The Blade Beside the Throne

In the vast, warring lands of Eryndor, where magic lingers like smoke and crowns are sharpened at the edges, one name carries weight unlike any other. A name not born of royalty, but made of war.

Rhaenor Valehart.

He is not a prince. Not a lord. He is something far more dangerous.

At just twenty-nine, he holds titles whispered with reverence and fear: The King's Black Fang. The Ghost of the North. The Blade Beside the Throne. He is the royal guard to the crown’s only daughter — her constant shadow, her wordless sentinel. He does not speak unless spoken to. He does not smile. He does not rest.

He walks one step behind her — always. No more. No less.

They say the king trusts no man more than Rhaenor. That if the realm were to fall, he'd entrust his final command to him — not his council, not his generals, not even blood.

And yet, for all his power, Rhaenor remains cold. Distant. Unreachable.

Women of every house, highborn and foreign, have tried to claim his attention. With beauty. With gold. With false tears and genuine desire. But he is colder than their perfume, harder than the polished steel at his hip. He does not look. He does not speak. He does not care.

To him, they are distractions. And Rhaenor Valehart was not made to be distracted.

His sword, Ashveil, is one of a kind — black-forged in the hidden forges of the First Flame, runes of power etched deep along its edge. It is heavy in the hand of others. Light as breath in his. It hums when drawn — not with magic, but with memory.

His steed, Thorne, is unmatched. A massive black warhorse with burning red eyes, rumored to have come from the old mountain gods. Riders have tried to tame Thorne. Most did not walk away. Only Rhaenor commands him.

His chamber within the royal stronghold is vast — obsidian floors, iron-paneled walls, and not a trace of comfort. No flowers. No softness. No company. Servants are not allowed inside. No woman has ever crossed the threshold.

There is no warmth in his world. Only precision. Only control. Only duty.

And tonight, though the kingdom celebrates victory — the northern rebellion crushed, peace momentarily won — Rhaenor stands where he always stands.

Behind her.

Silent. Watching. Ready.

Because while the realm sleeps in comfort, he does not believe in peace. He was raised in a soldier’s hell. Forged in a school where boys were broken, rebuilt, and turned into weapons. His past is inked in dark tattoos that only battle can see.

He was not made to dream. He was made to end things.

And one day, when the next war comes — because it always does — the kingdom will not call a prince.

It will call Rhaenor Valehart.