Echoes of the Forgotten Blade

Three days after the night of burning sigils, Varathen Hold still bore the scars of battle. Scorch marks marred the great courtyard where the ceremonial pyre had stood. Scaffolding clung to the western wall where attackers had breached the outer defenses. Knights patrolled in greater numbers, their vigilance heightened by the memory of how easily their sanctuary had been violated.

For Kaelen, the physical wounds of combat had mostly faded—a few bruises yellowing on his ribs, a shallow cut along his forearm healing cleanly. But the revelation of his heritage left a deeper mark, one that no salve could soothe. House Dareth. The name echoed in his thoughts during training drills, during meals, during those quiet moments before sleep claimed him. A heritage of mimics, warriors who could adopt any fighting style they encountered. A house purged generations ago, yet somehow surviving in his blood.

The morning found him in the training yard earlier than usual, pushing his body through forms that Ser Dain had taught him. Basic strikes, defensive postures, transitions between stances—movements that now felt constricting, as though his muscles yearned for something more fluid, more adaptable.

"Your form is too rigid," came Ser Dain's voice from behind him. "You're fighting yourself as much as any phantom opponent."

Kaelen lowered his practice sword, turning to face his mentor. "I feel... different since the attack. Like I'm wearing armor that doesn't fit."

Ser Dain nodded, his weathered face thoughtful. "It's to be expected. Once awakened, the blood remembers. The techniques I've taught you—they're only one approach to combat. Your body now knows there are others."

They hadn't spoken directly of House Dareth since their interrupted conversation after the council meeting. But Kaelen sensed his mentor had been waiting for the right moment to continue that discussion, away from prying eyes and ears.

"Walk with me," Ser Dain said, gesturing toward the armory. "There's something you should see."

The armory of Varathen Hold was a long stone building attached to the eastern barracks. Racks of weapons lined the walls—swords, axes, spears, all meticulously maintained. Armor stands displayed the plate and mail of knights, while shields bearing the crossed silver swords of House Varathen hung in neat rows.

But Ser Dain led Kaelen past these common areas, deeper into the building, where the air grew still and dust motes danced in the thin shafts of light from high windows. They reached a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands. From his belt, Ser Dain produced a key that looked as ancient as the lock it opened.

"Few are permitted here," he said as the lock yielded with a reluctant groan. "This is where we keep the relics of our history—weapons of significance, armor worn by legendary knights, trophies from momentous battles."

The chamber beyond was circular, windowless, illuminated only by the torch Ser Dain lit from a bracket near the door. Its walls were lined with glass-fronted cabinets and weapon racks. At its center stood a large table with maps and scrolls carefully preserved beneath a glass top.

"The inner sanctum of Varathen's memory," Ser Dain said, moving purposefully around the perimeter. "What happens in battle shapes history, but what we remember of battle shapes the future."

He stopped before a cabinet near the rear of the chamber. Inside, illuminated by the torch's glow, rested a sword unlike any Kaelen had seen in Varathen Hold. Its crossguard curved subtly, like the wings of a bird in flight. The blade itself was not the uniform silver of standard castle-forged steel, but seemed to ripple with faint patterns, as though multiple metals had been folded together countless times.

Ser Dain opened the cabinet and lifted the weapon reverently. "This blade has a name," he said, "though few now remember it. The knights of Varathen call it simply 'The Phantom's Edge.' Its true name is Mirrorshade."

He extended the hilt toward Kaelen. "It belonged to a warrior known as the Mirror Phantom—a knight who served House Varathen generations ago, yet fought with techniques no master-at-arms had taught him."

Kaelen hesitated before taking the weapon. The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, a strange sensation rippled up his arm—not unpleasant, but unsettling. The sword's weight and balance felt intimately familiar, as though he'd trained with it for years rather than seconds.

"It knows you," Ser Dain observed quietly. "Just as I suspected it would."

Kaelen moved through a simple practice sequence, and the blade seemed to anticipate his intentions, moving precisely where his mind directed before his body had fully committed to the action. It responded not as an object but as an extension of his will.

"This doesn't make sense," Kaelen said, studying the rippling patterns along the blade. "It feels..."

"Like it was forged for your hand alone," Ser Dain finished for him. "There's a reason for that."

The knight moved to the central table and cleared a space among the scrolls. "The Mirror Phantom's true name was Alaric. Alaric Dareth-Varathen."

Kaelen nearly dropped the sword. "Dareth-Varathen? But the Houses were enemies."

"Not always." Ser Dain's fingers traced invisible patterns on the table's surface. "Alliances shift like sand. Enemies become allies; allies become family. Before the Great Purge, House Dareth and House Varathen were bound by both treaty and marriage. Alaric was born of both bloodlines—as are you."

"You knew," Kaelen said, the pieces falling into place. "All this time, you knew about my heritage."

"I suspected when you were assigned to me as a squire. I confirmed it the first time I saw you fight under true pressure—that day in the borderlands when we were ambushed. No ordinary squire adapts as you did, assuming the techniques of your opponents so naturally." Ser Dain's eyes met Kaelen's. "I knew then what blood ran in your veins."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"For your protection. The prejudice against House Dareth runs deep, especially among the older knights. They remember the stories, if not the truth. The mimics, they called them. Warriors who could steal a man's fighting style after a single encounter. It was said a Dareth could watch you fight once and become your perfect mirror—knowing your moves before you made them."

Kaelen looked down at the sword in his hand. "Like Alaric. The Mirror Phantom."

"Precisely. They feared him for it, even as they relied on his skill." Ser Dain took a slow breath. "Just as they will fear you, if they discover what you can do."

"Then why give me this sword? Why reveal any of this?"

"Because after the attack, things have changed. The rebel houses are active again. The Lord Commander has ordered the harshest measures against anyone suspected of sympathy with them. You need to understand your heritage to survive what's coming." Ser Dain's expression hardened. "And because that sword belongs to you by right. It has passed through generations of your bloodline, both Dareth and Varathen."

Kaelen tested the blade again, feeling how naturally it moved with him. "Does the Lord Commander know about this sword? About its history?"

"He knows it as a relic of a legendary knight. Few remember the Mirror Phantom's true lineage. The records were... selectively edited after the Purge." Ser Dain managed a thin smile. "History is written by the victors, and rewritten when convenient."

"What happened to Alaric? Did he die in the Purge?"

"No one knows for certain. The stories say he vanished the night House Dareth fell. Some claim he died defending his mother's kin. Others insist he betrayed them to save his father's house." Ser Dain shrugged. "Perhaps both tales hold truth. Loyalty is rarely simple when blood ties you to opposing sides."

The weight of these words settled on Kaelen's shoulders. He thought of the hidden banner of House Dareth, still concealed beneath the loose stone in their quarters. Of the burning sigils in the courtyard and the masked attackers who followed.

"There's more you're not telling me," he said, meeting his mentor's gaze unflinchingly.

"Yes," Ser Dain admitted. "Much more. But not here, not now. Tonight, bring the sword to the small courtyard behind the east tower. After the midnight bell. And Kaelen—" He lowered his voice further. "Tell no one about Mirrorshade, or what I've revealed. Your life depends on it."

Midnight found Kaelen in the small courtyard as instructed, Mirrorshade belted at his hip. This secluded space, tucked between the east tower and the fortress wall, was seldom used except by servant couples seeking privacy or knights needing solitude. Stone benches lined the perimeter, and a single gnarled oak grew from a patch of earth at its center, its branches reaching toward the star-strewn sky.

The air was cool but not cold, carrying the scents of pine from the distant woods and woodsmoke from the hold's chimneys. Kaelen paced the length of the courtyard, waiting for Ser Dain, his mind crowded with questions about his lineage, about the sword that felt so unnaturally natural in his grip.

When the bell tolled midnight, he was alone.

A quarter-hour passed, then half. Still no sign of his mentor. Kaelen drew Mirrorshade, more to examine it in the moonlight than out of any sense of danger. The blade seemed to drink the silver light, its rippling patterns shifting like water. He moved through some basic forms, testing the sword's response to different strikes and guards.

Impressive craftsmanship, to be sure, but he sensed something beyond mere metalwork. The blade anticipated his movements, curved where it should curve, straightened where it should straighten. It was as though sword and swordsman shared a single mind.

A soft scrape of metal on stone broke his concentration.

Kaelen whirled toward the sound, Mirrorshade rising instinctively to guard position.

At the far end of the courtyard stood a figure that had not been there moments before. Tall and lean, clad in armor that might once have been magnificent but now appeared weathered and faded. A helm obscured the figure's face, with only the glint of eyes visible through the visor slit. No device or sigil marked the armor, yet something about its design seemed vaguely familiar to Kaelen—reminiscent of ceremonial suits he'd glimpsed in Varathen's historical tapestries.

"Ser Dain?" Kaelen called, though he already knew this wasn't his mentor. The figure was wrong—taller, differently proportioned.

The armored stranger offered no response. Instead, it drew a sword that mirrored Mirrorshade in design if not in condition—its blade dulled by time, its hilt wrapped in cracked leather.

Kaelen felt a spike of alarm. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Still no answer. The figure assumed a fighting stance identical to Kaelen's own.

A test, Kaelen realized. Ser Dain has arranged some kind of trial.

He adjusted his stance slightly, watching as the armored figure made the exact same adjustment. When he shifted his weight from left foot to right, the stranger matched him perfectly. When he raised Mirrorshade to a high guard position, the figure's blade rose in precise synchronization.

"So this is your game," Kaelen muttered. "You'll mirror me."

He launched a cautious attack—a standard Varathen combination taught to first-year squires. The armored figure parried exactly as a Varathen knight would, countering with the expected riposte. Kaelen blocked and returned to guard position, studying his opponent.

No wasted movement. No hesitation. Perfect form, as though the stranger had trained in the Varathen style for decades.

Kaelen decided to test a theory. He transitioned suddenly to a different approach—a sweeping style he'd observed among merchants' guards from the eastern provinces. The moves were fluid and circular, emphasizing redirection rather than direct blocking.

Without missing a beat, the armored figure matched him, flowing into the eastern style with the same natural grace. Strike for strike, step for step, they moved as reflections of each other.

Kaelen's pulse quickened. This was no ordinary sparring partner. Either the stranger possessed the same mimicry ability as House Dareth, or...

He attacked more aggressively, mixing techniques from different sources—a high guard from Varathen training, a low slash he'd seen used by a border raider, a spiraling thrust that belonged to no formal school but had served him well in desperate moments. His movements became a deliberate hodgepodge, unpredictable and unorthodox.

The armored figure kept pace perfectly, never faltering, never showing surprise at the eclectic combinations. Whatever Kaelen did, his opponent anticipated and matched.

Their dance intensified, the clash of steel echoing off the courtyard walls. Kaelen felt sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night air. The physical exertion was considerable, but the mental strain proved even greater—trying to outthink someone who seemingly read his intentions before he acted on them.

As the duel progressed, something shifted in Kaelen's awareness. The armored figure no longer seemed to be simply copying him. Rather, they moved in perfect harmony, each anticipating the other's actions. Attack and defense blurred until Kaelen couldn't tell who was leading and who was following.

Then came a moment of startling clarity: They were both following a pattern written into the very movements themselves. Some deeper choreography guided their blades, a dialogue of steel that Mirrorshade remembered even if Kaelen did not.

His body responded to cues he couldn't consciously identify—subtle shifts in his opponent's weight, minute changes in blade angle, the rhythm of their breathing inside the helm. The mimicry flowed both ways now, a continuous loop of adaptation and response.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Kaelen's arms burned with fatigue. His lungs labored. Yet he couldn't bring himself to break the pattern. The dance held him captive, revealing something essential about the nature of combat that words could never convey.

Finally, when it seemed his body would fail him, the armored figure stepped back and lowered its blade. Kaelen did the same, chest heaving, sweat streaming down his face.

For a long moment, they regarded each other across the moonlit courtyard. Then, with ceremonial precision, the stranger sheathed its sword and bowed deeply.

Kaelen returned the gesture, equal parts exhausted and exhilarated. When he straightened, the courtyard was empty. The armored figure had vanished as silently as it had appeared, leaving no footprints in the soft earth, no sign that it had ever been there at all.

Only the weight of Mirrorshade at his side and the burn in his muscles confirmed that the encounter had been real.

Sleep eluded Kaelen that night. He lay awake in their quarters, listening to Ser Dain's steady breathing from the adjacent bed, wondering if his mentor knew about the armored specter. Had it been part of his test? A training exercise arranged to awaken more of Kaelen's dormant abilities?

Yet something about the encounter defied such mundane explanation. The figure's appearance and disappearance. The perfect mimicry. The strange communion he'd felt through their blades, as though they shared not just movements but memories.

When dawn finally broke, Kaelen rose quietly, leaving Ser Dain still slumbering. The knight had returned late, well after Kaelen's mysterious duel, offering no explanation for missing their meeting. Either he truly knew nothing of the armored stranger, or he was deliberately maintaining the mystery.

Kaelen made his way to the armory, Mirrorshade concealed beneath a plain cloak. Few were about at this hour—only servants beginning their daily chores and guards changing watch. None paid him particular attention.

The common areas of the armory were unlocked, though the chamber of relics where he'd received the sword remained secured. Kaelen wasn't interested in that room today, however. If answers existed about House Dareth and the armored specter, they would more likely be found in the dusty archives where practical items were stored rather than revered.

Beyond the main armory lay storerooms filled with equipment too old or damaged for regular use. Kaelen bypassed these, seeking a particular chamber he'd glimpsed years ago during his first tour of the fortress—a record room where retired arms masters kept their notes and observations.

He found it exactly as remembered: a cramped space lined with shelves of leather-bound ledgers and scrolls. Dust lay thick on most surfaces, suggesting few ventured here nowadays. The current arms master evidently preferred creating new records to consulting old ones.

Methodically, Kaelen began examining the shelves, seeking any mention of House Dareth, the Mirror Phantom, or unusual fighting techniques. Most volumes contained mundane accounts—training schedules, equipment inventories, assessments of squires long since knighted or forgotten.

Hours passed as he searched. Shafts of sunlight crept across the stone floor as morning progressed into afternoon. His fingers grew grimy with dust, his eyes strained from deciphering faded ink.

Finally, on a bottom shelf behind a stack of moldering parchment, he discovered a small wooden box sealed with wax bearing a symbol he didn't recognize—a circle containing a diagonal line. Breaking the seal, he lifted the lid to reveal a thin journal bound in dark leather and a small brass key.

The journal bore no title on its cover. Opening it carefully, Kaelen found pages filled with dense, precise handwriting, the ink faded to brown with age. The first entry was dated nearly seventy years earlier:

"By order of Lord Commander Harrick Varathen, I have collected these observations on the martial techniques of House Dareth, following their rebellion and subsequent purging. Let it be recorded that I undertake this study not to preserve their treasonous ways, but to ensure that Varathen's knights may recognize and counter such methods should any of the serpent's brood survive our cleansing."

The entry was signed simply: "Ser Willem, Arms Master."

Kaelen's heart quickened. Here was direct documentation of House Dareth's fighting style—written by their enemies, but documentation nonetheless. He skimmed further entries, discovering detailed analyses of what the arms master called "the mimic's art."

"Their method defies conventional understanding of martial training. Where our knights build muscle memory through thousands of repetitions, a trained Dareth requires but a single observation to internalize a technique. This is not mere copying—they grasp the underlying principles, the weight distribution, the timing. Most disturbing, they adapt instantly when facing multiple styles, becoming a composite opponent who knows all that his enemies know."

Another passage caught Kaelen's attention:

"They train not by practicing forms, but through a ritual they call 'the mirror dance.' Two Dareths face each other, one initiating movements while the other reflects them exactly. They gradually increase speed until the distinction between leader and follower blurs. Senior members claim this develops what they call 'movement empathy'—the ability to feel an opponent's intentions through subtle physical cues."

The mirror dance. Exactly what he had experienced with the armored figure the previous night.

Further pages detailed specific techniques favored by Dareth warriors, their approach to different weapons, even their philosophical views on combat. The arms master's clinical tone couldn't disguise a reluctant admiration for their methods.

Toward the journal's end, a final entry stood out:

"Today we sealed the hidden chamber beneath the east armory, as Lord Commander Harrick ordered. All artifacts of House Dareth—their training scrolls, ceremonial armor, and the banner of the shadow-wolf—are now secured where none may find them without proper authority. I alone retain the key, to be passed to my successor upon my death. May these relics remain buried until time itself forgets the House of Mimics."

Kaelen looked at the small brass key that had accompanied the journal. The hidden chamber. Could it still exist after all these years? And if so, where precisely was it located?

He studied the journal's final pages, finding a crude map sketched in the back. It showed the east armory's layout, with a small mark indicating a section of the north wall.

With journal and key tucked safely inside his tunic, Kaelen made his way to the location indicated. The east armory's northern section stored archery equipment—bows hanging from racks, arrows sorted by length and weight, bowstrings and waxes and arm guards neatly arranged.

The wall in question appeared solid stone, with no obvious door or access panel. Kaelen ran his fingers along the rough surface, searching for inconsistencies. Near the floor, partially hidden behind a barrel of arrow shafts, he found it—a small keyhole set into the mortar between two stones.

Glancing around to ensure he remained alone, Kaelen inserted the brass key. It turned with surprising ease for a lock unused in decades. A soft click echoed in the quiet room, and a section of wall—constructed to appear solid but actually a cunningly disguised door—shifted inward by the width of a finger.

Kaelen applied gentle pressure, and the stone door swung silently on hidden hinges. Beyond lay darkness. He retrieved a lantern from a nearby table, lit it with flint and steel, and stepped through the opening.

The chamber beyond was small—no larger than a modest bedchamber—but packed with artifacts. Shelves lined the walls, holding scrolls and folded parchments. Wooden mannequins displayed pieces of armor similar to what the specter had worn. Training weapons rested on racks—swords, spears, daggers, all crafted with the same distinctive style as Mirrorshade.

In the chamber's center stood a table draped with a faded cloth. Kaelen approached slowly, raising his lantern. The cloth was no ordinary covering, but a banner—large enough for battlefield display, its black and gray fabric worn thin with age. Upon it, rendered in silver thread that still caught the light, was the shadow-wolf of House Dareth—identical to the sigil he'd seen cast into the flames during the burning ceremony.

But this banner showed more than just the wolf. Behind it stretched a complex pattern that Kaelen initially took for decorative background but gradually recognized as a family tree—names and dates meticulously embroidered, connecting bloodlines across generations.

He traced the lines with his finger, following branches that merged and diverged. Near the bottom, where the embroidery was less faded, he found a name that made his breath catch: Alaric Dareth-Varathen. The Mirror Phantom. And below that, connected by a silver thread, another name: Marenne Dareth-Varathen.

Further down, almost at the banner's hem, a final name had been added in thread that didn't match the rest—newer, less skillfully sewn: Kaelen.

His own name, added to the lineage of House Dareth.

Next to the banner lay a suit of armor—not complete, but significant pieces: a breastplate, pauldrons, vambraces, and a helm. Though tarnished and showing signs of age, they were unmistakably identical to what the specter had worn the previous night.

Kaelen lifted the helm, turning it in his hands. The inside was lined with soft leather, worn smooth by long use. When he raised it to eye level, something rolled within—a small object that he carefully shook out onto his palm.

A ring, simple in design, bearing a seal: the shadow-wolf superimposed over the crossed swords of House Varathen.

As Kaelen examined these relics, pieces of the puzzle began falling into place. The armored figure hadn't been some ghost or hallucination. It had been a test—a ritual tied to his bloodline and the sword now at his hip. But who had worn the armor? Who had engaged him in the mirror dance?

Among the scrolls, he found training manuals detailing the mimic techniques of House Dareth. One in particular caught his attention—an advanced method called "the phantom mirror," where a skilled practitioner could anticipate an opponent's moves so precisely that they appeared to be reading thoughts rather than physical cues.

"The true master needs not eyes to see intention," the scroll read. "The body speaks before it moves. The breath changes before the strike. The weight shifts before the step. Learn to read these subtle languages, and you will ever be one movement ahead—a phantom mirroring what has not yet occurred."

Was this what had happened in the courtyard? Had he unknowingly engaged in a training ritual passed down through generations of House Dareth?

A noise from the armory beyond—voices, approaching—broke his contemplation. Quickly, Kaelen gathered what he could: the ring, several of the most detailed scrolls, and a small dagger bearing the combined sigil. These he concealed within his tunic alongside the journal.

He took one last look at the banner with his name stitched into the lineage of a house history had tried to erase. Then he extinguished his lantern, slipped back through the hidden door, and carefully closed it behind him. The lock engaged with a soft click just as two archers entered the room, deep in conversation about the quality of new bowstrings.

Kaelen nodded casually to them and departed, outwardly calm while his mind raced with revelations. He needed to speak with Ser Dain immediately. The time for half-truths and vague references to his heritage had passed.

He was Dareth as much as Varathen. And if the hidden chamber was any indication, that legacy was far more complex—and dangerous—than he had imagined.

Kaelen found his mentor in the practice yard, overseeing a group of younger squires. Ser Dain's expression was stern as he corrected stances and critiqued technique, but Kaelen detected an underlying tension in the knight's movements—a wariness that had been present since the night of burning sigils.

When the training session ended and the squires dispersed for their midday meal, Kaelen approached. Ser Dain acknowledged him with a nod.

"You missed morning drills," the knight observed. "Not like you to oversleep."

"I wasn't sleeping," Kaelen replied quietly. "I was learning about House Dareth. About the mimics. About myself."

Something flickered in Ser Dain's eyes—concern, perhaps, or resignation. He glanced around the yard, noting who might be within earshot.

"Walk with me," he said, just as he had the previous day.

They made their way to the battlements along the eastern wall, a location that offered both privacy and a clear view of anyone approaching. The autumn air was crisp at this height, carrying the scent of pine from the distant Mistwood.

"What have you discovered?" Ser Dain asked once they were alone.

Kaelen produced the journal. "The observations of an arms master who studied Dareth fighting techniques. And this." He held up the ring with the combined sigil.

Ser Dain's breath caught. He took the ring, examining it with reverence. "Where did you find this?"

"In a hidden chamber beneath the east armory. Along with armor identical to what was worn by a specter I dueled last night—when you failed to appear for our meeting."

The accusation hung in the air between them. Ser Dain closed his fist around the ring, his weathered face unreadable.

"It wasn't a specter," he finally said. "Nor was it me, if that's your suspicion."

"Then who? Who would know about the mirror dance? Who would have access to that armor?"

Ser Dain leaned against the stone merlon, looking out toward the forest. "There are others who remember House Dareth. Others who preserved their ways in secret, even as Varathen's lords tried to wipe them from history."

"You're one of them," Kaelen said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes." The admission seemed to lift a weight from the knight's shoulders. "My grandmother was Dareth before the purge. She escaped by marrying into a minor branch of House Varathen—distant enough that few questioned her origins, close enough to offer protection."

"So you carry the blood too? The mimic's gift?"

Ser Dain shook his head. "It manifests rarely, even among direct descendants. I have... echoes of it. Intuition in combat. Quick adaptation to new techniques. But nothing like what you displayed during the attack." He returned the ring to Kaelen. "Nothing like what flows in your veins."

"My mother," Kaelen said. "She was Dareth."

"Marenne Dareth-Varathen," Ser Dain confirmed. "Granddaughter of Alaric, the Mirror Phantom. When she married into the main branch of House Varathen, it was seen by some as healing an ancient wound. By others, as contaminating a pure bloodline."

"And my father? Did he know what she was?"

"He knew. He protected her identity from those who still harbored hatred for House Dareth. When both died in the plague that swept through the eastern provinces, I promised to watch over you—to help you understand your gift when it manifested."

Kaelen turned the ring in his fingers, watching how the light played across the combined sigil. "You arranged the test last night. The mirror dance."

"I informed those who needed to know that you were ready. That your gift had awakened." Ser Dain's expression softened slightly. "There is a... fellowship of sorts. Men and women who preserve the old knowledge. Who maintain the traditions of houses that history tried to erase."

"Including the fighting techniques of House Dareth."

"Especially those. Such skills are too valuable to lose, regardless of political conflicts."

Kaelen thought of the armored figure—its perfect synchronization with his movements, the strange harmony he'd felt during their duel. "Who was it? Who tested me?"

"Someone who carries more of the gift than I do. Someone who could truly challenge your abilities." Ser Dain shook his head. "Their identity must remain protected. The Lord Commander's decree against symbols of the purged houses extends to their techniques as well. To be caught practicing the mimic's art would mean imprisonment at best, execution at worst."

"Yet you gave me Mirrorshade openly. Brought me to the relic chamber yourself."

"A calculated risk. The sword's connection to House Dareth has been obscured in official records. It's known only as the blade of a legendary Varathen knight—which is true, as far as it goes." Ser Dain managed a thin smile. "Half-truths make the best disguises."

Kaelen's mind raced with implications. "The rebel houses that attacked us—they know about me, don't they? That's why you've been trying to protect me."

Ser Dain's expression turned grave. "They know a scion of House Dareth serves within Varathen Hold. Whether they know it's you specifically... I can't say for certain. But the longer you remain here, the greater the danger."

"From them? Or from the Lord Commander?"

"Both." Ser Dain glanced toward the main keep, where the council would be meeting. "The houses that rose against us—they may see you as a potential ally, or as a traitor to their cause. And if the Lord Commander discovers your bloodline, especially now, with rebellion spreading..." He left the consequence unspoken.

"So what do I do?" Kaelen asked, frustration edging his voice. "Deny half of who I am? Pretend I don't feel this... this awakening every time I hold a sword?"

"No." Ser Dain straightened, his decision apparently made. "You learn to control it. To use it without revealing its source. And you prepare for the day when you must choose which legacy to honor—Varathen or Dareth."

"What if I refuse to choose? What if I claim both, as Alaric did?"

"Then you walk a narrower path than either," Ser Dain said softly. "And you'll need every skill both bloodlines have granted you."

He touched the pommel of his sword—a gesture Kaelen now recognized as a Dareth tradition, acknowledging the weight of a warrior's path.

"Tonight, return to the courtyard," Ser Dain instructed. "Bring Mirrorshade. The test was just the beginning. Now your true training must start."

The midnight bell found Kaelen once more in the small courtyard behind the east tower. Mirrorshade hung at his hip, its weight now a familiar comfort. The ring of House Dareth-Varathen adorned his left hand, hidden beneath a leather glove.

Unlike the previous night, he came prepared—not just physically but mentally. Understanding transformed everything. What had seemed supernatural now appeared as tradition. What had felt like an uncanny encounter now revealed itself as a carefully preserved ritual.

Still, when the armored figure appeared at the courtyard's edge, Kaelen's pulse quickened. Knowing the specter was flesh and blood rather than some phantom didn't diminish the power of its presence. If anything, it heightened it—this was no ghost but a living legacy of a nearly extinguished bloodline.

Tonight, the figure wore no helm. Instead, a hood cast its face in shadow, concealing its identity while allowing clearer vision than a visor would permit. Kaelen studied his opponent, seeking clues to who might serve as guardian of House Dareth's techniques within Varathen Hold.

The build suggested a man, though not a large one. The movements were fluid, economical—a veteran warrior who had long since discarded unnecessary flourishes. Something in the posture reminded Kaelen of Ser Orren, the elderly knight who had spoken cautiously of the purged houses during the council meeting.

Could it be him? Or someone else entirely—a servant or stablehand whose humble position concealed a noble lineage?

The figure drew its sword—the twin to Mirrorshade, though weathered by time. It offered a formal salute, which Kaelen returned.

"I know what this is now," Kaelen said, breaking the silence. "The mirror dance. The training ritual of House Dareth."

The hooded figure inclined its head slightly but offered no verbal response.

"Last night, I tried to overcome you," Kaelen continued. "To outfight you. I didn't understand then what I understand now."The figure remained motionless, waiting, the blade catching moonlight in rippling patterns that mirrored Mirrorshade's own mysterious surface.

"The purpose isn't competition," Kaelen said, drawing his sword with deliberate calm. "It's communion."

He assumed a neutral stance, one that invited rather than threatened. The hooded figure matched him perfectly, their postures identical down to the angle of their wrists.

"Show me," Kaelen said softly.

The dance began more slowly than before. The hooded figure initiated, performing a simple sequence that Kaelen recognized from basic Varathen drills. Kaelen matched each movement precisely, feeling not just the physical motion but the intention behind it.

As they continued, something shifted in Kaelen's perception. He wasn't simply copying movements anymore—he was absorbing them, internalizing the subtle weight transfers, the economy of motion, the perfect timing. His body was learning on a level deeper than conscious thought.

The hooded figure gradually increased the complexity, introducing techniques Kaelen had never seen before. Flowing transitions that defied the rigid Varathen style. Strikes that changed direction mid-execution. Defensive postures that seemed to yield yet remained impenetrable.

These were the lost techniques of House Dareth—movements preserved only in the bodies of those who carried the blood.

Kaelen followed without faltering, his mimicry becoming more instinctive with each passing moment. The gap between seeing and doing narrowed until it virtually disappeared. He wasn't reacting to his partner's movements; he was moving simultaneously with them, as though they shared a single mind.

When the figure suddenly switched from offense to defense, Kaelen seamlessly took the lead, continuing the pattern without breaking rhythm. Back and forth they went, leader becoming follower becoming leader again, the distinction blurring with each exchange.

Sweat beaded on Kaelen's brow as they increased speed. Their blades met with controlled precision—never a true clash, more a gentle touching of steel that confirmed proper positioning. The courtyard filled with the whisper of blades cutting air, the soft scuff of boots on stone, the measured breathing of two warriors in perfect synchronization.

An hour passed this way, perhaps more. Time lost meaning within the dance. Kaelen felt muscles awakening that he'd never consciously used before, neural pathways forming with each repetition. His awareness expanded beyond his own body to encompass his partner's movements, the space between them, the very air they displaced with their blades.

Finally, when it seemed they had explored every possible combination of attack and defense, the hooded figure stepped back and lowered its blade. Kaelen mirrored the movement, feeling simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated.

"I understand now," he said between measured breaths. "This is how the gift is cultivated."

For the first time, the figure spoke, its voice deliberately pitched to reveal nothing of its identity.

"The mirror shows not only your opponent," it said, "but yourself as well. To truly see both is the heart of the mimic's art."

"Is that why House Dareth was feared? Because they could see too clearly?"

"They were feared because they could become what they beheld." The figure sheathed its sword. "In battle, a Dareth warrior becomes a composite of every technique they've encountered—unpredictable, adaptable, impossible to counter with conventional methods."

"And Alaric? The Mirror Phantom? Was he the greatest of them?"

"He was the last to openly bear both names—Dareth and Varathen. The last to walk freely between worlds." The figure's hooded face turned toward the stars. "Until now."

Kaelen felt the weight of those words settle upon him. "I don't even know which world is mine. I was raised as Varathen, but my blood..." He touched the ring hidden beneath his glove.

"Blood is not destiny," the figure said. "Alaric chose to honor both legacies, to bridge the division others created. The sword you carry was his pledge to that purpose."

"Mirrorshade," Kaelen murmured, examining the rippling patterns along the blade. "What makes it different from ordinary steel?"

"It was forged using techniques as old as the First Kingdoms. Multiple types of steel folded together countless times, each layer absorbing the strengths of the others while compensating for their weaknesses." The figure's voice carried a hint of reverence. "Like House Dareth itself, it adapts, it learns, it remembers."

"Remembers what?"

"Every technique it encounters. Every battle it survives. The blade awakens to each wielder anew, yet carries the echoes of all who came before." The figure extended a gloved hand. "May I?"

Kaelen hesitated only briefly before offering Mirrorshade, hilt first. The hooded figure took it with practiced ease, performing a series of cuts and parries that seemed to make the air sing. The blade moved differently in these hands—still fluid but with subtle variations that spoke of a distinct fighting philosophy.

"You see?" the figure said, returning the sword. "Even now, it learns from me as I from it. This exchange of knowledge is the true strength of House Dareth—not domination but adaptation."

"Yet they were destroyed for it," Kaelen said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"Not destroyed. Transformed." The figure gestured around them. "We endure in secret, in blood, in tradition. The mirror dance continues. The techniques survive."

"But for what purpose? To hide forever?"

"To wait." The figure's voice hardened slightly. "To preserve what would otherwise be lost until the time is right to reclaim our place."

Kaelen felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. "The rebel houses—the ones who attacked during the ceremony. Are they part of this? Are they trying to restore House Dareth?"

The figure was silent for a long moment. When it spoke again, the words came carefully measured.

"There are factions within the old houses. Some seek reconciliation, a return to the ancient alliances. Others desire vengeance for generations of suppression." A pause. "Not all who remember House Dareth share the same vision for its future."

"And which faction are you with?" Kaelen asked directly.

"I serve the legacy, not any faction." The figure stepped closer. "As must you, if you are to survive what comes next."

"What does that mean? What's coming?"

"War," the figure said simply. "Not the border skirmishes or isolated attacks you've witnessed, but true war. The Lord Commander knows this, though he speaks of it only to his inner circle. The rebel houses have united behind a leader who promises to restore the old order—to reverse the purges, to reclaim lands and titles seized generations ago."

"Who is this leader?"

"Some call him the Shadow Lord. Others, the Wolfsbane—a title meant to mock House Dareth's sigil." The figure's voice lowered further. "He claims blood connection to all seven purged houses, though many doubt the truth of this. What matters is that he has united them under a single banner for the first time since the Great Purge."

Kaelen absorbed this, connecting it to fragments he'd overheard in council meetings. "The burning ceremony—it was meant to counter this threat? To reaffirm Varathen's dominance?"

"Ancient magic against ancient claims. Both sides grasp at shadows from the past." A note of disdain entered the figure's voice. "As though ceremonies and bloodlines alone determine rightful rule."

"What determines it, then?"

"The ability to forge something new from what has been broken." The figure stepped back. "Tomorrow night, bring what you found in the hidden chamber. All of it. Your training must accelerate. Time grows short."

"Wait," Kaelen said as the figure turned to leave. "At least tell me your name. If we're to trust each other with these secrets—"

"Names are powerful things," the figure interrupted. "Especially in times when allegiances shift like sand. Know me by my actions, not my words or titles."

With that, the hooded figure melted into the shadows of the courtyard's edge. Unlike the previous night, Kaelen heard the soft scrape of boots on stone, the subtle creak of a door—physical confirmations that his teacher was indeed flesh and blood.

He remained in the courtyard a while longer, practicing movements from the mirror dance, feeling how they differed from the techniques he'd been taught as a squire. Where Varathen training emphasized power and direct confrontation, these movements valued efficiency and redirection. Rather than opposing force with greater force, they taught how to borrow an opponent's strength and return it against them.

By the time he returned to his quarters, dawn was approaching. Ser Dain was already awake, strapping on his armor for early patrol duty.

"You were gone all night," the knight observed without accusation.

"I was learning," Kaelen replied simply.

Ser Dain nodded. "And your teacher?"

"Skilled. Cautious. Unwilling to reveal their identity." Kaelen set Mirrorshade on his bed. "They spoke of factions among the rebel houses. Of a coming war."

"Yes." Ser Dain's expression darkened. "The signs have been there for those with eyes to see. The Lord Commander knows it too—it's why he's ordered increased patrols, strengthened fortifications."

"Why not tell everyone? Prepare the entire hold?"

"Fear of spies. Fear of panic." Ser Dain secured his breastplate with practiced movements. "And perhaps fear that not all within these walls would choose Varathen's side if given time to consider alternatives."

Kaelen thought of the divided loyalties the hooded figure had described. "You mean some might sympathize with the rebel houses? With this... Shadow Lord?"

"History creates strange allegiances. Family connections span generations, even when officially severed." Ser Dain adjusted his sword belt. "There are knights here whose grandparents lost lands when the purged houses fell. Merchants who trace lineage to minor branches of those houses. Servants whose villages once prospered under different banners."

"And me," Kaelen said quietly. "A squire with Dareth blood. Which side would they expect me to choose?"

Ser Dain met his gaze directly. "That's what everyone is wondering, Kaelen. Including the Lord Commander."

The following days passed in a blur of regular duties punctuated by secret training. By day, Kaelen maintained his role as Ser Dain's squire—polishing armor, assisting with drills, running errands throughout Varathen Hold. By night, he met with the hooded figure in the small courtyard, delving deeper into the techniques of House Dareth.

As instructed, he brought items from the hidden chamber—training scrolls, ceremonial daggers, the ring he now wore beneath his glove. Each artifact revealed another layer of his heritage, another aspect of the mimic's art.

He learned that House Dareth's approach to combat extended far beyond simple mimicry. Their philosophy encompassed a holistic understanding of movement, of how bodies telegraphed intent, of how to read an opponent's breath and tension. They studied the relationships between weapons rather than individual techniques—how sword countered spear, how dagger negated the advantage of reach, how even unarmed fighters could overcome armed opponents through proper positioning.

Most importantly, he learned that the gift flowing through his blood was neither supernatural nor mystical, despite what superstitious rumors claimed. It was a highly developed form of what modern scholars called "kinesthetic intelligence"—the ability to understand, replicate, and adapt physical movements with minimal instruction.

House Dareth had cultivated this natural talent through generations of selective marriage and specialized training. The mirror dance was both test and teaching method, helping practitioners refine their observational skills and bodily awareness to extraordinary levels.

On the fifth night of his training, the hooded figure presented Kaelen with a challenge.

"You've learned to mirror," it said as they completed their opening exercises. "Now you must learn to merge."

"Merge?" Kaelen questioned.

"The true power of House Dareth lies not in copying individual styles, but in combining them to create something new—something your opponent cannot predict because they've never encountered it before."

The figure demonstrated, shifting fluidly between three distinct fighting styles: the powerful direct approach of Varathen knights, the circular movements of eastern sword masters, and a low, aggressive stance reminiscent of frontier raiders. Rather than switching completely from one to another, the figure blended elements of each, creating transitions that borrowed strengths while eliminating weaknesses.

"This is what made the Mirror Phantom legendary," the figure explained. "Not that he could mimic his opponents, but that he could become all of them simultaneously—and more."

Kaelen practiced this concept for hours, struggling at first to overcome the habit of maintaining stylistic purity. Gradually, he began to feel the connections between seemingly disparate techniques, to understand how they could flow into one another.

By dawn, he had created a sequence that combined elements from five different sources—a hybrid style that felt uniquely his own while honoring the traditions that formed it.

"Good," the figure said as they concluded. "You begin to understand. But remember—this is not about creating a new fixed style. True mastery is adaptive, responsive to each unique situation."

"Like water taking the shape of its container," Kaelen suggested.

"Precisely." The figure seemed pleased with the analogy. "Tomorrow night, bring Mirrorshade to the western gatehouse after the second bell. Your training must move beyond these walls."

"Beyond the hold?" Kaelen asked, surprised. "Is that safe?"

"Safety is an illusion in times like these," the figure replied. "Better to face danger prepared than to hide from it unprepared."

When Kaelen returned to his quarters, he found Ser Dain waiting with unusual tension in his posture.

"The Lord Commander has called a war council," the knight said without preamble. "All senior knights, including their squires, are to attend."

"When?"

"This afternoon. Something has happened—messengers arrived before dawn, riding hard enough to lame their horses." Ser Dain lowered his voice. "There's talk of an attack on Eastwatch Tower."

Kaelen felt a chill. Eastwatch was the most distant of Varathen's border fortifications, guarding the main pass through the eastern mountains. If it had fallen...

"Get some rest," Ser Dain advised. "Then make sure my formal armor is prepared. We represent House Varathen today—appearances matter as much as substance."

The war council convened in the great hall rather than the usual council chamber—a sign that this gathering exceeded normal strategic meetings. Nearly a hundred knights filled the space, their squires standing attentively behind them. The Lord Commander's ornate chair had been placed upon the dais where the high table normally stood during feasts.

Kaelen positioned himself behind Ser Dain, conscious of Mirrorshade at his hip. He'd taken to wearing the sword openly since receiving it, as none questioned a squire carrying his knight's spare blade. The ring remained hidden beneath his glove—a secret not yet ready for public acknowledgment.

Lord Commander Aldren Varathen entered flanked by his personal guard. His face, normally stern but composed, showed lines of fatigue and concern that sent murmurs through the assembled knights. Behind him came his advisors, including Ser Orren, whose eyes briefly met Kaelen's with an unreadable expression.

"Knights of Varathen Hold," the Lord Commander began without preamble. "Two nights ago, Eastwatch Tower was attacked by forces flying no banner and wearing no device. The garrison fought valiantly but was overwhelmed. By the time reinforcements arrived from Ridgeline Post, the attackers had withdrawn—taking with them the Sword of Eastern Gate."

Gasps and curses filled the hall. The Sword of Eastern Gate was not merely a weapon but a symbol of Varathen authority in the eastern provinces—an heirloom blade carried by the appointed warden of that region.

"This was no simple raid," the Lord Commander continued. "This was a symbolic strike, meant to undermine our legitimacy and embolden those who would challenge our rule."

He gestured to a man Kaelen didn't recognize—a battle-worn soldier in the distinctive leather armor of Varathen's border scouts.

"Scout Commander Thorne witnessed the attack. He will describe what we face."

The scout stepped forward, his movements betraying recent injury. "My lords, the force that struck Eastwatch numbered at least two hundred fighters—well-armed, well-trained. They fought with coordination I've rarely seen, even among our own knights."

He paused, seeming to weigh his next words carefully. "But it was their leader who concerns me most. A warrior in dark armor who moved like no man I've ever faced. Our best swordsmen fell before him as though they were untrained children. He seemed to... anticipate their every move, countering techniques before they were fully executed."

Kaelen felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. The description matched what he now understood of House Dareth's fighting style.

"This warrior bore no insignia," Scout Commander Thorne continued, "but his followers called him the Shadow Wolf. He carried twin swords of unusual design—blades that seemed to shimmer with patterns like flowing water."

Another ripple of murmurs passed through the hall. Kaelen glanced down at Mirrorshade, with its distinctive rippling patterns, then at Ser Dain, whose face had gone carefully blank.

The Lord Commander raised a hand for silence. "We believe this 'Shadow Wolf' is the same individual who has been uniting the rebel houses—the one some call the Wolfsbane. His use of dual blades matching the description of legendary Dareth weaponry is a deliberate provocation. He claims the legacy of a purged house to legitimize his rebellion."

"What do we know of him?" called one of the senior knights. "His true identity?"

"Little," admitted the Lord Commander. "He appeared among the rebel houses less than a year ago, quickly rising to prominence through displays of martial prowess and strategic acumen. Some rumors claim he was trained in the Free Cities across the narrow sea. Others suggest he is the last surviving scion of House Dareth's main branch."

Kaelen kept his expression neutral even as his pulse quickened. Was it possible? Another descendant of House Dareth, one who had embraced their legacy more publicly than he dared?

"Whatever his origins," the Lord Commander continued, "his intentions are clear. The capture of the Eastern Gate Sword is merely the beginning. Our sources indicate he plans to retake the ancestral lands of all seven purged houses, starting with Dareth Vale."

Dareth Vale—the fertile valley that had once been House Dareth's seat of power, now administered directly by Varathen lieutenants. It lay three days' ride to the northeast, a strategic location controlling access to several important trade routes.

"We cannot allow this challenge to stand," the Lord Commander declared. "I am assembling a force to intercept the Shadow Wolf before he can establish a stronghold in Dareth Vale. Ser Kethran will lead our knights, while Ser Orren coordinates our defensive strategy here at the hold."

The meeting continued with discussions of troop movements, supply lines, and contingency plans. Throughout, Kaelen observed the senior knights, noting the varying reactions to news of the Shadow Wolf. Some seemed genuinely alarmed, others grimly determined. A few—including Ser Orren—maintained carefully guarded expressions that revealed little of their true thoughts.

When the council finally adjourned, Ser Dain drew Kaelen aside, speaking in tones too low for others to overhear.

"This changes everything," the knight murmured. "If the Shadow Wolf truly fights with House Dareth's techniques—"

"Then he's connected to whoever's been training me," Kaelen finished. "The hooded figure with the armor and sword matching Mirrorshade."

"Possibly." Ser Dain frowned. "Or it could be someone else entirely. House Dareth's bloodline branched widely before the purge. There could be others who carry the gift, who preserved the techniques in secret."

"The figure wants me to leave the hold tonight," Kaelen revealed. "To meet at the western gatehouse for training beyond these walls."

Alarm flashed across Ser Dain's features. "That's too dangerous, especially now. The Lord Commander has ordered increased vigilance. Anyone attempting to leave without authorization would be questioned, perhaps detained."

"What if this is my chance to learn more about the Shadow Wolf? About my own heritage?"

"Or a trap to recruit you to their cause." Ser Dain gripped Kaelen's shoulder. "Think, boy. Why now? Why immediately after this attack becomes known?"

Kaelen had no ready answer. The timing did seem suspicious, yet something in him rebelled against the idea that his mysterious teacher served the Shadow Wolf's agenda. The hooded figure had spoken of factions, of divergent visions for House Dareth's legacy.

"I won't go," he said finally. "Not tonight. But I need to know more about what's happening. About who this Shadow Wolf really is and what he wants."

"We all do." Ser Dain's expression softened slightly. "For now, maintain your duties. Act normally. I'll try to learn what I can from the scouts and messengers."

As they parted ways, Kaelen caught sight of Ser Orren watching them from across the hall, his aged face unreadable. When their eyes met, the elderly knight offered a barely perceptible nod before turning away.

That night, while Ser Dain attended a strategy meeting with the senior knights, Kaelen slipped from their quarters and made his way not to the western gatehouse but to the small courtyard where he'd practiced the mirror dance. He didn't expect the hooded figure to appear—their meeting place had been changed to the gatehouse—but he needed solitude to sort through his conflicting thoughts.

The courtyard was empty, bathed in pale moonlight. Kaelen drew Mirrorshade and began moving through the fluid sequences he'd learned, allowing his body to think while his mind drifted. The sword felt unusually responsive tonight, as though it sensed his inner turmoil and sought to steady him through the familiar patterns of combat.

"You didn't come to the gatehouse."

The voice startled him despite its softness. The hooded figure stood at the courtyard's edge, partially concealed by the shadows of the old oak tree.

"It was too risky," Kaelen replied, lowering his blade but not sheathing it. "The hold is on high alert after the attack on Eastwatch."

"I know." The figure stepped forward. "That's precisely why we needed to leave. Events are accelerating faster than anticipated."

"Because of the Shadow Wolf?" Kaelen studied his teacher carefully. "Do you serve him?"

A soft laugh came from beneath the hood. "An interesting question. Does a teacher serve their student? Does a parent serve their child?"

The implications of this response sent Kaelen's thoughts spinning. "Are you saying...?"

"I'm saying that allegiances are rarely as simple as serving or opposing." The figure moved to the center of the courtyard. "The Shadow Wolf fights for what he believes is justice. For restoration of what was wrongfully taken. But his methods..." A hesitation. "Not all agree with his approach."

"And you? What do you believe?"

"I believe that bloodshed should be the last resort, not the first. That reconciliation serves better than revenge." The figure gestured toward Mirrorshade. "That sword was forged not to divide but to unite. Alaric Dareth-Varathen carried it as a symbol of what could be—two houses joined rather than opposed."

"Yet now his descendant—this Shadow Wolf—uses similar blades to wage war against House Varathen."

"He believes peaceful reconciliation has failed. That only through strength can the purged houses reclaim their rightful place." The figure's voice carried a note of resignation. "Perhaps he's right. Three generations of diplomatic efforts have yielded little progress."

Kaelen thought of his own conflicted heritage, of the banner in the hidden chamber with his name sewn into the lineage of House Dareth.

"What do you want from me?" he asked directly. "Why train me in these techniques if not to serve the Shadow Wolf's cause?"

"Because you represent another path. One forsaken by those who chose either absolute loyalty to Varathen or absolute rebellion against it." The figure stepped closer, moonlight catching the edges of the hood. "You carry both bloodlines. You could be a bridge rather than a weapon."

"How? The Lord Commander would never acknowledge House Dareth's claims, especially not after this attack."

"The Lord Commander is but one man. Houses endure longer than any individual ruler." The figure gestured toward the keep where the Varathen council would be meeting. "There are those within these walls who remember the old alliances, who question the wisdom of perpetuating ancient grudges."

"Ser Orren," Kaelen guessed. "He seemed... sympathetic during the council meeting."

"Among others. Seeds planted long ago now begin to sprout." The figure's voice lowered. "But they need time to grow, time the Shadow Wolf's actions may not allow."

"What would you have me do?"

"Continue your training. Master what I teach you. And when the moment comes—when you must choose your path—remember that the greatest strength of House Dareth was never their fighting prowess, but their adaptability." The figure backed toward the shadows. "The ability to find a third option when others see only two."

Before Kaelen could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the corridor leading to the courtyard. The hooded figure melted into the darkness beneath the oak tree, vanishing as completely as if it had never been there.

Moments later, Ser Dain appeared, his expression tight with concern.

"There you are," he said, relief evident in his voice. "We need to talk. The situation has changed."

"What's happened?"

"A messenger from the Shadow Wolf arrived an hour ago under flag of truce. He brought this." Ser Dain handed Kaelen a small parchment sealed with dark wax bearing the impression of a wolf's head.

"For me?" Kaelen asked, surprised.

"It's addressed to 'The Last Squire of House Dareth.' The Lord Commander doesn't know who that refers to, but I fear others may make the connection if they look closely enough at your recent activities."

Kaelen broke the seal with trembling fingers. Inside, written in a flowing script that somehow seemed familiar, was a simple message:

"The hour of restoration approaches. Blood calls to blood. When silver swords clash and hollow crowns fall, remember who you truly are. The shadow wolf awaits its kin in the vale where our ancestors first raised their banner."

Below this cryptic message was a sigil—not the shadow-wolf of House Dareth, but a hybrid symbol showing a wolf partially overlaid with crossed swords. Almost, but not quite, matching the ring Kaelen wore beneath his glove.

"He knows about me," Kaelen whispered. "But how?"

"The fellowship I spoke of—those who preserve the old ways—has been infiltrated before." Ser Dain's voice was grim. "Or perhaps the Shadow Wolf has sources within Varathen Hold itself."

"What does he want from me?"

"Legitimacy. Another Dareth descendant would strengthen his claim, especially one who's been trained within House Varathen." Ser Dain took the parchment back, holding it over a nearby torch until it caught flame. "This is a recruitment attempt, nothing more."

But Kaelen wasn't so certain. Something in the phrasing, in the careful construction of the sigil, suggested a more personal connection. Blood calls to blood. Could the Shadow Wolf be more than just another descendant? A closer relation?

"The Lord Commander has moved up the timetable," Ser Dain continued. "Our forces march for Dareth Vale at first light. I am assigned to Ser Kethran's vanguard."

"And me?"

"You're to remain here. The Lord Commander considers squires too inexperienced for what may be a decisive battle." Ser Dain's expression softened slightly. "In truth, I requested it. Better you stay within these walls than face a conflict that would force an impossible choice."

Kaelen thought of the hooded figure's words about finding a third option when others saw only two. About being a bridge rather than a weapon.

"What if there's another way?" he asked. "What if this conflict doesn't have to end in bloodshed?"

"Spoken like someone who's never seen war firsthand," Ser Dain replied, though without mockery. "Once blades are drawn and blood is spilled, peaceful resolutions become increasingly difficult."

"But not impossible," Kaelen insisted. "Especially if someone could speak to both sides. Someone with connections to both House Varathen and House Dareth."

Ser Dain studied him for a long moment. "You're suggesting yourself as some kind of envoy? The Lord Commander would never allow it."

"Not officially, no." Kaelen glanced toward where the hooded figure had disappeared. "But what if I could reach the Shadow Wolf before the armies meet? What if I could at least try to find another path?"

"It would be seen as desertion at best, treason at worst." Ser Dain shook his head firmly. "I cannot allow it, Kaelen. Not only for your sake but for the safety of all who've protected your secret these years."

The knight's words carried weight, yet Kaelen couldn't dismiss the feeling that he was being called to something important—that his dual heritage placed him in a unique position to affect the coming conflict.

"Get some rest," Ser Dain said, touching his shoulder briefly. "Morning will bring clearer thoughts."

But as Kaelen followed his mentor back through the corridors of Varathen Hold, his resolve was already hardening. Tonight would be his last within these walls—one way or another.

The Shadow Wolf awaited in Dareth Vale. And Kaelen needed answers only he could provide.