Chapter 3 WHISPERS OF THE BLACKFANG

Chapter Three – Whispers of the Blackfang

The forests of Valorith whispered with the song of summer when Aric raced through them, his wooden sword strapped to his back. At eight years old, he had grown lean and tall for his age, legs carrying him faster than most grown men could run. His mismatched eyes flashed with determination as he bounded over roots and leapt across streams, following the sound of laughter ahead.

Three boys his age ran with him - sons of Kaelor's captains, bred for steel as much as he was. They carried sticks, pretending them swords, their shouts filling the green hush.

"Come on, Aric!" one called, panting. "Slow down, or it's no fun!"

Aric didn't slow. His legs pumped harder, breath even, as though he could run until the sun died. He reached the clearing first, springing onto a fallen log, raising his sword-stick high.

"I win!" he declared.

The other boys stumbled in moments later, collapsing onto the grass with red faces, their chests heaving.

"You're not even tired," one muttered between gulps of air.

Aric shrugged, not knowing how to answer. He wasn't tired. Not even close.

They played at dueling until dusk, but it always ended the same: Aric's blows were heavier, his reflexes sharper. The other boys groaned and joked about how unfair it was, yet he noticed their laughter never quite reached their eyes.

He was different. And they knew it.

That night, in Ironhold's great hall, the difference pressed heavier on him.

Kaelor sat at the high table, armored still, a man of iron even at rest. Beside him were his captains, men scarred by war, drinking and speaking in hard voices. Aric sat at the lower benches with the other children, eating in silence. But he could hear.

Always, he could hear.

"...raids on the northern passes," one captain said. "Villagers swear they saw a black wolf standard."

Aric's ears pricked. A black wolf.

Another captain spat into his cup. "Toren Blackfang's sigil. But that cur is long dead."

"Is he?" growled another. "Men whisper otherwise. That he has returned from exile. That he hunts Kaelor Ironblade once more."

The name struck Aric like a hammer. He'd heard it before, in half-said words when elders thought him asleep. Toren Blackfang - the rival his father never spoke of. The one Mira's riddles hinted at in dark tones.

Kaelor's hand slammed the table, silencing the hall. His steel-grey eyes burned. "No ghost haunts these lands. If Toren Blackfang lives, I will face him. And I will end him. Speak of it no more."

The captains obeyed. But Aric's heart raced, and his golden eye flickered in the torchlight as though it too had heard the name and remembered it.

Later, when the hall had quieted, Darian found Aric in the yard, still swinging his practice blade beneath the moon.

"You should sleep," the Wolf rumbled, leaning against a post.

Aric swung again, sweat dripping down his face. "I can't."

Darian's sharp eyes studied him. "You heard."

Aric lowered the blade, chest heaving. "Who is Toren Blackfang?"

The Wolf was silent a long moment, his face shadowed. "He was your father's rival. Once Kaelor's equal in strength and cunning. But unlike your father, Toren's heart was black as pitch. He ruled with terror, not honor. When Kaelor rose, he fell. And he swore he would rise again."

Aric's small hands tightened on the hilt. "He'll come here? To fight Father?"

"Perhaps," Darian said softly. "And if he does... blood will follow."

Aric's mismatched eyes gleamed in the moonlight. "Then I'll fight too."

Darian's heart twisted at the boy's certainty. He strode forward, gripped the child's shoulder. "Listen to me, Aric. You are strong, aye - stronger than most men already. But strength alone does not win wars. You're still a boy. Let your father bear his battles. Yours will come soon enough."

Aric met his gaze, unflinching. "I'm not afraid."

Darian searched those eyes - steel and gold, innocence and fire - and for the first time, he believed him. The boy truly wasn't afraid. And that frightened him more than anything.

The next morning, Mira appeared on the ramparts, her cloak fluttering in the wind. She stared north, eyes clouded as though peering into something unseen.

Aric found her there, climbing the stones with the ease of a cat.

"What do you see?" he asked, curious.

The Seer glanced at him, sadness in her gaze. "I see a shadow moving. Old rivalries stirring. And a boy who will one day stand between darkness and flame."

Aric frowned. "That's me, isn't it?"

Mira's lips curved faintly. "You are bold to ask."

"I want to know." His chin lifted stubbornly. "If I'm different... if I'm stronger... then tell me why."

She studied him a long time, then spoke softly. "Because you carry two legacies in one heart. Your father's steel, your mother's fire. The world will test which burns brighter."

Aric's fists clenched. "Then I'll prove them both. I'll be stronger than Father. Stronger than anyone."

Mira's eyes darkened, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Perhaps. But strength draws enemies as blood draws wolves. Remember that, Aric. For the Blackfang watches even now."

A chill swept over him though the sun was rising.

For the first time, Aric understood that destiny was not a game of swords in the yard. It was coming for him, with teeth and shadow.

And its name was Toren Blackfang.

The next days in Ironhold were uneasy. The whispers refused to die, spreading through the kitchens, the barracks, even the market square beyond the gates. Peasants and soldiers alike muttered of a black wolf howling in the night, of raiders in the northern passes who left no survivors.

Aric heard it all. He sat in the yard polishing his wooden blade while his ears drank every word. His steel-grey eye burned with pride when they praised his father, yet his golden one flickered with unease when the name Blackfang crossed their lips.

That night, Kaelor summoned him to the practice hall.

The great warrior stood bare-armed, his scarred chest gleaming with sweat. The sight of him still made Aric's heart leap. Kaelor was the Ironblade, undefeated in battle, the man who had carved peace into the realm with his own sword.

"Draw your stance," Kaelor commanded.

Aric obeyed, lifting the blunted training sword his father had given him. He bent his knees, placed his feet just so - exactly as Kaelor had drilled into him.

Then the blows came.

Kaelor struck like a storm, his practice blade a blur. Aric blocked, staggered, pushed back, but each time he found his footing again. The clang of steel echoed through the chamber. His arms screamed with pain, but he clenched his jaw and bore it.

When Kaelor at last stepped back, his face was unreadable. He stared at the boy's trembling arms, at the sweat dripping down his pale face, at the u"You will be stronger than me," Kaelor said at last, voice rough as stone.

Aric's breath caught.

"But strength," his father added, lowering his blade, "is only half the battle. The wolf you hear about - Toren Blackfang - was once my equal. Perhaps my better. I defeated him because I held to honor, while he drowned himself in cruelty. Do you understand, boy?"

Aric swallowed. "Yes, Father."

Kaelor's hand, calloused and scarred, settled on his shoulder. "Remember this. You must wield both strength and heart. If you lose either, the shadow will devour you."

The words lingered long after Kaelor left him in the silence of the hall.

Yet it was not only Kaelor who tested him.

In the quiet hours before dawn, Selvara often drew Aric into her chambers. The air there always shimmered with faint firelight, even when no torches burned. The Witch-Queen of the South had forsaken her throne for love of Kaelor, but her power remained vast - and dangerous.

"Close your eyes," she told Aric one morning, when the world was still hushed in mist.

He obeyed.

"Feel the air," Selvara whispered. "Not as your father teaches - the wind against your skin, the scent of the earth. Feel beneath it. The life. The flame hidden in all things."

Aric furrowed his brow, breathing deep. At first he felt nothing. Then... warmth. A spark beneath his ribs. His golden eye burned even behind closed lids, and the mist in the room swirled as if stirred by unseen hands.

Selvara's lips curved. "Good. You hear it. Now hold it."

The warmth swelled until it became heat. The heat became fire. Aric gasped, his small hands glowing faintly as if light burned beneath the skin. A nyielding fire still burning in those mismatched eyes.

flicker of flame sparked at his fingertips - just for a heartbeat - then vanished.

He opened his eyes, shocked.

"Did I do that?" he whispered.

Selvara cupped his face, eyes shining with both pride and sorrow. "You did. But be wary, my son. Fire is not a toy. It is hunger. Once unleashed, it devours without pity. You must master it, or it will master you."

Aric nodded, though his heart raced. Somewhere deep within, a part of him thrilled at the power. The other part trembled at what it meant.

Later that day, as he sparred again in the yard, Darian watched from the wall. The boy's movements carried Kaelor's precision but also a strange fluidity, almost unnatural. At times it seemed as though his strikes were guided by something beyond muscle and bone.

"He's not just Kaelor's son," Mira murmured, appearing beside Darian.

The Wolf grunted. "Aye. He's Selvara's too. Fire and steel in one child. Gods help us all."

Mira's gaze lingered on Aric, her voice low. "He will be tested sooner than you think. The Blackfang is stirring."

Darian's jaw tightened, his hand resting on the haft of one of his great axes. "Then let him come. He'll not touch the boy while I draw breath."

Mira said nothing, but her eyes clouded, as though she saw something beyond oaths and steel.

That night, Aric dreamed.

He stood in a field of ash, sword in one hand, fire flickering in the other. Around him shadows writhed, voices whispering promises and curses. A black wolf prowled at the edge of the firelight, its eyes glowing red.

The wolf spoke in a voice that was not a voice.

"Son of Ironblade. Son of Flame. When your father falls, I will come for you. And you will kneel."

Aric woke drenched in sweat, his hand burning hot as if it still held fire.

He did not tell anyone.

But as dawn broke, he picked up his training blade once more, and for the first time, he whispered to himself:

"I will never kneel."