The wind in the canyon had a strange hum to it.
It wasn't just wind—it was memory.
Michael stood over the mage's corpse, blood still dripping from the tip of the sword that refused to let go. His arms trembled. Not from fear, not from exhaustion. From something... deeper.
The sword pulsed in his grip, as if alive. No, not alive—aware.
"What the hell are you?" he whispered.
No answer came, but something stirred in the back of his mind. A heat. A thought not his own. His vision flickered for a moment, like staring into sunlight after days in darkness.
A name drifted into his thoughts.
"First Form: Draw of Iron."
The words weren't his. But they were his now.
The sword moved. Not through practice, not through control. But through instinct. His body shifted into a stance he'd never seen, knees bent, elbow tilted, point forward—
SHING—!
The blade flashed, carving a clean line through a moss-covered boulder nearby.
The stone didn't fall apart immediately. It split three seconds later, silently sliding into two smooth halves. The inside was so polished it reflected his face.
Michael staggered backward.
"What the f** did I just do?"
He didn't know. But the sword did.
He buried the mage with his foot. Didn't feel like digging. The man had tried to kill him, after all. But still... killing another human? Even here, in this twisted place?
It should've felt like something.
But all Michael felt was resolve.
He hadn't asked to be dragged into this world. But now that he was here? He wasn't going to die for someone else's rules. Not again.
✦ ✦ ✦
Further down the gorge, he found a road. Cracked, abandoned, half-swallowed by vines. A rusted sign jutted from the earth like a warning fang.
"To Emberglass – 17 Kilas"*
No clue what a Kila was, but it sounded like a walk. A long one.
Michael kept moving. His wounds throbbed with every step, the cut on his ribs sticking to his shirt with dried blood. He'd need shelter. Food. Answers.
And most of all?
He needed to understand the sword.
Because every step he took, he could feel it more clearly—whispering.
✦ ✦ ✦
Far away...
Inside a city floating above the clouds, an orb pulsed on a tower's altar.
A blue-robed mage knelt beside it, frowning.
"A new soul signature… no mana detected… but the imprint..."
"Could it be another one?" a voice asked from the shadows.
The mage stood. "Impossible. The last of the Bladebound died a thousand years ago."
But the orb pulsed again.
Once.
Then twice.
✦ ✦ ✦
Back on the cracked road, Michael stopped walking.
The wind shifted.
He wasn't alone.
From the treeline ahead, eyes blinked open—too many for one creature.
And then he heard it.
Low. Rumbling.
A growl.