Heirs of The Khan

A storm pressed its fists against the high black walls of Surnakar, the capital of Velkareth, but inside the obsidian palace, the wind dared not howl.

 

Ulaan Khan sat motionless on his throne, his frame vast, statuesque, as though he were carved from ancient basalt. His fingers curled around the heads of twin lion armrests, each sculpted from real silver. Behind him, a fan of red banners hung limp, awaiting breath, awaiting war.

 

“Vaelor,” the Khan said, his voice low but seismic.

 

A man stepped forward through the red fog of incense. He wore crimson armor etched with gold sigils, a curved blade strapped across his back. His hair was bound in warrior’s cord, his jaw set like iron.

 

“The time has come,” Ulaan Khan continued, his eyes shadowed beneath his crown. “Send the convoys. Bring me my heirs.”

 

Vaelor’s fist thudded against his heart. “It will be done, my Khan.”

 

—

 

The double doors groaned open as Vaelor emerged into a high balcony overlooking the central courtyard of the Emberguard barracks. The rain had ceased, but the air was thick with waiting. Below him, two thousand soldiers stood in absolute formation, blades gleaming, armor dark as garnet.

 

An aide leaned in. “Sir. All units present. Awaiting command.”

 

Vaelor nodded. Then he stepped forward, placing both hands on the stone rail, and spoke—not shouted, but his voice carried like thunder.

 

“You,” he began, “are the elite of Velkareth. You are the steel that defends the throne and the flame that burns our enemies. Today, you are tasked with the highest honor in this empire: to escort the blood of the Khan.”

 

Not a breath stirred among the soldiers.

 

“You will move in pairs. Each of you assigned to a household. Those not serving as escorts will patrol the twelve Colossus Cities and the main roads. All who see you will know—this land is ruled by fire and oath.”

 

He paused.

 

“Now move. Haste and strength. You carry the future on your shoulders.”

 

The Emberguard roared in unison, “Yes, Sir!”

 

The ground itself seemed to tremble underfoot.

 

As the courtyard exploded into disciplined motion, Vaelor remained still, watching as crimson banners unfurled and convoys began to ride.

 

The hunt for the Khan’s heirs had begun.

 

 

-

 

The northern skies of Velkareth were pale and brushed with the scent of pine, the wind carrying the quiet lull of a simple life. On a gently sloping farm, where rows of wheat bowed like monks in prayer, two boys battled fiercely with wooden swords.

 

One was tall and fair-haired, moving with a composed elegance that belied his youth. The other was shorter, younger, red-haired, and wild like the wind. They were Frode and Erik, and their duel was as serious to them as any battle waged by men.

 

Frode spun into an upward arc, his wooden blade cutting through air toward Erik’s shoulder.

 

Erik blocked—barely.

 

“Gotcha!” Erik shouted, swinging back with brute force, but Frode ducked and swept his brother’s legs with an effortless grace. Erik landed hard, thudding into the earth with a groan.

 

“Dang it!” he growled from the dirt. “I thought I had it this time!”

 

“You’re getting better,” Frode said, offering a hand. “You just need to stop trying to break the sky every time you swing.”

 

Erik grinned despite himself and grabbed Frode’s hand. As he was pulled up, a deep, familiar voice came from behind them.

 

“Looks like you boys still have plenty of fight left in you.”

 

They turned in tandem.

 

“Uncle Ulf!” they cried, their faces lighting up.

 

Ulf was broad-shouldered and bearded, a great pack of monster pelts slung over one arm. His eyes, usually sharp and cold, softened as Erik ran to him.

 

“How many monsters this time?” Erik asked breathlessly.

 

Ulf scratched his chin. “Two dozen, give or take.”

 

Erik’s eyes widened. “That’s so cool!”

 

Frode approached with a smile and embraced him. “Need help carrying those?”

 

Ulf shook his head. “I’ve got it. But one of you run ahead—tell your mother and Flora I’m back.”

 

Erik dashed toward the cabin like an arrow, calling as he ran, “Mom! Aunt Flora! Uncle Ulf is home!”

 

Frode and Ulf walked the last stretch side by side, boots crunching over gravel.

 

“Any news from town?” Frode asked.

 

Ulf’s expression turned guarded. “No war talk. But… something stirred in the capital. No word what. Just unease.”

 

Soon they reached the sturdy log house, where warmth spilled from the windows like honey. Astrid, tall and strong-featured, met them at the door. She wrapped her arms around Ulf.

 

“It’s good to have you back,” she said softly.

 

Then Flora appeared—housemaid, healer, and Ulf’s wife. Her kiss was long and loving, and her eyes gleamed with quiet joy. “Welcome home,” she whispered.

 

That night they gathered at the fire. Ulf told of marshes thick with poison fog, of beasts with too many eyes, of traps and tricks and near escapes. Erik drank in every word, Frode listened more quietly, his eyes often drifting to Ulf’s worn gloves and tired eyes.

 

Outside, the wind stirred the branches. But inside, there was only warmth, and laughter, and the fleeting grace of peace.

 

 

-

 

Morning came softly over the northern hills, casting a peach glow across the farmhouse windows. Birds chirped lazily outside, their songs mingling with the quiet hiss of a fire just beginning to fade.

 

Ulf stirred beneath the thick wool blanket. Flora lay beside him, curled like a cat beneath the folds, her hand resting on his chest. For a moment, he watched the slow rise and fall of her breath. Then, gently, he leaned down and kissed her brow. She murmured something unintelligible, shifting slightly but not waking.

 

He smiled, quietly.

 

As he sat up and reached for his boots, he spotted a curl of steam drifting from the hearth room. Tea.

 

Astrid was already up, moving like a shadow across the kitchen space. She poured boiling water into a carved wooden pot, the scent of mint and bark filling the air.

 

“Good morning,” Ulf said, lacing his boots.

 

Astrid gave a sideways glance, lips tugging into a half-smile. “How does it feel to sleep in a real bed again?”

 

He chuckled. “Like I’ve forgotten what back pain is.”

 

She handed him a cup, then turned back to the hearth.

 

But something else caught his eye.

 

A folded parchment sat on the table, sealed with wax, the edges slightly curled from the humidity. It bore no markings.

 

“What’s this?” Ulf asked.

 

Astrid paused mid-stir. “No idea. It came yesterday afternoon. The courier didn’t say a word—just handed it off and rode on.”

 

Ulf picked it up, examined the seal. A knot formed in his chest before he even broke it. As he unfolded the parchment and read the first line, the blood drained from his face.

 

He set his cup down hard enough to slosh tea across the table, then turned without a word and vanished into the hallway.

 

“Ulf?” Astrid called after him. “What—”

 

But he was already pulling on his coat and slinging his hunting satchel over his shoulder.

 

“I’ve got errands to run,” he said tightly, not meeting her eyes. “I’ll be back before sundown.”

 

“Errands?” she repeated, confused. “You haven’t even—”

 

The door slammed behind him.

 

—

 

He ran.

 

Past the barn. Down the low hill. Through a birch grove half-dead from the cold. The wind bit at his cheeks, but he paid it no mind.

 

Fool, he thought. What is that old bastard thinking? They’re just boys. They’re not ready.

 

His breath came sharp in the back of his throat as he crested the ridge. In the distance lay the small town—no more than twenty buildings stitched along the river bend—but to Ulf, it might as well have been a city made of judgment.

 

—

 

Elsewhere, across the far stretches of Velkareth, the storm began to swell.

 

Crimson banners unfurled over golden towers. Carriages thundered through ancient gates. The Emberguard—unflinching, unyielding—delivered summons sealed with the Khan’s authority.

 

From desert fortresses to mountain palaces, from merchant courts to coastal monasteries, the call went out.

 

Bring the heirs.

 

The continent rippled with whispers.

 

What would this mean?

 

Would there be peace? Or would the continent plunge back into fire?

 

—

 

Ulf returned late, just as the sun began its descent behind the trees. Sweat clung to his temples, and his cloak was half undone, his steps heavier than when he had left.

 

Inside the house, laughter drifted from the main room. Flora sat cross-legged on the rug with Frode and Erik, playing some sort of card game. Astrid mended a torn sleeve by the fire, humming softly.

 

Ulf entered without a word.

 

Everyone looked up.

 

He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. He passed through them like a ghost and shut himself in the bathing room.

 

Flora waited a few moments, then followed. She found him sitting on the edge of the wooden basin, one hand on his knee, the other limp at his side. His shirt was soaked through with sweat.

 

She wordlessly began to fill the tub. He didn’t resist.

 

As the water warmed, she knelt beside him and dipped a sponge, gently brushing dirt and fatigue from his back.

 

“What happened?” she asked.

 

He spoke quietly, the words like stones. “The Khan is choosing his successor.”

 

Flora froze, her hand still against his skin. “It’s that soon?”

 

Ulf nodded once. “He’s weakening. And if he falls, the Empire falls with him.”

 

He gripped the rim of the tub. “That means chaos. That means war. I need to prepare the boys. I don’t know how long we have.”

 

Flora placed both arms around him and pressed her cheek to his shoulder.

 

“We’ll survive it,” she whispered. “Together.”

 

Ulf stood, dripping and grim-faced, and began to dress.

 

Downstairs, he opened the trapdoor to the cellar and began assembling gear. Cloaks lined with fur. Pouches of dried meat. Flint. Spellstones. Crystals. Old maps. Steel.

 

Tomorrow, he would begin their training again.

 

Because the road ahead had shifted. The quiet days were gone.

 

And war had begun to breathe.

 

-

 

The sun had barely cracked the horizon when Ulf shook the boys awake.

 

Frode blinked through the gloom, his muscles already tense from the dreams he couldn’t remember. Erik groaned and buried himself deeper in the blankets.

 

“Up,” Ulf said, voice stern but not cold. “Outside. Dress warm. Bring your swords.”

 

Outside, the chill bit deep. The grass was stiff with frost. Breath steamed from their mouths in pale clouds.

 

Ulf stood with arms crossed, eyes scanning the two of them as if seeing not nephews, but recruits.

 

“From this day forward,” he said, “you train until I say otherwise. Every day. No excuses. You’ll understand why in time—but not yet.”

 

Frode gave a solemn nod.

 

Erik yawned, then mimicked his brother.

 

And so the routine began.

 

Ulf pushed them hard. Horse stances held for hours until thighs shook and buckled. Sword drills in silence—again and again—until blisters split open and bled. Then came focus training: balancing on logs, breath control, tracking exercises with blindfolds.

 

At first Erik complained—loudly and often—but Ulf never yelled. He simply gave them more reps.

 

After a week, the complaints stopped.

 

By the second week, even Erik began to match Frode’s discipline.

 

Though Ulf could not use magic, he taught what he could. How to feel mana. How to channel breath through limbs. How to listen to the rhythm of the world. Frode grasped it with quiet diligence. Erik… not so much, though his bursts of progress were sudden and fierce.

 

They trained until sunset. Then fell into bed, half-dead with exhaustion. On Sundays, Ulf allowed them to rest—but even rest was structured: light stretching, tea for recovery, quiet reflection.

 

Astrid watched from the window more often than not. Her sewing slowed. Her brows furrowed more each day

 

-

 

Astrid stood in the doorway, arms folded as Ulf worked on the magic crystal contraption by the hearth. The room was quiet but thick with unspoken worry.

 

“Is it really okay to push the boys that far?” she asked.

 

“Yes,” Ulf said flatly.

 

Astrid narrowed her eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

 

Ulf adjusted a wire and didn’t look up. “It’s not nearly enough to prepare them.”

 

“Prepare them for what?” she asked, a crease forming in her brow.

 

A heavy knock interrupted them.

 

Flora was already stepping into the room when Ulf raised a hand, stopping her cold.

 

He walked to the door and pulled his short sword from the wall.

 

Astrid and Flora exchanged a tense look.

 

Another knock—three slow, deliberate pounds.

 

Ulf approached the door quietly and cracked it open.

 

Two tall, cloaked figures stood just beyond the threshold. The one in front pulled back his hood, revealing a scarred brow and shaved head. In his hand, he held a pendant—diamond-shaped, deep crimson, gleaming like fire.

 

Ulf’s eyes locked on it. Emberguard.

 

“You know why we’re here, Ulf,” the man said.

 

Ulf exhaled and opened the door fully. “You must’ve had a long journey. Come in. Take a seat.”

 

He turned back inside. “Astrid, make some tea. Flora, prepare a bath for these two and bring the boys’ packs from the basement.”

 

The Emberguard stepped in without a word. Their cloaks dripped faintly onto the wood floor. The man who had spoken sat calmly near the table.

 

“The bath won’t be necessary,” he said. “But I will take the tea. The name’s Andur. That man over there is Caleb.”

 

He nodded toward his companion, who remained standing, arms crossed.

 

Andur’s eyes met Ulf’s. “We need to leave as soon as possible. If we delay, we won’t make it in time.”

 

Astrid, standing halfway to the hearth, turned sharply toward Ulf. “Make it to what? Ulf, what’s going on?”

 

Ulf didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced toward Flora, who had just reentered with two travel packs in hand.

 

“Flora, send Frode and Erik outside with the two warriors,” he said. “Give them the packs. Tell them to wait.”

 

Flora nodded slowly and ushered the boys out the front door. They went, confused but obedient. The Emberguard followed.

 

The door shut behind them.

 

Only Ulf and Astrid remained inside.

 

She turned to him, the fire crackling between them.

 

“Where are they taking my sons?”

 

 

The house felt too still with the door closed.

 

Astrid stepped forward, her voice sharper now. “Ulf. What are they doing with my sons?”

 

Ulf didn’t meet her gaze. He stared at the table for a long moment.

 

Then finally, he spoke.

 

“Their father has summoned them.”

 

Astrid blinked. “…What?”

 

Ulf looked up. “Ned, their father, has summoned them to the capital.”

 

The room went dead quiet.

 

Astrid’s face went pale.

 

“You knew,” she whispered. “You knew this whole time.”

 

Ulf’s voice dropped. “Yes.”

 

She stepped back as if struck. “All those years… All the nights I cried wondering where he was—if he was alive—you knew?”

 

“I did.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

 

Ulf’s expression turned cold. “Because he didn’t want to be found. He didn’t want you to know.”

 

Astrid’s breath hitched. “You watched me wait for him. You watched me raise those boys alone. And you let me believe he was dead.”

 

“I protected you from the truth.”

 

“No,” she snapped. “You protected him.”

 

Her fists clenched. Tears welled. “You betrayed me, Ulf.”

 

He took a step toward her.

 

She shoved him back.

 

“Don’t. Just—don’t.”

 

He stood in place.

 

Astrid’s voice cracked. “Get out.”

 

Ulf hesitated.

 

“I said get out!”

 

She collapsed to her knees, tears flowing uncontrollably, shoulders shaking.

 

Flora rushed in from the hallway, knelt beside her and wrapped her arms around her.

 

Ulf watched for a moment, his expression unreadable.

 

Then he turned, grabbed his pack by the door, and stepped outside.

 

—

 

At the foot of the hill, Erik and Frode stood with Andur and Caleb. The morning mist clung low. Andur casually held his palm out, channeling a swirl of wind and fire into a twisting spell for the boys to watch.

 

Ulf paused beneath the tall pine near the house. He knelt in the grass, bowed his head.

 

“Dear Heavenly Father,” he whispered, “I ask you to bless and protect us on our journey. That Erik and Frode may live long and meaningful lives. Please look after them. Amen.”

 

He rose, stepped down the path.

 

The boys turned to him.

 

“It’s time to leave,” he said. “We have a long road ahead.”

 

Erik nodded and waved up the hill.

 

Astrid stood in the doorway, red-eyed. Flora beside her, a hand on her shoulder.

 

Frode turned, waved too.

 

Astrid hesitated.

 

Then, slowly, she raised a hand and waved back.

 

Ulf looked once more toward the road.

 

And they began to walk.