The sun had already dipped beneath the horizon, and the village was cloaked in the hush of twilight. Smoke coiled upward from stone chimneys, blending with the first strands of evening mist. Kyran moved like a shadow between the houses, his steps quiet, his breath slow.
He found Almar seated on the chapel steps, wrapped in a threadbare cloak, pipe resting between calloused fingers. The old man didn't look up at first, but he shiftedd slightly, as though he'd been expecting the boy all along.
"You came," Almar said, tapping ash from his pipe.
Kyran hesitated. "I didn't know who else to talk to."
Almar gestured to the spot beside him. Kyran sat.
For a while, they just watched the last light fade behind the pines. Somewhere, a nightbird called—lonely and low.
"You heard?" Kyran asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"About the fight?" Almar nodded. "The whole village did. The square echoes louder than people realize."
Kyran looked down at his hands. "I didn't mean to hurt him. But it was like something moved through me. My body knew what to do before I did. And when they called me 'monster'... it hurt worse than anything."
Almar exhaled slowly, smoke curling like memory. "Control is harder than power. Especially when you don't understand where it comes from."
He paused, then added, "The swordmaster—Tomas—he never said much. But he spoke with his blade. Every day, without fail, he practiced alone. Through heat, through storm, through winter. The village thought him mad. Some still do. But I knew... I knew he was listening. Listening to something none of us could hear."
"Did he ever lose control?" Kyran asked.
Almar smiled faintly, eyes distant. "Only once. And it changed him. After that, he vowed never to raise his sword in anger again."
Kyran turned his gaze to the chapel. "Sometimes, I feel like he's still there. Like he's inside me. Watching. Pushing."
Almar's voice softened. "Maybe he is. Or maybe it's just your own self, reaching out through time."
That night, Kyran slipped from his bed and crept through the sleeping village. The stars were shrouded behind low clouds. A warm breeze moved through the pines, yet beneath it, something colder lingered.
The chapel doors were slightly ajar. He stepped inside.
The silence wrapped around him like a shroud. Candles guttered on the altar, casting long shadows. At the far end, the relic waited.
The sword lay in its cradle of velvet and ash. Kyran approached, feet silent on stone. He reached out and placed his hand upon the hilt.
The air shifted.
Suddenly, the world fell away. His breath froze in his lungs.
A blaze of images—rapid, jagged—flashed through him: Tomas, cloaked in shadow, clashing with a figure of darkness. Screams. A village consumed by fire. A monstrous presence, eyes burning like twin stars. The taste of blood and smoke. Cold steel. Shattered oaths.
Kyran staggered but could not let go.
The sword pulsed beneath his palm—not warm, not cold, but alive. Beneath his feet, the floor vibrated with something ancient, buried.
His mind reeled. Rage surged in him—not his own, but something older. Something bitter.
He clenched his jaw.
"Why did you choose me?" he whispered to the void. "Why not rest? Why live again through me?"
A flicker of resistance burned in his chest. He didn't want Tomas's shadow. Didn't want his burden. And now they would send him away because of it. His parents' fear had a name—and that name wasn't Kyran. It was the ghost of a man who wouldn't let go.
At dawn, the village stirred to the sound of hooves.
A hush fell over the muddy paths as two riders emerged from the rising mists, their cloaks glinting dully with damp. Dark steel covered their shoulders, trimmed in sigils etched with careful runes—marks of the Andoran military. Long blue sashes fluttered at their hips, heavy with the weight of rank.
They moved with practiced discipline, one slightly ahead of the other. The lead rider bore a scar that traced from temple to jaw, as though his face had once been cleaved by lightning and mended by war. His eyes were shadowed, unreadable. The second was younger, but not by much, with silver threads in his black hair and a gaze that seemed to drink in more than the world showed—like he read souls, not faces.
Villagers emerged from their homes, wary and curious. Children pressed behind mothers. Farmers set aside tools. The forge bell clanged once—Pops announcing their arrival with the same gravity as a funeral.
The two dismounted slowly. Their boots landed with muted thuds on damp earth.
Rurik stepped forward, the only one who didn't flinch. He held himself like a wall, steady and unmoved.
"Rurik of Feldrin?" the lead rider asked, his voice like gravel.
"I am," Rurik said simply.
The soldier inclined his head. "I am Captain Elsin of the Andoran forward watch. My companion is Ser Calen of the Third Veil."
Rurik nodded. "You've come a long way."
"We have," Elsin replied. He glanced over the gathering crowd, eyes lingering on a few older men, then the chapel steeple, and finally the fields beyond. "Your village sits between three trade routes. That makes it valuable—and vulnerable."
Calen stepped forward now, his tone gentler but no less direct. "We've received reports. Nearby settlements—smaller than yours—have gone silent. Livestock slaughtered. Tracks in the woods. Strange lights. One village was found burned to embers. No bodies."
A chill crept into the square. Murmurs rose like rising mist. A child began to cry, quickly shushed.
Elsin held up a hand.
"We've been dispatched ahead of a larger force. Reinforcements are coming from Andora, but they will not arrive for several days. Until then, this village must prepare to hold."
Rurik's jaw tightenedd. "We've not seen monsters in generations."
Calen's gaze didn't waver. "Yet."
Behind a stack of barrels near the edge of the square, Kyran crouched, breath shallow. He watched every movement, every syllable passed between soldier and father.
Elsin turned slightly. "We will begin mapping your perimeter. We'll need a count of able-bodied fighters, archers, anyone with combat experience. Scouts will check your woods by dusk."
Rurik gave a curt nod, already slipping into the rhythm of duty.
But Calen didn't move. His head tilted, and then slowly, he turned toward the barrels.
"You," he said, not loudly. Not accusingly. Just… knowingly.
Kyran's heart stuttered. He rose slowly, uncertain if his legs would hold.
Calen approached, the murmurs behind him fading. The man's eyes shimmered faintly in the gray light, as if reflecting something only he could see.
"What's your name, boy?"
"Kyran," he replied.
Calen studied him for a long moment. Then he stepped close enough that only Rurik could hear what came next.
"Has he awakened?"
Kyran's breath caught. He didn't even know what that meant—but somehow, deep down, he did.
Rurik was silent. Then he said, "He's not trained. But he feels the blade. As if it remembers him."
Calen nodded slowly. "His aura brushes against the Veil. Raw… but ancient."
He turned back to Kyran. "Have you felt something? Power in your hands? Visions?"
Kyran looked at the ground.
"Yes."
The soldier smiled, faintly. "You're not the first."
Later that day, as the soldiers prepared to leave the square to begin patrols, Calen approached Kyran again.
He waited until the others were out of earshot.
"You have a gift," he said. "There's a place in Andora for ones like you. The Academy doesn't just teach strength—it teaches restraint. Purposee."
Kyran didn't speak at first. Then: "I'm not going."
Calen's expression remained calm. "Why not?"
"I won't run from what's here," Kyran said quietly. "If danger is coming, I'll face it. Not from a tower behind walls—but from this ground. These people. My home."
The soldier studied him for a moment longer, then turned to Rurik.
"He has not yet chosen the sword," Calen said. "But the sword has chosen him."
And with that, he walked away—into the lengthening shadows, where the wind stirred the trees like breath before a scream.
That night, Kyran stood in the courtyard, alone beneath a moonless sky.
The wind carried the scent of wet earth and pine—and something darker, more distant. A tremor passed through the trees. The animals in the woods no longer cried.
The chapel's relic pulsed once.
And in that quiet breath before the storm, Kyran's hands curled into fists.
He would not leave.
Not yet.