didn't have to search long. It was there—a faint, thrumming vibration beneath the ice. Heavy. Bestial. Relentless. He opened his eyes.
"They're coming."
The camp stirred, the knights moving with practiced precision. No panic, just grim preparation. They had been here before. Too many times.
Another voice rose, calm and cold. Master Eryas Thornfall, the tactician, stood at the edge of the firelight, his slender frame barely visible in the shadows. His glasses gleamed as he spoke, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smile. "A hundred, maybe more. And they're not alone. A king is among them. And champions."
The weight of those words settled over the camp like a fresh layer of snow. Galahad could feel it. A king orc. This wasn't a mere skirmish. This was a battle, one that could decide far more than the fate of their camp.
Sir Helbrand Grendall, the colossal knight known as the Wall of Ice, growled as he drove his immense shield into the snow. His scarred face was a mask of stone, his massive sword resting casually on his shoulder. "Let them come," he rumbled. "They'll die like the rest."
Kael Durnhart, the fiery rogue of the group, chuckled, his twin blades gleaming at his hips. "Save some for me, Helbrand. I need the exercise."
"It's not a game, Kael," Daryon Vael, the archer, interjected, his voice quiet but firm. He adjusted the quiver on his back, his eyes already fixed on the shadows shifting in the distance. "If we fall here, Brisombre falls with us."
The camp fell silent again, the only sound the biting wind. Alaric's gaze swept over his men, his dark eyes weighing each of them in turn. "You know what's at stake," he said, his voice a low growl. "Hold your ground. Protect your brothers. Not one of them gets past us."
His gaze settled on Galahad, and for a brief moment, something flickered in his expression. Not pity. Not softness. But a cold, unyielding hope. "Watch, boy. Learn. If you ever hope to stand among the Thirteen, it starts here."
Galahad nodded. His heart pounded in his chest, but he clenched his fists to steady himself. He couldn't fail. Not now.
A horn shattered the night, its mournful wail echoing through the valley. Shapes began to emerge from the shadows, hulking figures that moved like an unstoppable tide. Their guttural cries rose above the storm, shaking the mountains themselves.
Galahad drew his sword, the cold steel glinting in the firelight. He felt the mana surge through his veins, coiling like a serpent, ready to strike. The darkness was coming for them.
But he was a Lysandor. And as long as he drew breath, he would not fall.