Chapter One- Shadows of the Past, Fires of the Future

Ten years later, on his sixteenth birthday, Niklaus Dorscha awoke to the familiar creak of the old wooden beams above his bed. But something in the air felt different today. A charge of anticipation buzzed through the room, tugging at his restless mind and urging him to leap into the day. His eyes snapped open, violet irises glowing faintly in the morning light that filtered through the frost-kissed window. He was already grinning.

With a burst of energy, Niklaus flung off his blankets and sprang from bed, his feet landing with a soft thud on the cold stone floor. "Another year older, none the wiser," he muttered to himself, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. But even as he joked, his heart thudded with excitement. Today wasn't just any day—it marked the beginning of something bigger, even if he didn't quite know what yet.

He darted across the room to his wardrobe, its ancient hinges groaning in protest as he yanked it open with dramatic flair. "Rise and shine, you old creaker," he quipped, as if the furniture might talk back. Inside, his eyes scanned over the familiar assortment of tunics, cloaks, and gear—each piece a relic of past mischief and adventures. His fingers hovered over a sleek, dark tunic before settling on his favorite deep brown one, frayed at the edges but soft and comforting, like an old friend.

As he tugged it over his head, he caught a glimpse of himself in the polished metal sheet nailed to the wall—his makeshift mirror. His violet eyes stared back at him, alive with curiosity and a hint of mischief. His raven-black hair, now brushing just past his shoulders, was a tangled mess of waves. He grabbed a small knife from his nightstand and began trimming the uneven ends with quick, careless snips, strands falling like tiny black feathers to the floor. "There—perfectly imperfect," he declared, flashing himself a crooked grin.

But as his eyes lingered on his reflection, the grin wavered. The faint, shifting mark of the snarling wolf on his right shoulder peeked out from under his tunic—the Dorscha mark, always watching, always reminding. He traced it absentmindedly through the fabric, feeling the familiar pulse of its magic, the weight of its meaning pressing on his chest.

Shaking off the thought, he slipped into his worn leather boots, each scuff a story, and cinched his cloak tightly around his shoulders. A glance at the window made his heart lurch. "Late again? Classic Niklaus," he muttered, already feeling the thrill of the impending dash. He grabbed his dagger—the same one he'd carried since he was a boy—and with a deep breath, bolted out the door.

The halls of the fortress echoed with his hurried footsteps, each slap of his boots against the stone floor adding to the chaotic rhythm of his thoughts. His heart pounded in his chest, not just from the sprint but from the excitement bubbling just beneath the surface. Today was the day. The day he would finally prove himself—or, at the very least, survive another round of training without making a total fool of himself.

He burst into the Training Halls just as the bell tolled, its deep chime reverberating through the stone corridors like a heartbeat. The room was a whirlwind of activity—shouts, the clash of metal on metal, the rhythmic thud of fists against training dummies. The weapons racks stood like silent sentinels, each blade and bow gleaming under the torchlight, whispering promises of victory and defeat.

But one weapon caught his eye—a hand-and-a-half spring steel sword with an ebony handle. It sat there, almost calling to him, its dark surface reflecting the flickering flames like a pool of shadows. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to grab it, to feel its weight in his hands, to see if the stories of his lineage were true.

"Boy! Leave the weapons and get your behind over here!"

The sharp command cut through the din like a blade, snapping Niklaus out of his daydream. He turned, heart racing, and met the piercing gaze of Jonathan Kaine—his mentor, his guardian, and the closest thing he'd had to a father since Matthias vanished. Jonathan was a towering figure, his presence commanding as ever. His raven-black hair, cropped close but perpetually tousled, framed a face weathered by time and battle. But it was his eyes—those violet eyes, so much like Niklaus's own—that held him still. They were sharp, observant, and impossibly full of unspoken expectations.

"Late again, Young Wolf-heart? What's your excuse this time?" Jonathan's voice was a gravelly mix of authority and amusement, like a storm rumbling in the distance.

Niklaus felt a familiar itch beneath his skin, his fingers drumming against his thigh as his mind scrambled for a witty retort. "Oh, you know, the usual—saving the kingdom in my dreams, getting tangled in heroic quests, the works." He flashed a crooked grin, hoping his humor would deflect the reprimand.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching in reluctant amusement. "Inspiration from dreams won't save you when a blade's at your throat. We train for battle, not bedtime stories."

Niklaus's grin widened, but beneath the humor, his heart pounded with nerves. He knew Jonathan wasn't just talking about swordplay—the journey to Vilinoir and Talinor loomed ahead, a rite of passage he couldn't joke his way out of. He'd have to face the monks, master the ancient arts, and prove himself worthy of his lineage.

Jonathan's expression softened, his gaze piercing but not unkind. "You must be ready for this, Niklaus. Alone on that ship, facing the vast unknown… it will test you in ways you've never imagined."

Niklaus felt the weight of those words settle in his chest, heavy and unyielding. He fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, his mind a whirlwind of doubts and what-ifs. But then he met Jonathan's gaze, and something inside him steadied. "I promise, Jonathan. I won't fail you… or Lupé."

Jonathan's hand clapped firmly on his shoulder, grounding him in the moment. "That's the spirit, lad. But remember—the path ahead is yours to forge. Train hard, stay sharp, and trust in the strength you've built."

As Niklaus stepped onto the training grounds, the familiar clang of swords and the rhythmic thud of boots against the earth filled the air. The weight of expectation pressed against him, but so did the fire of determination. Each swing of his blade was more than just a drill—it was a step toward becoming the leader he was meant to be.

But even as he focused, his mind flickered with the chaos of thoughts and ideas, jokes and jests bubbling beneath the surface. He couldn't help but throw in a quip or two, making his fellow trainees laugh, easing the tension with his irreverent charm. It was who he was—the joker, the class clown, the boy who could turn fear into laughter.

Yet when it mattered, when the stakes were high and the focus sharpened to a blade's edge, Niklaus was unstoppable. His movements became fluid, his mind laser-focused, every distraction falling away as he poured his heart into the fight. In those moments, he wasn't just the boy with restless energy and quick jokes—he was the prince of Lupé, the Wolf-heart, destined to carve his path through the shadows of his past and into the fires of his future.

In his heart of hearts amid the chaos of his thoughts, he knew too well that the future awaited him everyone was relying on him. He could not falter. Not now.