In the northern forest, silence reigned beneath the eternal shroud of winter, where spring dared not tread. The stillness was shattered by the clash of steel, echoing through frost-covered trees.

Shards of ice scattered with each collision, a testament to the ferocity of the duel. Darvok's movements were unnervingly fluid, shadow-like tendrils coiling and writhing around him as he pressed the attack. His agility was inhuman, but Lucien stood firm, deflecting each strike with precision.

Darvok's lips curled into a dark grin, his crimson eyes glinting with malice. "I wonder how long you can last, Lucien. Even your wife's spell has its limits."

Lucien's calm expression betrayed no hint of weariness, though his swings were slowing, his defenses growing shallower. He said nothing, focusing instead on the rhythmic clash of blades.

Darvok's grin widened as he danced back, avoiding Lucien's next strike with ease. "No matter what you try, it's pointless. Any wound I take will heal, and any effort you make will be in vain." He let out a cold, amused chuckle. "Oh, but it's not just your death I'm looking forward to. Think of your niece—Eric's only daughter. Imagine his disappointment. He gave his life to protect you, and yet here you are, failing to protect the only light he left behind."

Lucien's grip on his sword tightened, but his expression remained composed. "Do not presume too much," he said, his voice steady despite the strain in his movements.

Darvok's grin widened further at the response. "Ehehe, looks like the cat didn't really get your tongue," he teased, his voice dripping with mockery.

Their movements quickened, the clash of steel ringing through the forest like a storm. It was a battle no stranger could dare interrupt—anyone foolish enough to try would be crushed by the sheer force of their exchange.

Yet no matter how much effort Lucien poured into the fight, it felt as though he were facing an immovable wall. The man before him, who had long since abandoned his humanity, seemed untouchable.

Darvok's soulless eyes glimmered with cruel amusement as he parried Lucien's every strike with ease, as if toying with him.

Lucien's breaths came in short, ragged bursts, his body drenched in sweat. The ground beneath him felt unsteady, and his grip on his sword faltered ever so slightly. He clenched his jaw, forcing his failing muscles to obey. Every ounce of ability he had poured into this battle seemed to dissipate into the air, leaving him exposed.

He lunged forward, his blade aimed for Darvok's side, but his swing lacked precision. Darvok sidestepped effortlessly and, with terrifying speed, a heavy kick connected with Lucien's torso before he could react. The force of the blow sent him flying backward, his body crashing into a massive tree with a sickening thud.

A jagged crack split the air as his spine slammed against the splintering bark, a pain gasped escape from his lips. For a moment, the world spun. His vision blurred, and his limbs felt like lead. The sword slipped from his grasp, embedding itself into the snow-covered earth beside him as he slumped against the tree.

Darvok's footsteps echoed ominously as he approached, his voice a low, mocking growl. "I admire of how long you've lasted."

Lucien struggled to push himself upright, his body screaming in protest. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, like chains dragging him down. He coughed harshly, tasting blood in his mouth, feeling the sharp sting of failure. Yet deep within him, a spark refused to die.

As Darvok drew closer, his vision blurred further. A part of him begged for rest, the exhaustion gripping him tighter. But somewhere, in the depths of his will, he knew he couldn't give up—not yet.

"Exhaustion is a fatal flaw for humans in battle," Darvok muttered. He came to a halt, watching Lucien from several meters away with mock pity, the same cruel grin plastered across his face.

Lucien slowly raised himself, using his sword as support. His refusal to yield stirred memories long buried, and his father's words echoed in his mind. He remembered it vividly—clear as the day they were spoken.

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The warm glow of the hearth bathed the study in a soft, flickering light. Eric and Lucien, still children, stood before their father, their gazes locked on him with the earnestness only boys of their age could possess. 

Shelves filled with books towered around them, casting long shadows across the room.

Their father, Duke Cedric Valenhart, sat behind his large wooden desk, a serious expression etched across his face. His strong hands, weathered from years of battle and ruling Wintermere, rested atop an ancient scroll, one he had unrolled moments ago. His eyes, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths, shifted between his sons. Eric, the elder, with his composed, focused demeanor, and Lucien, wide-eyed and brimming with youthful curiosity.

Cedric cleared his throat, the sound breaking the heavy silence in the room. "You two must be wondering why I summoned you here," he began, his voice low and measured.

Lucien nodded quickly, his small hands fidgeting nervously. Eric simply gave a silent, understanding nod.

"It's time you both learned the truth," their father said, his steady gaze piercing. 

The flames crackled softly in the hearth as Cedric's voice deepened. "What do you two know about the prophecy?"

Eric, ever studious, spoke first. "A dark magic that would one day rise to consume the realms, and it would bring destruction."

Lucien glanced at his brother, who stood tall and confident. Cedric nodded slowly, his expression grim. "Four hundred years ago, Wintermere was not as it is now. It was a land swallowed by shadow, where dark magic thrived. Tyrant lords, consumed by greed, unleashed horrors upon the realms. They sought to conquer humanity, invading Veridonia in their lust for power. The skies burned red, the ground ran with rivers of blood, and monsters born of darkness ravaged everything in their path."

The room fell silent, the weight of Cedric's words pressing down on the boys. Eric and Lucien's pupils shrank, their young minds struggling to grasp the scale of the nightmare their father described.

"But Alysanne, wielding power like molten gold, toppled the tyrants and ended their reign. Yet even in victory, she foresaw a terrible truth. The darkness would return—stronger, more relentless."

Cedric paused, letting the gravity of his words settle. The flames in the hearth flickered, casting long shadows that danced ominously across the room. "This is not just a merely history. It is a warning. Alysanne's prophecy is our burden to bear. The darkness she spoke of will come. And when it does, all of the realms must stand against it. If Wintermere is to survive, a Valenhart must lead it's people, strong enough to protect them against the darkness."

Eric's brow furrowed, his young face reflecting the weight of the responsibility being placed upon him. Lucien, smaller and less sure of himself, shifted uneasily. Doubts churned in his chest, rising like an unwelcome tide. How could he, a boy who still stumbled in his training, ever hope to protect Wintermere?

Cedric rose from his chair and moved around the desk to stand before his sons. He muttered an incantation, and a glowing magic sigil materialized, its light gleaming brightly in the dim room.

"Alysanne left her words within this sigil," he said. As the sigil pulsed, letters began to take shape, rearranging themselves into a message. The two brothers leaned closer, their eyes scanning the glowing script:

"Through the ebb and flow of time, my bloodline shall endure; my power will not fade. To you, my scion, who inherit my gift—when darkness rises, you are the flame to hold it at bay."

As the final words lingered in the air, the sigil began to dim, closing in on itself until it vanished entirely.

Cedric turned back to his sons, his expression thoughtful. "We are her bloodline—her legacy flows through us. Alysanne foresaw that, in time, one of her descendants would inherit her power directly. That heir, whoever they may be, will be crucial in the dark times to come."

He knelt, finally meeting their level, and placed a firm hand on each of their shoulders. "You, my sons, are the future of Wintermere," he said, his voice softer but no less resolute. "One day, this land will look to you for its salvation. You must be strong. You must be wise. And you must protect the one who will inherit Alysanne's gift. When the prophecy comes to pass, you must stand ready."

Lucien hesitated, his gaze falling to the floor. The storm of doubt swirling within him finally found its voice. "But... how will we know what to do?" he asked, his voice trembling. He dared to look up, his wide sapphire eyes glistening with unshed tears. "What if... what if I'm not strong enough?"

Cedric's gaze softened, and he reached out to gently lift Lucien's chin. "Lucien, strength is not just in the sword you wield or the battles you fight. It is in your heart, in your determination to protect what matters most. You will know what to do, because you will have your brother. You will have each other. And as long as you stand together, there is nothing you cannot overcome."

His hand lingered on Lucien's shoulder as he continued, his voice filled with quiet conviction. "When the dark threatens to claim Wintermere, a Valenhart stands as its unyielding shield. That is who we are. That... is who you are."

Lucien's throat tightened, his father's unwavering belief piercing through the doubts that had weighed so heavily on him. He blinked, the warmth of his father's words melting away the fear in his heart. He glanced at Eric, who stood tall and resolute beside him. Eric's hand rested firmly on his shoulder, a silent promise that they would face whatever came—together.

"We won't let Wintermere fall, Father," Eric said, his voice steady and filled with determination.

Cedric's pride shone in his eyes as he pulled both of his sons into a fierce embrace. "You are my legacy," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "My greatest hope. Wintermere will endure because of you."

In that moment, Lucien felt the strength of his family's bond, the weight of centuries of Valenhart courage pressing into his small frame. And yet, it no longer felt like a burden. It felt like a calling. As he leaned into his father's embrace, his tears fell freely, no longer of fear, but of newfound resolve. 

He was not just any boy; he was a Valenhart, born to protect Wintermere. And with his father's faith and Eric's steady presence, he knew he would find the strength to do so.

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Lucien finally straightened, his posture rigid, and something in his aura shifted. Tendrils of shadow coiled around him, curling upward like living smoke, their cold touch gnawing at his resolve.

The memory burned in his chest, steadying him against the encroaching shadows.

Without warning, he vanished.

Darvok felt a sharp presence closing in from behind. Lucien slashed his blade in a perfect arc, the steel singing through the air. But his strike came too late, and Darvok sidestepped with fluid precision, a sharp grin splitting his face.

"So, you've finally embraced the Umbra(Dark)," Darvok sneered, his voice laced with mockery. "Dark magic is a death sentence for a mere mortal like you. Without the rituals to bind it, the more you use it, the more it devours you—until there's nothing left but a hollow shell. Oh, Duke of Wintermere, how much of yourself are you willing to sacrifice?"

Lucien said nothing. His sapphire eyes fixed on Darvok, scanning him with unflinching focus. He searched for a weakness, something to exploit. And then he saw it.

Amid the writhing shadows clinging to Darvok like armor, a faint glow pulsed against his chest—a sigil, etched in otherworldly light. It flickered, as if anchoring Darvok's presence to the physical plane.

Without hesitation, Lucien lunged. He feinted high, drawing Darvok's guard upward, then swept his blade low toward the sigil. Darvok twisted away with inhuman speed, but not fast enough. The tip of Lucien's sword grazed the glowing mark.

A sharp, otherworldly hiss tore through the air. The shadows shrouding Darvok recoiled violently, their movements chaotic and wild. His confident grin contorted into a snarl, crimson eyes blazing with anger and surprise.

The opening was brief, but it was enough. Lucien regained his footing, his voice low and steady. "Even monsters like you can't escape the flaws of your existence."

But he knew the truth: he couldn't defeat Darvok—not now. His goal wasn't victory; it was sabotage. If the Ashen Frost was their true goal, he had to destroy the thing that would lead them to it. Using Umbra might be the only way, but he knew his mortal body had limits—and the corruption would claim him before long. If Clara's blood was the final key, he had to destroy it first, or everything would be lost.

He could only hope Adeline was strong enough to keep Clara safe.

Lucien's blade clashed against Darvok's once more, the force reverberating through his arms. As he staggered back, shadows flickered at his fingertips—an unconscious release of Dark Magic. The dark energy pulsed for a fleeting moment before he forced it down, his eyes darting toward the ground as a faint glow caught the edge of his vision.

Beneath Darvok's feet, lines of purple light began to pulse, forming the shape of a sigil etched deep into the earth. Blood from the earlier victim pooled into its grooves, feeding the seal with a dark, pulsating energy.

Lucien's heart sank. The seal. That was it. But with Darvok standing over it, any attempt to destroy it seemed suicidal.

Darvok smirked, as if sensing Lucien's realization. "You see it now, don't you?" he drawled, lowering his blade slightly.

Lucien tightened his grip on his sword, his mind racing. The seal would help Darvok find the sword, and the only blood he needed now was Clara's. The Blade of Ashen Frost. If it fell into their hands, it would tip the balance irrevocably.

He couldn't overpower Darvok, but he didn't need to—not directly. His eyes flicked back to the sigil on Darvok's chest, the faint pulse of light tied to the seal below.

An idea began to form. It was risky, but it was all he had. He feinted to the left, drawing Darvok's attention, before lunging again toward the sigil on his chest.

Darvok twisted, blocking the strike easily, but the force of the blow made him take a step back—just enough for Lucien to notice the faint flicker in the seal beneath him. A connection. That's what it was. The sigil on Darvok's chest wasn't just a mark—it was a tether.

The next strike wasn't meant to hit. Lucien drove his blade down, dark magic engulfing its edge, aiming at the ground near the edge of the seal. The sigil glowed brighter as if reacting to the attack, but suddenly a powerful blow struck him, sending him flying backward.

He hit the ground hard, the impact rattling through his body. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself to his feet, every muscle screaming in protest. The seal would fight back if someone attempted to destroy it—of course it would.

His vision blurred, the corrosive pull of the Umbra gnawing at the edges of his sanity. He staggered forward, his breath ragged.

It was only a matter of time. He would die here, sliced apart by Darvok or consumed by the Umbra. But if he could destroy the seal—even at the cost of his life—it would shatter their plans and keep the Blade of Ashen Frost from falling into their hands.

Lucien steadied his trembling hands on the hilt of his sword. His father's voice came to him one last time, clear and steady.

"When the dark threatens to claim Wintermere, a Valenhart stands as its unyielding shield."

Lucien stepped forward, his eyes blazing with defiance. If this was where it ended, so be it—but not before he finished what he started.