The sky cracked open at dawn as a sweep of gold and rose spilled across the Gordon River until its waters shimmered like molten glass. Mist curled from the surface, and pale fingers drifted between tall pines and the rolling green of the hills. Birds sang from hidden branches with fragile and defiant songs. For a breath, the world was untouched by war and the chaos of men.

  At the river's edge stood two figures who remained stark against the morning calm. Leeonir was young and restless, and the fire of new vows still burned in his veins. Beside him stood Claamvor, a tall and composed man shaped from steel and scars. Raw youth and will stood next to a discipline that was honed as sharp as a blade.

  Before them waited the vessel that would carry them into danger. Its hull was carved from the Black Forest's enchanted wood, and it drank in the light rather than reflecting it. Old runes wound along its sides to tell of victories so ancient that some lines had faded into scratches. At the bow gleamed the Mercenary Guild's sigil, which depicted two crossed swords over a bleached skull. It caught the sunrise in a glint that was a dark omen rather than a sign of pride.

  Leeonir traced the carvings with his eyes while his hand unconsciously brushed his sword's hilt. He murmured that even the ships wore scars. Claamvor's gaze remained fixed on the water as he responded that everything that survives war carries scars on wood or flesh. He added that the trick was learning which ones make a warrior stronger. Leeonir searched the face of his mentor for any sign of softness, but Claamvor gave nothing away. Only the river spoke as it lapped against the hull and whispered them forward.

  Claamvor stepped aboard first with boots heavy on the dark planks. Twin flame-forged blades at his back caught the dawn light and shimmered faintly, whispering a menace like steel that remembered the taste of blood. Leeonir followed him, and his black chainmail glinted where the sun broke through the mist. Ecos's sword pulled at his side with the immense weight of a legacy.

  The boat pushed off and sliced through the current. The river stretched wide, and its surface was a mirror of gold and glass. Wildflowers bent along the banks with colors that were soft against the deep green of the forest. The world was sacred and untouched for that fleeting moment.

  Leeonir leaned slightly to watch the current curl past the hull and remarked that the river always calmed him. He remembered swimming and fishing there with his sisters, and he found it hard to believe they were sailing toward battle. Claamvor's voice was low but sharp enough to cut through the morning haze. He warned that nature is a liar and that peace masks danger better than shadows. He stated that when war claws at a place like this, the wounds never heal clean. Minotaurs and ogres working together represented a ruin that was waiting to happen.

  Leeonir's hand drifted to Ecos's sword hilt, and he gripped it tight. He declared that he was ready to honor his father and that his blade would not fail. For the first time, Claamvor's mouth twitched into something that resembled a smile, though his eyes stayed hard. He acknowledged Leeonir's talent but reminded him that his father considered him careless. He told the boy not to prove Leelinor right. Claamvor turned back to the river and explained that power which is not sharpened turns blunt. Skill in the blood meant nothing because experience is hammered into a warrior through pain and scars that never leave.

  The words struck deeper than any reprimand Leeonir had faced. He straightened his posture and forced himself to breathe steady as the current slapped the hull in a rhythmic drumbeat. Time stretched as hours bled by, marked only by the pull of oars and the river's song against the wood.

  Claamvor broke the silence with a memory rather than a command. His voice warmed with something rare as he recalled being younger than Leeonir when he first stood with Ecos and Leelinor. He described two dragons circling Zao's skies with wings that blotted out the sun. He had believed they would all die there.

  Leeonir listened with wide eyes. He had grown up hearing fragments of tales, but they were never spoken with the weight of someone who had been there. Claamvor's eyes sharpened as he explained how Leelinor outwitted a beast older than the kingdom. His father had read the flight of the dragon and used the terrain to draw it into its own flames. Ecos had arrived with Arkanjos, the white pégasus with wings as bright as lightning. That sight burned itself into Claamvor and changed what he believed was possible.

  He paused and let the river fill the silence. He reminded Leeonir that although Leelinor sat in chambers now, he was still a warrior and a blade of justice against tyrants. Claamvor whispered that those were good days. Leeonir's chest swelled with pride for a father he barely knew beyond duty. Yet sadness shadowed the feeling because so many battles were locked away in silence. He vowed that he would train until his own name was spoken with the same respect. Claamvor turned to him and said that names carved in stone are written in blood first, so he had better be ready to bleed.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The current carried them toward the frontier. The Gordon River widened as they drifted deeper into the borderlands. Shoals flickered beneath the clear surface with fish unlike any found elsewhere. One broke the water in a flash of silver and blue with scales that glimmered like faint light.

  Leeonir leaned over the edge and identified them as Starfin. He told Claamvor how he and his sisters used to catch them and roast them on flat stones. The meat was sweet and softer than bread, and Deehia always said they tasted of moonlight. Claamvor's mouth curved into an almost smile as he remarked that food and memory bind a land more than treaties. However, his eyes never softened as he warned that rivers feed a man before they drown him. Beauty deceives as quickly as it comforts.

  Leeonir's hand rested on his sword while he stared into the current. He mentioned his conversation with Deehia and her belief that their people still act like rulers instead of equals. He wondered if unity was just an illusion they polished until it shined and if they had given humans scraps and called it peace. Claamvor's brow furrowed, and he stated that he did not speak politics. The Council debates while he fights. His oath was simple loyalty to Eldoria and the mercenaries he bled beside. He promised to defend that unity until his last breath.

  Leeonir asked quietly if Claamvor believed in his father. Claamvor's gaze lifted to the horizon. He admitted that Leelinor was not flawless, but he had followed him into fire. He had witnessed his commander break monsters that would have devoured whole villages. He obeyed whatever Leelinor commanded because he believed in the man regardless of what the Council decreed.

  The forest thinned to give way to a wide valley where the river curved like a blade. Riverside stood there, rising from the banks. Homes of carved wood framed with marble glowed in the sunlight, and canals cut the earth with ribbons of silver. Stone bridges arched gracefully across the waters. For centuries, Riverside was the proof that elves and humans could share beauty and unity. It was perfect, but Claamvor's voice dropped to cold steel as he warned that beauty is the mask fear wears best.

  While the river bore them south, the capital bristled with unease. Winds howled through Eldoria's narrow streets and snapped banners like whips against white stone walls. Inside the Council chamber, tempers were as stormy as the skies.

  The reports had arrived to announce that Leeonir had completed his trials as one of the top performers of the decade. He had demonstrated immense resilience and leadership. The news should have been cause for pride, but it became kindling for a fire already burning. Guhile's fingers tapped against a scroll while his eyes gleamed with calculation. He spoke with slow and poisonous words.

  He reminded the Council that Ecos named Leelinor as his heir in a final act that passed over Deehia, Luucner, and seasoned elders. He whispered that some believed Ecos chose poorly by leaving a sword when the realm needed a shield. The words cut deeper than any blade and the chamber stilled. Even the torches faltered.

  Leelinor's fingers stopped against the table. For a moment, his green eyes flickered with anger and guilt. He rose slowly, and his white hair caught the blue fire of the torches while his shadow spilled long across the floor. He asked if Guhile dared to question Ecos's will. His voice was quiet, but it struck the chamber like thunder. He declared that his father built the realm with fire and blood and that he would guard it.

  His gaze swept across them all and lingered on Guhile until the scholar looked down. Leelinor warned that if the people turned from them, the kingdom would fall by its own hands. A heavy and suffocating silence followed, and for the first time that night, no councilor dared to answer.

  Far from the mountain halls, the Gordon River bore its passengers toward their destination. The boat scraped against the southern dock. Claamvor stepped off first, and his boots struck the damp planks with the weight of a man who had done this a hundred times. Leeonir followed with a lighter step but carried Ecos's black sword, which looked older than the boy who bore it.

  The air was heavy with smoke and the stench of burnt grain. Crops along the riverbank wilted in uneven rows, and their green was dulled to ash. The village rose beyond the docks where elven marble crowned human timber homes. Riverside's beauty was scarred and its rhythm was broken.

  Two guards came forward to meet them. The human had a silver breastplate streaked with blood, and his spear trembled in a tired grip. The elven guard wore leather armor that clung to a body hollowed by hunger. Both had the hollow-eyed look of men who had not slept for many nights.

  The human rasped with relief that the mercenaries had finally arrived. He explained that families were gone and homes were lost, and that the civilians were sheltered in the school. Claamvor's answer came like steel drawn from a sheath. He ordered the guards to tend the wounded and gather every soul still able to fight.

  His gaze swept the streets to measure walls and read the barricades. He saw every weak point as a promise about to snap. He was already piecing the battle together. Then his eyes cut to Leeonir. He warned that the boy's blade was about to be tested again and that there would be no rest, only blood. He stated that what they faced went beyond the reports.

  Leeonir nodded as his chest tightened under the weight of the gazes turning toward him. Humans and elves looked on with a bruised and desperate hope. Watching Claamvor command with such certainty, Leeonir understood that a mercenary was a wall for the weak and a sword raised when all else had broken.

  He was no apprentice or a boy trailing after legends. He was part of the Order and Eldoria's blade made flesh. He was now a shield for the vulnerable and a sword for the helpless. Fear twisted inside him, sharp and real, but beneath it burned a fire brighter than any wound. The journey was only beginning, and Riverside was the first page written in blood.