Sir Kaelen, the Iron Wolf

The halls of House Vaydrall were slick with the scent of blood and iron, though Kaelen did not notice. He never did. Steel had a smell, a taste, a rhythm — and he moved to it as naturally as a wolf moved to the hunt.

His armor gleamed black beneath the torches, etched with jagged silver fangs. Some said the markings were charms; he knew they were warnings. He had drawn his sword on more men than he could remember, and each blade had left its mark — not on the steel, but on the man who survived it.

When the prince entered the hall, Kaelen did not bow fully, nor did he need to. His presence alone was a reminder that fear could be worn like armor. Eyes followed him — soldiers, servants, courtiers — but none dared meet his gaze. His gray eyes were sharp, hungry, and patient. Like a wolf smelling blood through stone walls.

The guards dragged in a man accused of theft. Kaelen’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword, thumb brushing the cold metal. He circled the prisoner silently, slow, deliberate. The man trembled, but Kaelen felt no mercy. Mercy was for the weak, for the ones who survived by pleading and begging.

“You thought the crown was your shield?” Kaelen whispered, voice like iron grinding on bone. The prisoner’s eyes widened, heart hammering against ribs that would not save him. “You were wrong.”

In a single, fluid motion, the sword left its sheath. The first strike did not kill. It tore, ripped, tore again — a lesson written in flesh. The hall was silent except for the wet sound of steel meeting sinew. When Kaelen finally pulled back, the man was broken, his screams stifled in his own fear.

He straightened, wiped his blade clean on the prisoner’s cloak, and stepped aside. The prince approached, and Kaelen’s head tilted once — an acknowledgment, a promise: whatever blood needed to be shed, whatever fear needed to be sown, he would be the instrument.

And when the prince’s gaze finally met his, Kaelen saw the reflection of the wolf within — sharp, hungry, unstoppable.