Fate of Fateless

The silence that followed the child's birth was not peace.

It was the silence of predators retreating—wounded, watching, waiting.

The beasts had fled the estate's walls, but they had not disappeared. Beyond the treeline, past the wards still flickering in crimson light, they circled like vultures held at bay by stormlight. Magic clung to the air, heavy and foul, as if the world itself could not accept what had just occurred.

Lionheart, the former Duke, stood at the threshold of the birthing chamber, his eyes no longer on the child, but on the world beyond the walls. His senses stretched outward, sharp as the blades he once carried into battle. The retreat of the beasts was unnatural. Tactical. Their hunger had not been sated. It had only been postponed.

He turned to his son, Duke Hepton, his voice low, hard. "The land won't stay quiet for long. They'll come again—stronger. And this time, they'll bring worse."

Hepton nodded. "I know."

Lionheart didn't wait for a reply. He turned on his heel, his cloak trailing like a shadow. The years fell away from him with every step—no longer a retired noble, but a general reborn.

"Keep them safe," he said over to his son " I'll clear the them."

And then he was gone.

Outside, the night still boiled with darkness.

Lionheart did not ride. He walked—straight into the treeline, sword in hand, eyes burning like twin stars. He did not wear armor. He did not need it.

Every beast that had once prowled toward the estate now turned to flee. But he did not allow it. With every swing of his blade, the air cracked like thunder. Creatures bound in curses, conjured by ancient hatred, were cleaved in half by will alone. Spectral beasts cried out as their corrupted forms were torn apart, purified by the Duke's soul-forged wrath.

He fought not like a man, but like a legend that had been waiting for this night to wake.

Beneath the estate, down through stone corridors sealed to all but blood of noble lineage, Duke Hepton moved quickly, his footsteps echoing with purpose.

He held a fragment of the family sigil in his hand—a silver shard etched with a phoenix bound in chains. As he reached the final gate, he pressed the shard into a hidden slot. The wall groaned and peeled away, revealing a narrow passage, lit by blue fire.

He stepped into the Vault of Sablespire—the secret treasury of the Hepton Dukedom, known only to those who ruled.

Here, relics of untold power lay dormant in silence. Not trinkets. Not weapons for war. But artifacts meant to defy fate itself.

He passed over the lesser vaults—Knight-Relics, Warlock Arms, and Mage-Keeper Talismans—and went straight to the sealed obsidian case near the back, untouched for generations.

The runes on it whispered madness to lesser men.

He activated the seal with his own blood, and the lid hissed open.

Inside were three Emperor-Class Artifacts—items forbidden from use except in defense of the bloodline.

The Veil of Tyranor — a sentient cloak that repels fate-bound strikes and curses.

The Ironheart Prism — a crystal shield that creates an impenetrable zone where time itself slows for those inside.

The Bell of Null — a small, silver chime that, when rung, severs all magic in a radius wide enough to silence a battlefield.

Hepton's fingers hovered over them for only a moment before selecting all three.

He bound the Veil to the room around the birthing chamber—its magic spreading like black smoke, anchoring itself to walls, windows, and breath.

He placed the Prism beneath his wife's bed, hidden but pulsing.

The Bell, he strapped to his own side.

And as he returned to the upper levels, holding the weight of empires in his hands, he whispered to himself:

"They will not touch him.

Not while I still draw breath."

Outside, the forest had begun to quiet—only the occasional shriek or crunch breaking the stillness. Lionheart stood atop a hill now, blood spattered, breathing normally, but victorious. The land was littered with the remains of beasts that had no name.

But he knew.

This was only the first night.

They would come again.

And next time, they might not come alone.

But in the halls of Sablespire, where mother and child now slept—watched over by wards, relics, and the will of two generations of warriors—a miracle had survived.

And the world would learn, too late, that trying to kill what should not exist…

only makes it stronger.