Chapter One:  The Early Years

Long before the people of Sartonia called him The Returning Prince, Velther was simply another forgotten child of the lower districts.

He was born with nothing.

His mother worked whatever labor she could find along the canals and crystal foundries of Sartonia, often leaving before sunrise and returning long after darkness had settled across the city. Even then, her wages were rarely enough. More often than not, it was the Sapphire Crown itself—through public granaries and food subsidies—that ensured there was bread on the table. Velther never forgot where those meals came from.

The streets raised him as much as his mother did.

There was no formal education waiting for him, no tutors, no academies, no mentors. Yet Velther possessed a sharp mind. While other children learned mathematics and philosophy from scholars, he learned by watching merchants barter, sailors navigate, and guards patrol the streets. Every mistake carried a consequence. Every lesson had to be earned.

He grew quickly, but not kindly.

As other children chased popularity, festivals, athletic contests, or dreams of noble service, Velther's thoughts rarely wandered beyond tomorrow's meal. He watched children his own age laugh with parents who adored them, sleep in warm homes, and complain about inconveniences he could scarcely imagine having the luxury to notice.

Resentment quietly settled into his heart.

He came to believe that comfort made people weak. Privilege blinded them to sacrifice. The things others valued—wealth, status, admiration—held no meaning for him. Instead, he understood only a handful of truths: survival, discipline, honor, unwavering duty to the Crown that had fed him when no one else could, and the bitter determination to never again depend upon another's mercy.

When he came of age, there was never any question about his future.

Velther volunteered for military service the first day he was eligible.

To him, war was not glory. It was for a purpose.

He believed the only thing he had ever been born to do was stand between Sartonia and those who would see it destroyed. On the battlefield he discovered what the streets had unknowingly prepared him for. Hunger had forged endurance. Hardship had forged resolve. Every struggle of his childhood had become another weapon.

He became an exceptional warrior almost immediately.

But beyond the battlefield, there was little else.

He had no understanding of family beyond vague memories of his exhausted mother. Community meant nothing to him. Love was a language he had never learned. He trusted only the warriors standing to his left and right, and only because they shared the same oath.

The rest of the world could burn.

As long as Sartonia endured.

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Chapter Two: Peace Service

For Velther, there had never been another path.

On the first day he was eligible, he swore his oath to the Sapphire Crown and joined the ranks of Sartonia's defenders without hesitation. While many recruits struggled to adapt to military life, Velther seemed to have been preparing for it his entire childhood.

The instructors sought to break old habits and forge soldiers from ordinary citizens. For Velther, there was little left to break.

Discipline had already been carved into him by hunger. Endurance had been taught by long winters and empty cupboards. Obedience to duty came as naturally as breathing. Every hardship the army placed before its recruits was one he had already learned to survive years before wearing a uniform.

He excelled in every exercise.

When formations assembled before dawn, Velther was already waiting.

When the company marched, he never complained.

When rations ran thin, he quietly ate his portion without protest.

Rain, cold, exhaustion, and endless drills seemed to affect everyone except him.

His fellow soldiers often mistook his silence for indifference until they realized something remarkable.  Velther never asked anyone to work harder than he did himself.

Without speeches or commands, he became the standard against which others measured themselves. Whenever morale faltered, weary eyes inevitably found him somewhere near the front of the column, carrying the same weight as everyone else and never once allowing his determination to fade.

He was not a source of happiness.  He was something rarer.

Fulfillment.

To march beside Velther was to remember why they had sworn the oath in the first place.

Yet years passed without battle.

Sartonia stood secure beneath the Sapphire Crown, and the kingdom's enemies remained distant rumors carried by merchants and sailors. Patrols replaced campaigns. Training replaced war. For many soldiers, the endless routine became tedious.

For Velther, it was enough. A soldier's duty was not to seek war, but to be ready when it came.

It was during these peaceful years that Velther formed the closest thing he had ever known to friendship.

The unit's field medic was an unassuming man whose talents lay not in taking lives, but in preserving them. He watched the company much as a blacksmith watches his finest tools, always knowing which blade required attention before it failed.

Before long, his attention settled almost entirely on Velther.

He saw what others saw.

If Velther was wounded, the company slowed.

If Velther was absent, confidence faltered.

If Velther were ever lost, something far greater than a single soldier would disappear.

So the medic made it his quiet mission to ensure that never happened.

He was always nearby after long marches, treating blisters before they became injuries, stitching cuts before they worsened, insisting Velther eat, drink, and rest whenever the opportunity arose. Velther rarely understood the concern, but he accepted it without argument.

As years passed and promotions followed, their assignments changed together.

Whenever Velther received orders to another company, the medic somehow found himself transferred shortly afterward. The arrangement became so common that few questioned it.

Eventually, Velther's reputation reached the highest levels of Sartonia's military.

He was selected for one of the kingdom's most elite special operations units, warriors entrusted with missions beyond the reach of conventional armies. They would infiltrate hostile territory, gather intelligence, eliminate critical threats, and disappear before anyone realized they had ever been there.

The assignment was considered one of the greatest honors a soldier could receive.

Velther accepted it without pride.

Still, he found himself missing the familiar rhythm of serving among hundreds of brothers in arms. Elite companies demanded silence where regular soldiers had shared laughter. Small teams left little room for the quiet camaraderie he had slowly learned to value.

It was a different kind of service.

Then, without warning, peace ended.

It began before sunrise.

A deafening roar echoed across Sartonia as buildings collapsed into clouds of stone and crystal dust. Screams spread through the streets faster than the smoke. Bells rang from every district as frightened citizens fled in every direction.

The attack had not come from beyond the kingdom's borders.

It had come from within.

The city's defenders responded with astonishing speed. Local guards and military patrols hunted the intruders through the streets, and before the sun reached its height, the violence was over.

The attackers lay dead.

Yet victory brought no comfort.

No banners identified the enemy.

No prisoners survived questioning.

No kingdom claimed responsibility.

For the first time in generations, the people of Sartonia looked upon their own streets and realized an impossible truth.

The Sapphire Kingdom was no longer untouchable.

Someone had found a way inside.

And somewhere beyond the horizon, whoever had sent them was surely preparing to return.

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Chapter Three: First Combat

Peace had ended.  Within days of the attack upon Sartonia, the Sapphire Crown declared war—not upon a kingdom, nor a ruler, nor a banner, but upon an idea.

Military intelligence had traced the ideology responsible for the attacks to a distant land beyond Sartonia's borders. Few soldiers had ever seen the region. Most knew it only from faded maps and lessons taught during childhood.

Velther knew nothing of it.  Nor did he ask.  Where Sartonia pointed, he would go.

The army's endless years of training suddenly gained purpose. Supplies were gathered, ships assembled, and thousands of soldiers boarded transports bound for foreign shores.

The voyage lasted days.

When they finally arrived, Sartonia established forward operating bases inside a neighboring nation whose leaders had neither declared war nor welcomed them with hostility. Diplomacy remained intact. The true enemy was believed to operate beyond the mountains, hidden among scattered settlements where the ideology had taken root.

The mission was simple.  Destroy the movement before it could spread.  Avenge those who had already fallen.

Although Sartonia possessed one of the finest trained armies in the world, it suffered from a quiet weakness:  Almost no one had ever fought a war.

Its officers had earned promotions through years of exceptional service, flawless inspections, rigorous exercises, and unwavering discipline.

Its soldiers were veterans of training, but beginners in battle.  No living commander truly knew how men would react when death arrived without warning.

Velther's special reconnaissance team became one of the first units sent into hostile territory.

Their orders were clear.

• Observe.
• Count enemy numbers.
• Identify leaders.
• Report.
• Do not engage.

The missions were successful.  Information poured back to headquarters.  Not a single soldier was lost.  Yet every patrol left Velther feeling increasingly restless.

He had not crossed an ocean to watch others fight.

For the first time in his military career, he questioned an order. Respectfully. Firmly.

He requested reassignment. Not to another elite unit. To the infantry. He wanted to stand where Sartonia stood.

His request surprised his commanders, but it was approved.

When Velther arrived at his new company, a familiar face was already waiting.

The field medic. Somehow, as always, the transfer orders had found him too.

Neither man questioned it.

The campaign advanced.  Temporary camps became fortified positions. Fortified positions became permanent operating bases.

Each day the companies ventured farther into the rugged mountain valleys, patrolling villages, escorting supply caravans, and searching for those responsible for the attacks.

Days passed without incident.  Until one morning.

The patrol wound its way through a narrow mountain range.  Jagged stone walls rose on either side while loose rock shifted beneath every step. There were no trees. No grass. Only the cold, wind and stone.

A soldier near the front suddenly collapsed. At first Velther thought the young man had simply lost his footing.

Then he noticed something unsettling. The body slid silently down the slope.

There was no attempt to catch himself. No cry. No movement.

Life had already left him.

Another soldier fell moments later.

Then another.

Still no one heard the enemy. There were no war cries. No marching feet. Only confusion.

Instinct seized the patrol. Men dove behind boulders. Others disappeared into a nearby cave.

Every eye searched desperately for an enemy no one could find.

Velther did not hide. He knelt beside a weathered stone and studied the battlefield. Three dead. All had fallen in nearly the same direction. The arrows had entered from similar angles. The terrain narrowed toward the western ridge.

Years spent studying maps, formations, and battlefield geometry assembled the answer almost instantly. West. He slowly rose to confirm it. Standing beside him was the medic. Neither spoke. Words would only waste time. Velther had already decided.

He charged. Not recklessly. Purposefully.

He angled toward the western slope, using broken stone as cover while closing the distance faster than the hidden archers expected.

Something changed inside him. The world became strangely calm. Every movement sharpened. Every sound separated itself from the next. Time did not race. It slowed. Fear never arrived.

Where others saw chaos, Velther saw opportunity. Where others saw death, Velther saw the path to victory. He became exactly what years of hardship had forged him to be - a predator.

The enemy never expected an assault. Their ambush had been carefully planned to pin the patrol in place until reinforcements arrived. Instead, one soldier reached them before they could react.

Steel met flesh. The first warrior fell before drawing another arrow. The second barely turned before Velther's blade found him. The fighting became desperate. Close. Brutal.

There was no hatred in Velther's strikes. No rage. No pleasure. Only purpose.

Each movement existed to remove another threat to Sartonia.

The medic remained only steps behind him, dragging the wounded from danger, binding cuts as quickly as they appeared, refusing to allow Velther's momentum to falter.

Within minutes… It was over.  The ambush had been broken.

The rest of the company slowly emerged from cover. Some stared silently at the bodies. Others admitted they had never even seen where the attack had come from. Many could not understand how one man had reached the enemy before anyone else had even begun returning fire.

Velther understood something else entirely. Today Sartonia had won, but Sartonia had also been exposed.

Its soldiers knew discipline, courage and obedience. Few knew how to fight.

Peace had taught them to survive inspections while war demanded something different.

Mass. Audacity. Simplicity.  Those lessons would have to be learned quickly.

Before the company departed, Velther personally oversaw the recovery of the fallen. Three young soldiers. Barely old enough to wear the uniform. He had scarcely known their names. Yet they had stood their ground when Sartonia called. That alone made them worthy of honor.

Their bodies were wrapped with the dignity reserved for heroes and prepared for the long voyage home. Velther believed they deserved nothing less.

Stories spread faster than official reports. Soldiers claimed Velther had charged an entire company alone. Some swore he had slain twenty warriors. Others insisted it had been thirty. Within weeks, taverns throughout Sartonia spoke of fifty.

The truth no longer mattered. A legend had begun. High Command took notice. Soon new orders arrived. Velther would once again leave his company. This time, not for reconnaissance. Not for surveillance.

He was assigned to Sartonia's most aggressive strike force—a unit entrusted with impossible missions, decisive assaults, and battles capable of changing the course of the war itself.

Velther accepted the orders with the same words he had spoken since taking his oath.

"I serve."

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