The clang of steel echoed through the training yards of Ironheart, sharp and rhythmic, a song as old as the fortress itself. Dust danced in golden beams of light filtering through the colonnades as armored figures moved in practiced formations. In the center of it all stood Xander Runeblade, sweat rolling down his brow, his blade ablaze with arcane fire as he met blow after blow from a pair of sparring partners.

  He moved with precision—muscles honed from years of training, movements drilled into instinct. With a twist of his wrist and a whispered word, his sword pulsed with a surge of thunder, knocking his opponents back several paces. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t bow. He simply exhaled and readied his stance again.

  "Again," he said, eyes focused, voice calm.

  From the high terraces, others watched. Recruits, commanders, and veterans alike observed the scion of the Runeblade Clan—the youngest to bear the name in decades, and the one most feared to never live up to it.

  But Xander never cared for reputation. It was duty that drove him. Honor. A name meant nothing if it wasn’t earned, and the Runeblade name was a heavy one. Forged in blood and battle, tempered by generations of warrior-mages who had defended Ironheart from every threat the continent of Drenvor had ever known.

  After drills, Xander walked the stone paths that wound through the upper levels of the city. From the ramparts, Ironheart spread out like a vision of might—stone towers crowned in iron, banners bearing the sigils of noble houses fluttering in the wind, and beyond, the sunlit plains and frost-kissed peaks that marked the city's domain.

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  This was home. Fortress and sanctuary. And he had fought for it since the day he came of age.

  But not all battles were fought on the field. His thoughts drifted to Commander Danna, his mentor and superior. She had once said to him, “A blade can guard a city, but wisdom keeps it standing.” She had seen something in him beyond strength. Something he didn’t yet understand.

  And so he studied. Not just blade forms and battle spells, but history, planar theory, old legends buried in forgotten books in Ironheart’s deep archives. He learned of the Celestial Concord, of the long-faded Planar Seals, and of strange tales told by wandering mages who spoke of thinning veils and shifting stars.

  But those were stories. Whispers. Ghosts of a different age.

  Now, life was simple. The sun rose, the city stood strong, the barracks echoed with drills and laughter. And Xander trained. He lived a soldier’s life in the greatest bastion of the realm, and though there were always rumors of trouble beyond the borders—raids in the lowlands, monsters stirring in the wilds—it was nothing Ironheart hadn’t weathered before.

  And deep down, a part of him longed for the day his skills would be truly tested. For the day when his name would mean something more than a legacy to uphold. A real threat. A real war.

  He could never have imagined what was coming.

  But for now, the forges burned, the banners flew, and the city slept under skies it still believed were its own.