The gates of Valdris groaned open, allowing the twelve warriors who survived to stumble inside. Their armor was dented, their cloaks tattered, their bodies weary from wounds both seen and unseen. Yet, despite their exhaustion, they carried themselves with purpose, for they bore the weight of not only their fallen but of something far greater—a legacy.
Word of their return spread like wildfire, and soon they stood before the throne. The great hall of Valdris was silent, the courtiers watching as the battered warriors knelt before their king. He was a man of icy composure, his silver crown gleaming beneath the torches, but when his gaze fell upon them, his expression darkened with knowing.
"Where is Valgrion ?" the king asked, though his voice carried no hope.
Kato, the most senior of the twelve, clenched his fists. "He fell, Your Majesty. He gave his life so that we might return."
A hush fell over the hall. The words seemed to echo, each syllable a hammer striking upon the heart of their sovereign.
The king closed his eyes, exhaling sharply. He had feared this day would come. The males of Valgrion 's family had always borne the duty of protecting Valdris, each generation perishing too young in their service. Now, Valgrion was gone—the last male of his line.
His voice, though steady, held sorrow. "Then our kingdom has lost its strongest shield. And his house—his name—will be stripped of its honor. The council will not allow a family without a male heir to hold the title of stronghold."
The warriors exchanged glances, a silent understanding passing between them. Then, Gael stepped forward and knelt deeper, his voice firm despite the grief in his eyes.
"Do not despair, my king," he declared. "Valgrion has left an heir. That is why we have returned."
Murmurs rippled through the court. The king's gaze sharpened. "An heir? Impossible. Valgrion never wed."
Gael nodded, then motioned for one of the younger warriors to step forward. From beneath his cloak, the warrior revealed a child—small, bundled in soft furs, her dark lashes fluttering over emerald-green eyes. She was barely five months old, yet there was something in her gaze, something unyielding.
The king stared, his breath catching.
"This is Valgrion 's son," Gael said firmly. "Born of a warrior woman he met during our crusade. He did not live to see the boy grow, but he knew of him."
The lie was smooth, practiced, yet spoken with unwavering conviction. The warriors had agreed before reaching the kingdom: the truth was too dangerous. A daughter could never inherit Valgrion 's title, and if the council learned of it, they would strip his family of their legacy. But a son—an heir—would secure Valgrion 's honor and protect the child from the dangers that would come should the truth be known.
The king's expression softened as he knelt, his hands trembling as he cupped the infant's cheek. "You do look like your father," he whispered. Then, his eyes flicked to the child's hair—raven-black, unlike Valgrion 's golden locks.
"The mother's color," Vanna, one of the warriors, quickly supplied. "But the spirit of Valgrion burns within him."
The king exhaled, relief washing over him. He turned to his council, his voice regaining its authority. "Then the stronghold remains within Valgrion 's line. This child will be raised as his heir and he will bore the name "Sixtus Skjolfrost"
The warriors bowed their heads, silently vowing to uphold their deception. For Valgrion . For his sacrifice. For the daughter who now bore the weight of a name not her own.