The hooves thundered against the dry earth, pounding a rhythm that echoed through the ravines and forest trails. Four cavalry riders, cloaked in Vaithara's royal insignia, charged across the northern plains, bearing the crimson-sealed scroll in a tightly bound leather case. The rising sun cast streaks of gold and blood across the horizon, a surreal contrast to the tension in their eyes.
For two days and one night, they rode—through dense thickets, across shallow riverbeds, and along the foot of the Veermar Mountains. Their message was urgent. Their hearts, burdened. The shadow they carried was heavier than the scroll tied to their saddle.
At last, the golden spires of Vaithara Kingdom pierced the skyline. The Capital Walls loomed ahead like stoic guardians of peace—walls that had stood tall through centuries of war and glory. The massive gates parted at the sight of the royal crest. Guards saluted, and horns sounded their arrival.
Inside the majestic city, the marble pathways led them to the heart of the kingdom—the Royal Courtyard, where the daily assembly was in progress.
On the golden throne carved with sacred lions, sat King Varyan Vashisth, regal and resolute, his silver-lined robe flowing down the steps of the dais. His eyes, sharp with experience, scanned the gathered ministers. Beside him stood Prince Yougandhar, tall, youthful, his presence commanding, though not yet seasoned in war like his elder brother, Prince Jay Vashisth.
The assembly was deep in discussion—debating a growing crisis.
"The water flow in River Nara is declining each moon," the Minister of Agriculture declared gravely. "This will cripple the grain harvest in the northern provinces."
"Trade caravans are reporting a shortage in crops," added the Minister of Commerce, frustrated. "Kingdoms in the west—especially the Wasten province—are now dominating food supply because of their access to River Elvaran. It is tilting trade dynamics unfavorably."
A low murmur of concern buzzed through the court.
Just then, a royal guard approached, breaking protocol with urgency.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty," the guard bowed, sweat lining his brow. "But riders from the Northern Border have arrived. They bear a message from Prince Jay."
King Varyan's eyes lit up faintly. "Prince Jay?" he echoed with a hopeful tone. Even Yougandhar smiled. "Brother must be returning," he whispered under his breath.
"Send them in immediately," King Varyan ordered, motioning to the Minister of Commerce to step aside temporarily.
The heavy doors opened again. Dust-covered, battle-worn, yet proud—the four cavalry knights marched forward. They knelt, presenting the sealed scroll to the king.
A hush descended.
"Speak," the king said, his voice steady. "What news does my son send?"
The lead knight rose, removing his helmet. "My Lord… Necromancer activity has been confirmed at the Northern Borderlands."
Gasps echoed through the chamber.
"Necromancer?" a minister repeated, stunned.
"You mean… magic? Real magic?" another stammered.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the knight said firmly. "Our elite scout confirmed strange arcane markings near the ruined temple by the river bend. Bandits were seen operating in patterns not common for mere raiders. We suspect dark influence. The situation is escalating."
King Varyan's expression tightened. Yougandhar clenched his fist.
"And Prince Jay?" he asked. "Is he safe?"
The knight bowed. "He led an operation before we departed. Likely, by now, the battle has already occurred. But… he is fighting not just men, but something deeper—something ancient."
The tension thickened. The Warlord, tall and grizzled, stepped forward.
"How many enemies are there?"
"Approximately 100 to 110 bandits. But only one suspected necromancer."
The room stirred again.
Salagar, the King's old advisor and scholar of war, narrowed his eyes. "One necromancer is more dangerous than an army. What's their purpose in the Borderlands?"
The knight hesitated.
"We believe… they were holding an elderly man captive. His name is Vaishnav. He was rescued by Prince Jay during the operation. He's the same man whose daughter—Madhvi—was found injured near the river. According to her, he is merely a healer."
"A healer… who survived a bandit ambush?" the king raised a brow.
"More than survived," the knight continued. "When we tracked their destroyed hut… we found seven bandits slaughtered. Based on wounds and footprints, we believe Vaishnav alone killed them—without weapons."
Whispers rippled through the hall again.
"Is he a warrior in disguise?" one asked.
"We don't know, my Lord," the knight said. "But he has a past… and it's catching up."
Salagar stepped forward, eyes gleaming now.
"That changes everything," he muttered. "A necromancer near a man who is more than he claims… This is no coincidence."
King Varyan's tone turned colder.
"If this is true, then my son is in the heart of a storm."
The Warlord bowed. "Your Majesty, permission to dispatch reinforcements immediately. I will prepare 1000 soldiers—infantry, cavalry, archers, and medics."
"Do it," Varyan commanded without hesitation. "And double the rations and war supplies. Jay must not stand alone."
Salagar stepped away, eyes distant. "I must consult the ancient texts in the royal library. There's a legend… about soul-binding healers and cursed bloodlines. If this Vaishnav is one of them, then this necromancer is not here for conquest—but for awakening something far worse."
The king stared long after Salagar disappeared behind the columns.
"Something stirs in the shadows again… just like the old times."
The Warlord saluted and left to mobilize the troops.
Yougandhar, now deeply troubled, followed Salagar toward the Library Tower, whispering, "I'll join you. I want to understand what's coming… before it's too late."
The knights, now dismissed, were given gold tokens of honor and royal food. But as they exited the court, even they couldn't shake the unease left in the air.
Behind the golden throne, King Varyan sat in silence, fingers interlocked, mind racing. He had seen many wars, many rebellions… but the mention of necromancers brought back memories of cursed tomes, unholy sacrifices, and a time Vaithara had buried under stone and silence.
Now, it was rising again.
Outside, war horns sounded again—this time not in celebration, but in summoning. The iron gates opened once more, and a column of soldiers began marching toward the north.
The winds had changed.
The War of Swords had just shifted into something darker.
Something forgotten.
Something cursed.
—To be continued.