As he walked back toward his camp, Ronan struggled to process all he’d learned. The offer to join the Aetherian Knights alone would have been life-changing—a chance to stand among the warriors he’d admired since childhood, watching them train whenever his father’s forge allowed. But this was more. Thorne believed he carried the blessed blood of Aethor—a revelation that set his thoughts spinning.
Could it be true? Could the blood of Aethor really flow in his veins? The idea thrilled and unsettled him in equal measure. No longer was he just a blacksmith’s son from Kael Kestrel. Somewhere in his past, noble blood ran hidden. But why had it been kept secret? Had his father even known?
Ronan’s mind lingered on his parents. His father rarely spoke of his mother, beyond saying they had met in Kael Sardis and that her death had brought them to Kestrel. Was there something more he’d never been told?
The sun had begun its slow descent while he and Thorne spoke. Now, the camp around him came alive with new energy. Campfires glowed in clusters, their light flickering across faces that, just this morning, had been drawn with sorrow. Voices rose, laughter and mirth rippling through the air. Yet Ronan couldn’t shake the sense of fragility beneath it—a brittle surface over wounds not yet healed. Still, the sound stirred something within him: a sense of hope—not whole, but enough to carry him forward.
Returning to his camp, Ronan was struck by how familiar the scene felt. Daire and some of the others from the Reach were gathered around the fire, their laughter rising with the crackle of flames. They passed drinks between them, their easy camaraderie a welcome sight after the day’s weight. The sight was welcome, but he could not help but feel distanced from at, as though he were stuck between this simple life, and the life Thorne had offered him a glimpse of.
Over the fire hung a large pot of stew, its savory, familiar aroma wafting through the air, carrying with it a small piece of home to this distant mountain pass. Though simpler than last night’s roasted goat, the bubbling broth smelled just as enticing, rich with promise. For a moment, Ronan allowed himself to relax. The warmth of the fire and the gentle hum of familiar voices wrapped around him, grounding him in a fleeting sense of peace.
He let the comfort of the moment settle before taking a seat beside Daire. “So, any news on when we’ll move on from here?” he asked, not wanting to discuss his day with the Aetherian Knights just yet.
Daire grinned, his words slightly slurred—a clear sign they’d been drinking for a while. “You really need to stop showing up just as dinner’s ready, Ronan.” He chuckled, taking another swig of whatever they’d been passing around. “No word from the higher-ups yet, but there’s talk of peace already. Seems all the hard work you put in yesterday scared the Varn."
He passed a full tankard to Ronan, the frothy beer sloshing slightly as he did. At least they were sticking to beer tonight, holding off on the harsher spirits and liquor. Ronan accepted it with a nod, taking a slow sip as the cool bitterness settled on his tongue.
“Let’s hope they find common ground soon,” Daire said, his tone light but edged with weariness. He gestured vaguely toward the dark mountains surrounding them, their jagged peaks catching the last rays of sunlight. Shadows stretched across the camp, and only the tallest summits still glowed with the fading light. “I’d like to get away from this place.”
Ronan glanced at the peaks, their stark beauty a reminder of how far they were from home. “Yeah. Beautiful as it is here, it’ll be nice to get back to a proper room and bed,” he replied, his voice carrying a hint of longing. He turned back to Daire, raising an eyebrow. “Anyway, what have you been up to while I was talking with the Knights?”
Daire let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “The Captain had us standing guard on the southern perimeter. Your heroics yesterday must’ve impressed the higher-ups because we got the privilege of watching an empty field all day.” He took a long swig from his tankard, a grin tugging at his lips. “Not a single soul in sight—unless you count the crows. They were having a feast, by the way.”
As they talked, the rich aroma of the stew thickened, signaling it was ready. The bubbling broth was ladled into bowls, and both Ronan and Daire eagerly accepted their portions. Ronan inhaled deeply, his stomach rumbling in response. “This smells incredible. How did you manage this?” he asked, marveling at the savory scent that seemed to promise a feast.
Daire grinned, blowing on his steaming bowl before taking a cautious sip. “After guard duty, a couple of us went into the forest to gather firewood. Most of the wildlife’s been scared off by the army, but there were plenty of herbs and mushrooms to be found. Lucky for us, a few of the guys knew which ones wouldn’t kill us.”
Ronan savored the stew, each spoonful rich and hearty, its earthy flavors and warmth spreading through him. It had a taste that reminded him of home—the familiar simplicity of meals shared with his father in Kestrel. For a brief moment, the weight of the past weeks seemed to lift. Here, surrounded by friends and the soft glow of the fire, this was as close to peace as he’d felt since leaving Kestrel in the spring.
Daire took a deep breath, his tone casual but deliberate. “So, what did the Knights want with you again?” The question was posed as though in passing, but Ronan knew better. His friend had been waiting, biding his time for the right moment to ask.
“I don’t truly know myself, to be honest.” Ronan hesitated, trying to collect his thoughts. Despite the walk back to the levy camp for the Reach, he still hadn’t fully come to terms with everything he’d learned today. “They said the Knight Paramount wanted to speak with me. He asked a lot of questions about what happened yesterday.”
“You got to speak with the Duke?” Daire interrupted, his eyes wide with disbelief. “How is that not the first thing you mention? ‘Hey Daire, how was your day? Oh, fine, good. Mine was alright—just met the Duke of the Reach.’” He mimed the casualness, throwing up his hands for emphasis before shaking his head. “Ronan, come on. Start with that next time.”
“If only that was the strangest thing to happen,” Ronan replied, his voice quieter but no less charged with significance. He glanced around the campfire, noticing the others’ attention shifting toward them, drawn by the conversation. “After he finished questioning me…” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “He asked me to spar with him.”
“Unsurprisingly, he beat me soundly.” Ronan chuckled, shaking his head at the memory. It was the only reaction that felt reasonable right now. “I did manage to last a few good rounds, though,” he added with a faint grin, a mix of pride and self-deprecation in his tone.
As he spoke, he decided to leave out any mention of the revelation about his heritage. It was too much to process, too strange to truly believe. For now, it was a burden he wasn’t ready to share—not even with Daire.
“After the sparring match, he invited me back to his tent again.” Ronan paused, taking a deep breath as his gaze drifted toward the fire. To delay the inevitable, he finished the last of his stew, savoring the warmth of the meal, and took a long drink of his beer.
“Quit stalling and tell us what happened!” Daire demanded, his tone sharp with impatience. The men around the campfire gave gruff murmurs of agreement, their curiosity now fully piqued. All eyes were on Ronan, the crackle of the fire the only other sound in the moment.
“He asked me to join the Aetherian Knights.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with significance. As Ronan spoke them aloud, the full implications settled over him. He was no longer just Ronan Blackarken, son of Gideon, blacksmith of Kael Kestrel. He was no longer just the Reaper of the Sardian Pass.
He was Ronan—the first commoner ever invited to join the Aetherian Knights.
The shock on the others’ faces was unmistakable. Daire was the first to break the silence. “You’re joking, right?” he ventured, though the lack of conviction in his voice betrayed him. “Come on, Ronan. No commoner gets invited to join the Knights. And even if they did…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing as realization dawned. “They’d have to be… blessed.”
The last word was spoken slowly, carefully, as though saying it aloud might make it more real. Daire’s eyes locked on Ronan, and the murmur around the campfire faded as the others pieced it together—the feats on the battlefield, the Knights’ interest, and now this.
“Yeah, apparently the Knight Paramount is convinced I have the blessed blood,” Ronan admitted, his voice steady but low. Saying it aloud felt like shedding a weight he hadn’t realized he was carrying. Yet as relief washed over him, it revealed an even heavier burden lurking beneath.
“I accepted,” he continued after a moment, glancing around the fire at the wide-eyed faces of his comrades. “I’m supposed to go back to their camp later tonight.”
The decision had been easy. In the heat of battle, he had felt something he couldn’t ignore—a surge of power, a clarity of purpose that dwarfed the quiet rhythm of the forge. The march to this place had awakened a hunger in him, a craving for adventure and something more.
He would miss working alongside his father, miss the steady cadence of hammer on steel, the silent familiarity of their daily work, and the unspoken pride in his gaze. But this was his chance to step out of the shadow of being just Gideon’s boy. A chance to be something more.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
More than anything, it was the joy he felt during battle—a feeling he was reluctant to name, even to himself—that pulled him forward. That raw, unfiltered power had awakened something inside him. He needed to understand it, to see where it could lead.
Silence followed, broken only by the crackle and pop of the fire. Each man sat frozen, eyes fixed on Ronan, as though trying to reconcile the man they had come to know these past weeks and months with the weight of his words.
Ronan shifted under their gazes, his throat suddenly dry. He took a long drink of his beer, then another, draining the tankard in a few gulps. Even as the warmth of the drink settled in his stomach, his hands felt restless, the weight of the empty vessel unnerving. Without a word, he stood and made his way toward the barrel to get a refill, needing a moment to collect himself.
As he turned back toward the fire, Daire leaned back with a wide grin, breaking the silence. “My friend, Ronan, the first commoner to join the Aetherian Knights.” He raised his tankard in a mock toast, his grin widening. “Think of all the girls I’ll attract once the news spreads back in Kestrel.”
The group burst into laughter, raising their tankards to join his toast. The tension evaporated, replaced by easy grins and playful jabs.
“By the Light, Ronan, think of all the girls that will flock to you now!” Daire added, his voice laced with exaggerated reverence. “Maybe you’ll finally get dear Callie’s attention!”
Laughter rippled around the fire as each of them found their own way to congratulate him—a blend of heartfelt words and good-natured teasing. By the time Ronan reached his third tankard, the rest of the group was thoroughly drunk, their boisterous antics filling the camp with noise and cheer.
Taking this as his cue, Ronan stood and gathered the few personal belongings he had brought with him—his sword, some spare clothes, and a handful of coins. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he turned to the group, the firelight casting flickering shadows on their faces.
“Goodnight, Daire,” he said with a faint smile. “The tent’s yours, by the way.”
Daire gave a lopsided grin, raising his half-empty tankard in a sloppy salute. “Don’t go getting too fancy on us, Knight Ronan. We’ll still expect to see you at the Roasted Pig now and then!”
Laughter rippled through the group, their cheers and playful jeers following Ronan as he stepped away from the fire. The cool night air embraced him, a stark contrast to the warmth and noise he left behind. Ahead, the camp stretched in shadowy silence, the path to the Aetherian Knights’ camp illuminated by the glow of the many campfires.
As he approached their camp for the second time that day, his attention was drawn to its striking order. Unlike the chaotic sprawl of the levies’ camp, this place was methodical—lines of neatly pitched tents, equipment stacked with precision, and sentries moving with purpose. Even in the quiet, the professionalism of the soldiers was unmistakable.
He was quickly challenged as he neared the outermost tents. “Who goes there?” The voice was calm but firm, carrying no hint of threat or urgency—just quiet competence laced with impatience.
“Ronan, sir,” he replied, stepping forward and gesturing to the pack slung over his shoulder. “I’m the new recruit. Just came back from collecting my things.”
The sentry’s eyes flicked over him, lingering on the pack and the sword strapped to his side. His expression hardened slightly, and his tone carried a sharp edge of skepticism. “Have you now? You’re aware that only those with the blessed blood may join our order, right? And no offense, but you don’t exactly look like a noble to me.” He paused, his smirk widening as his gaze swept Ronan’s plain clothes. “Are you sure you didn’t wander into the wrong camp? Maybe you’re looking for the Kingsguard. They’re not as… particular.”
“Knight Paramount asked me himself,” Ronan replied sharply, irritation flaring. He gestured to his pack. “Call him if you don’t believe me. He’ll clear everything up.”
Fendral raised an eyebrow, his smirk curling into something colder as his hand came to rest casually on the hilt of his sword. “The Knight Paramount, huh? Well, aren’t you important.” His voice was laced with mockery. “Next thing, you’ll be telling us the King himself sent you. Funny, you don’t look like someone he’d bother with.”
“Fendral! Quit teasing the poor lad and let him through,” came a voice from behind. Leoric approached with an amused smile, his presence immediately commanding attention. He gave Fendral a pointed look before turning to Ronan. “You’ll have to excuse him, Ronan. Sentry duty tends to make a man creative in finding ways to entertain himself.”
Fendral straightened slightly but kept his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his air of superiority unwavering. “Apologies, sir,” he said, his tone flat. “Just making sure we only let those with proper business inside.” He cast Ronan a sideways glance, his sneer barely hidden. “No hard feelings, eh?”
“None at all,” Ronan replied evenly, eager to move on. He adjusted his pack and stepped past Fendral, glad the encounter was behind him.
Ronan fell into step beside Leoric, trusting the knight to guide him. The cool night air was quiet around them, broken only by the faint sounds of the camp.
“I’m afraid that won’t be the last negative encounter you’ll have here,” Leoric said after a moment, his tone calm but edged with warning. “The Aetherian Knights are very selective about who they accept, and there will be many who won’t believe you belong. Even though we’re all part of the same order, the politics of our families often carry more weight than they should.”
“Thanks,” Ronan replied with a faint smile. “Don’t worry—I’m sure it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Even for commoners like me, there’s always infighting. And sometimes, a few good punches are all it takes to sort things out.”
Leoric chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “That’s good to hear. Just keep in mind, punching a superior is generally frowned upon. And right now…” He gave Ronan a pointed look, his tone laced with humor. “Most everyone is your superior.”
“Now,” he continued with a wry smile, “you’re incredibly lucky. Not only are you joining this illustrious order, but you’ve also been assigned to my squad.”
As they walked, their conversation carried them into a neatly arranged section of the camp. Tents stood in orderly rows, their canvas clean and taut, illuminated by the flickering glow of a nearby campfire. Outside one of the larger tents, a fire crackled brightly, and two men sat around it.
Ronan immediately recognized one of them as Edric. His broad shoulders and scarred face were unmistakable, and his piercing gaze followed them as they approached. The other man was unfamiliar—a wiry figure with sandy hair that glinted orange in the firelight. He leaned back casually, his expression relaxed but curious as his eyes flicked over Ronan.
Edric spoke first, his tone gruff but measured. “So, this is the recruit. I hope you know what you’re getting into, lad.” His words were more observation than warning, though his gaze was steady and appraising.
The second man grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Welcome to the squad, recruit. Name’s Garrin. Don’t let the big guy scare you too much.” He jabbed a thumb at Edric and leaned forward, warming his hands over the fire. “Just hope you’ve got thick skin and a sharper sword.”
Leoric smirked, folding his arms as he stood beside Ronan. “Play nice, both of you. Ronan here is about to learn what it means to be part of something bigger than himself. Let’s not scare him off on his first night. We’ve already had a run-in with Fendral.”
Garrin raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Ah, that ray of sunshine is on sentry duty right now? That explains why he looks like he’s ready to swing at the next person who sneers at him. You’ve had the honor, huh?”
Leoric let out a quiet chuckle, gesturing for Ronan to sit by the fire. “Come on, let’s get you settled. I assume you’ve already eaten?”
Ronan nodded, dropping his pack by the fire as he took a seat. “Yes, sir. Had a meal with my old squad before I came over.” He glanced around at the unfamiliar faces and added, “Though I imagine things are a little different here.”
Edric folded his arms, his sharp gaze fixed on Ronan. “Different, yes. And harder. Don’t get too comfortable—we’ve got guard duty at midnight.”
Garrin smirked, leaning back on his hands. “Edric likes to scare the recruits, but he’s not wrong. Midnight shifts are no joke. Hope you’re not too attached to sleep, lad.”
Leoric interjected, his tone calm but firm. “Guard duty is just as important as training, Ronan. It’ll give you time to adjust, observe, and learn the discipline that comes with this life. We’ll brief you on the details when it’s time.”
As Ronan settled by the fire, Garrin handed him a tankard. He accepted it cautiously, bracing himself for more beer. But when he peered inside, he was relieved to find it was filled with fresh water.
“Thanks,” he said, taking a sip. After the three tankards he’d already had back at his old squad’s camp, the water was a welcome change. The cool liquid cleared his head, helping to push away the dull haze threatening to settle in.
“So, what’s all this about blessed blood and only nobles possessing it?” Ronan ventured, figuring he might as well try to get some answers.
“Straight to it, then.” Garrin leaned forward, clearly the most talkative of the group. “Those who carry the blessed blood of Aethor sometimes develop special abilities. Strength, speed, reflexes—things beyond what ordinary men can manage.”
He paused, warming his hands over the fire, his voice taking on a slightly reverent tone. “Legend has it, the blessing is carried through the blood—passed down from parent to child. Supposedly, everyone who carries it can trace their lineage back to one of The Fifteen.” He glanced at Ronan with a faint smile, as though daring him to scoff.
“They were the first to receive Aethor’s gift, and through it, they founded the four duchies we have today. Every noble house descends from one of them, or so the story goes.”
“Enough of the history lesson,” Edric interrupted, his tone gruff but not unkind. He shot a glance at the animated Garrin. “The lad asked for answers, not a lecture.”
He turned to Ronan, his expression steady. “We inherit the potential for abilities through our blood—hence the name. But not everyone with the blood gets abilities, and those who do don’t always get the same ones. It’s not as grand as Garrin likes to make it sound.”
“But where does that leave me, then?” Ronan asked. While he’d gotten an answer, it only raised more questions. “As far as I know, none of my parents or grandparents were of noble descent.”
Garrin raised an eyebrow, leaning back with a thoughtful expression. “That’s the interesting part, isn’t it? If you’ve got the potential—and the Knight Paramount seems to think you do—then somewhere in your family tree, someone was noble. Maybe someone got a bit too cozy with the local blacksmith or a farmhand.” He smirked, clearly enjoying the speculation.
“Enough,” Leoric cut in, his tone firm but not unkind. He gave Garrin a pointed look before turning to Ronan. “Bloodlines are complicated, and the past often holds secrets. What matters is that you’ve been recognized for what you are now. Focus on that.”
He stood, brushing off his tunic as he addressed the group. “Anyway, it’s about time we head to our positions. We’ve been posted near the edge of camp, facing the forest to the south.”
He glanced at Ronan, his expression lightening slightly. “The tent on the right is yours. Stow your gear there, but make sure to bring your sword. You’ll need it.”
Garrin groaned theatrically, dragging himself to his feet. “Ah, the glamorous life of a Knight. Standing in the dark, listening to trees rustle. Truly, we’re living the dream.”
Edric shot him a sidelong glance, his tone dry. “Better than listening to you complain all night.”
Leoric smirked, adjusting his sword belt. “Come on, enough chatter. Let’s move out.” With a quick gesture, he motioned for Ronan to follow as the group began heading toward their assigned post.