PART 2: The Archer Beneath the Storm
The valley vanished beneath black water and collapsing stone.
Thousands of enemy soldiers screamed as the monstrous flood tore through the canyon below Iron-Hold, swallowing siege towers, war horses, and armored battalions beneath roaring stormwater.
Thunder shook the mountains.
Then—
silence.
Only rain remained.
From the shattered outer wall, the fourteen-year-old boy stood motionless with the bow still resting in his hands.
The surviving kingdom soldiers stared down from the inner fortress in disbelief.
No one cheered.
No one spoke.
Because what they had just witnessed didn’t feel human.
Captain Roderic slowly climbed the ruined stairs toward the boy through smoke and rain.
“How…” he whispered.
The boy didn’t answer immediately.
His calm eyes remained fixed on the flooded valley below.
Bodies.
Broken banners.
Destroyed weapons disappearing beneath muddy water.
Then finally—
“The dam was weak in three places,” the boy said quietly.
Roderic looked at the obsidian arrows still clutched in the boy’s hand.
Not ordinary arrows.
Each one carved with ancient black markings glowing faintly beneath the storm.
The captain’s face slowly changed.
“You used royal forge arrows.”
The boy lowered his bow.
“They weren’t made for war.”
Lightning flashed across the mountains.
“They were made to destroy kingdoms.”
Far below, distant survivors of the invading army crawled desperately through the floodwaters.
But Iron-Hold still stood.
Untouched.
Protected.
The captain studied the boy carefully now.
Thin frame.
Rain-soaked cloak.
Barely old enough to carry a sword.
And yet—
he had just annihilated an entire invasion force alone.
Behind them, heavy castle doors opened.
The King himself stepped onto the battlements surrounded by armored guards.
His expression wasn’t relief.
It was fear.
Because he recognized the arrows immediately.
“The obsidian vault…” the King whispered.
The boy finally turned toward him.
Rainwater dripped slowly from his dark hair as thunder rolled overhead.
“You told them I was dead,” the boy said calmly.
The soldiers nearby froze.
The King’s face tightened instantly.
“That was necessary.”
“For who?” the boy asked softly.
No anger.
No emotion.
Which somehow made it worse.
The storm intensified around the fortress walls.
Captain Roderic looked between them in confusion.
Then realization hit him slowly.
“No…”
The King stepped forward carefully.
“You were never meant to fight.”
The boy’s eyes darkened slightly.
“But you trained me anyway.”
Lightning exploded across the valley again.
And for one brief second—
the glowing symbols burned brighter across the obsidian arrows.
Ancient symbols.
Forbidden symbols.
The same markings sealed beneath Iron-Hold for centuries.
The captain’s breathing became uneven.
“Those are not forge markings…”
The King closed his eyes briefly.
Because now the truth could no longer stay hidden.
The boy standing before them was not simply an archer.
He was the last surviving heir of the Black Range—
an ancient bloodline feared across kingdoms for creating weapons capable of destroying entire armies.
Weapons so dangerous the royal family erased them from history.
Or tried to.
Far below the flooded valley, distant war horns suddenly echoed through the mountains.
Everyone turned sharply.
More enemy banners appeared through the storm.
A second army.
Larger than the first.
Captain Roderic looked toward the exhausted soldiers behind the walls.
“We can’t survive another siege.”
But the boy calmly reached for another obsidian arrow from the black quiver across his back.
Only three remained.
The King’s face turned pale immediately.
“No,” he whispered.
The boy looked toward the distant enemy army gathering beyond the flooded valley.
Then quietly said:
“You should have buried all of them when you buried my name.”
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