The Lion and the Sun (Prologue) 

A storm of stone cracked open the earth just as they braced themselves, boots grinding on broken rock. One breathed through clenched teeth; the other stayed silent, eyes fixed ahead. The sky above tore like old cloth while echoes howled between the fractured edges of the cliffside. Neither moved when shadows lunged from below, only shifted weight, ready. Dust rose in thick clouds, swallowing light, yet their stances held firm. What once was ground now twisted into jagged spires pointing at a bleeding horizon. A flicker passed between them, not fear, but something sharper. Then silence dropped, sudden, as if the air itself paused to watch.
Up went Lord Sosafen Dawn's sword, glowing fierce as morning fire. "Will you wait for me at the Golden Feast, Brother?" he called out loud, sound slicing past thundering spells and shouts. His brother stood ready. "Brother, we have a MUCH worse place waiting for us after this," Eric said before both warriors broke out into laughter. With one final act of acceptance, both Warrior Knights breathe steadily beneath the storm above.
Lord Eric Kempernickle drove his two obsidian daggers into the splintering rock, bellowing like an enraged beast. A blaze of gold fused with raw northern force, crashing straight into the Paropen whirlpool. Shrieking in pain, the shadow spell shot backward over the waves, vanishing toward Paropa. Cracks split the soil, giving rise to the warped realm now called the Darklands. Still, Hywell remained standing.
After the silence came, two figures remained unmoving on the ground. Glowing faintly, their bodies were taken up by invisible carriers. Sosafen was carried toward House Dawn, that island veiled in mist, and Eric led them away to cold tombs under his namesake wall. Quiet closed around them both.
A promise took shape amid tears at the shared service. From that moment on, Dawn and Kemp meant one shield. Together they stood, not by choice but need.

Draven Chapter 1

Faint gold rays slipped between the old symbols hanging in the air over Dawn's isle when Draven Dawn reached the stone landing. Wind tugged at his dark hair as he moved forward, eyes like sunlit honey dimly alive with bloodline strength. Beside him came Garrick Kempernickle, towering lord of House Kemp, his beard wild and salted with age, a pelt draped across broad shoulders showing a snarling beast stitched in thread.
Foot by foot, they'd walked this path each fall since ten birthdays passed between them. Each step worn smooth from time, like the way their silence fits now. No need to speak; just move.
A few guards stood by the water, dawn’s gold armored riders next to Kemp’s heavy iron soldiers. Above, the old dragon named dusk passed one time through the air, sound soft like grief, then climbed west toward shadowed earth.
Draven turned to Garrick with a sly grin. “Still refusing to ride in one of our sleek Dawn skiffs, old bear? Afraid the magic might make you look graceful for once?”
Garrick let out a deep, rumbling laugh that shook his broad chest. “Grace is for pretty southern lords like you, sunshine. I’ll take a proper northern longship that doesn’t float on fairy dust. Besides, someone has to keep your delicate royal feet from getting wet.”
A laugh passed between them, warm like old fires, when they stepped onto the broad decked ship from the north. Banners stitched with lions and suns snapped above as if remembering past marches. Each Banner being older than the last, worn smooth by time and seasons spent together. With haste, the ship headed inland, aiming for solid ground. There, perched high, sat Lion Sun’s Rest. It watched silently across ruined southern fields. Beyond them stretched the unknown reach of the Darklands.
Silence settled around them while walking toward the memorial, neither man feeling the need to speak. One figure stood tall with patterns of sunlight etched into its surface, facing away from another locked in motion, a snarling lion beneath heavy stone paws. Between these forms, fire stayed alive without flickering, sustained through ancient spells and open iron stands brought northward long ago. Their steps slowed only when shadows stretched across the path ahead.
A rough palm settled against the stone lion's foot. "Proud, he'd be proud the barrier holds firm," Garrick said, his words slow and weighted. Not once has darkness slipped through since then
Draven laid his palm against the sun-etched stone of his ancestor. Warm golden light pulsed gently beneath his touch. “And my forefather would be glad the light still shines in the North,” he replied softly. “Our houses have kept the vow… even if one of us still reeks of wet wolf and mead.”
Garrick snorted and elbowed Draven hard enough to make the king stagger a step. “And you like flower petals and expensive regret, brother. But aye… the vow holds.”

Chapter 2

Beneath the hush of an old oak’s sprawl, Prince Vaelor Dawn kept still, eyes on what unfolded ahead. Close at his side, Lady Astrid Kempernickle stayed silent too, breathing evenly. His dark hair matched the king’s, yet those sharp amber gold eyes were all his own. Next to him, she looked ready, hair like copper, pulled tight in a soldier's knot. A thin mark crossed her cheekbone, there since the battle, lending weight to her gaze.
Heavy silence filled the air between them. Old memories settled like dust on their shoulders.
Abruptly, Astrid shattered the quiet, bumping his plated shoulder with hers. Was she wondering if their fate might mirror those who came before? She spoke softer than normal, her gaze fixed on him just a beat past comfort.
Breath caught in Vaelor's throat when she moved near. His voice aimed for calm and almost made it, but colour rose along his skin anyway. "Should darkness come back," he thought out loud, "then we’ll face it like before, shoulder against shoulder, fire beside light. " A look slipped toward her, brief yet lingering. "Losing you this time? Not even close to what I want."
A flush crept across Astrid’s face, softening the lines of old wounds. Toward the Darklands, she turned, eyes shifting fast, drawn to those thin, ghostly fogs that refused to fade. Vaelor saw it anyway. The grip on her axe was hardening, knuckles pressing white against metal like fear had slipped through without warning.
“Yeah… well,” she muttered, bumping his shoulder again, this time more gently, “you’d better not die dramatically like your ancestor. I’d hate to have to drag your pretty black-haired corpse back to your father.”
Vaelor chuckled softly, his golden eyes warm as they met hers. “Then I’ll make sure to stay alive… if only so I can keep watching you swing that axe like a storm.”

Chapter 3 

The glow grew sharp beside the stone figures, lighting up faces. Draven glanced sideways at his son just as Garrick did the same to his daughter. A hush passed where time seemed to pause. Behind each father, shadows almost moved like breathing. One stillness hummed with calm power. The other crackled, fierce and close.
Draven raised an eyebrow at Garrick. “Look at them. Already whispering like we used to. Think we should start planning the wedding now, or wait until they stop pretending they’re not staring at each other?”
Garrick barked a loud laugh and clapped Draven on the back. “Let the cubs figure it out themselves, sunshine. Though if your boy breaks my daughter’s heart, I’ll be using your fancy sunblade as a toothpick.”
Draven smirked. “And if your wild lioness breaks my son’s heart, I’ll turn your precious Wall into a garden of roses.”
Laughter rolled between them again, rough and warm, spilling down the slope as if the wind itself could carry loyalty. Their voices tangled in the air, not loud but deep, each note a thread stitching old promises together.
Still standing after a century and a half, the bond born from war and loss never cracked.
Hywell remained under watch by the Lion and the Sun, but not in flesh but in bloodline, in stone, in quiet glances between youths who barely knew each other yet smiled anyway. Their legacy flickered alive now and then, carried forward less in grand gestures than in steady loyalty. King Draven Dawn stood firm beside Lord Garrick Kempernickle, two men shaped by history, bound without fanfare. Memory lived on, not shouted but present. It showed up in small things. a gesture, a silence, a name spoken softly at dusk.