Kael Ardyn sat on the worn doorstep of his father's workshop, watching the faint embers of yesterday's forge glow in the cold morning light. The air of Neryth village was crisp, tinged with the scent of burning wood and damp earth. Children ran past, laughing, their dreams painted in vibrant colors Kael had never known. He had never dreamed—not once. In a world where dreams were considered a calling from the spirits, Kael was merely a "discarded" child, wandering without purpose.
"Kael! Get up! We need to prepare the hearth for the market!" Elara's voice broke through the morning quiet. Kael sighed, dragging his feet toward the kitchen. His mother's warm smile greeted him, but he noticed the slight furrow in her brow, as if sensing the weight of the day to come.
He started his usual routine: tending the fire, cleaning tools, and organizing the raw iron his father, Ardan, would shape into swords and shields. Though small for his age, Kael's hands were calloused from years of hammering metal, the rhythmic pounding grounding him in something tangible—something real. Ardan had always said, "Your hard work will define who you are, not the dreams you don't have." The words echoed in Kael's mind, a steady anchor against the emptiness he felt inside.
That morning, as Kael inspected a half-forged sword, a shiver ran down his spine. Out of the corner of his eye, a dark shimmer moved across the floor. At first, he thought it was merely a shadow from the tree outside, but the feeling of being watched made his stomach twist. The old sword lying in the corner of the workshop—the one Ardan had never let him touch—vibrated subtly, as if something beneath the metal stirred.
Kael's small hand hovered over the hilt, curiosity and unease warring within him. The moment his fingers brushed the cold metal, a sharp sting raced through his arm, like hundreds of tiny needles pricking his skin. He yelped, recoiling, but the sword seemed to call to him, pulling gently, insistently, almost like it recognized him.
"Elara! Ardan!" he called, heart pounding. Both parents looked up from their work. Ardan gave a knowing look, though he said nothing. Elara placed a hand on his shoulder. "Patience, Kael. Some things are meant to find you when the time is right," she murmured, her voice a comforting shield against the strange energy buzzing at his fingertips.
All day, Kael tried to ignore the sword, focusing on chores and helping villagers prepare for the market. Yet the pull never left him. Even when he hammered iron or swept the floors, the sword vibrated faintly, responding to his frustration, his loneliness, his longing for a life he could never fully imagine.
By evening, as the sun dipped behind the gray-hued sky—a permanent reminder of the Shattered War—Kael finally gave in. His fingers wrapped around the hilt, the metal warm now, almost alive. Shadows flickered across the workshop as if the sword breathed with him. It was terrifying and comforting all at once.
Kael had no time to dwell on it. Heavy footsteps approached from outside, echoing through the village streets. He peered through the window and saw figures moving with purpose, armed and relentless. Then came screams—sharp, tearing, full of panic. Black smoke rose into the twilight, mingling with the scent of burning wood and hot iron.
"Father! Mother!" Kael cried, but the smoke swallowed his words. He ran into the chaos, dodging flames and falling debris. Villagers scattered, clutching children, pulling carts, fleeing the inferno. Kael's stomach churned with nausea, but the sword felt lighter in his hands, as if understanding his need to act.
One of the armed men approached, shadows stretching unnaturally long in the firelight. Kael's heart raced. Instinct took over—he swung the sword without thinking. A burst of ash-like energy erupted, throwing the man back, but the feedback nearly knocked Kael off his feet. Pain surged through his chest, and he realized the sword demanded a price: every use drained his strength, leaving him raw and vulnerable.
Through the smoke, he spotted his family's house. Flames licked the walls. Ardan ran out, shielding a few villagers, but a collapsing beam caught him off guard. Kael lunged, grabbing his father's arm, but Ardan's eyes met his—proud, resigned—and then the world went silent for a heartbeat as the beam fell.
"Elara!" Kael shouted, desperation clawing at him. She stumbled from the kitchen doorway, carrying a bundle of blankets. She froze, seeing the inferno around her. Kael reached her in time to grab her hand, but the fire spread too quickly. With a roar, the building succumbed, and Kael could only watch as his parents were lost to the flames.
The sword pulsed violently in his grip, as if mourning, as if demanding that Kael accept what had happened. Tears blurred his vision. The village of Neryth lay in ruins, smoke curling like dark fingers into the sky. In that moment, a whisper echoed—not from any person he could see, but from somewhere older, deeper:
"Kael… take this path. Become the heir they did not want."
Kael sank to his knees, clutching the sword. The world he knew was gone. His family, his home, his childhood—consumed. But something inside him hardened. He would not be the next victim. He would not be the dreamless child who gave up. He would rise, and the sword would guide him.
And in the shadows beyond the fire, unseen eyes watched. Something ancient, dark, and patient waited, marking Kael for a destiny that would challenge everything he thought he knew about the world—and about himself.