The numbing pain shot through his entire arm. He had been training for hours, and his master was not gentle. The swordsman smiled at him as he pushed him to the limits of endurance. Sometimes Selgan wondered if his teacher simply enjoyed torturing his only pupil.
Selgan sighed. His amber eyes never left Rolf's smile. His hands could barely lift the training sword anymore, yet he refused to give up. For all his twelve years, he had dreamed of learning the art of the sword, though his father would never allow it. That was why he had sought out the only man in the village who could wield a blade.
His gaze swept over his master's posture, searching for any opening, but Rolf never lowered his guard, even against a boy like Selgan. The boy was glad for that; he liked that Rolf never slacked off and took the training seriously.
He smiled back at his master and struck downward. The wooden sword moved fast, but not fast enough to break through the swordsman's defense. Rolf deflected the clumsy blow with swift, elegant ease.
"You're so impatient," the man said. "You can't master a sword with only a little training. First, you must learn the basics."
Selgan muttered something under his breath and lifted the sword again. He knew Rolf was right, but hunger for knowledge burned in him. He wanted to be a swordmaster now, not ten years from now. That's why he attacked again—but his body could not match the stubbornness of his mind, and the strike this time was even slower.
Rolf's smile faded. With a quick, merciless move, he disarmed the boy. Selgan's eyes widened as pain shot through his ribs and left arm. He cried out and fell to the ground.
"You asked me to teach you," Rolf's voice echoed among the trees, "yet you can't follow a single thing I've said. You're young and impatient. I can tolerate that, but if you refuse to listen, this is nothing but a waste of time."
Selgan lowered his head in shame.
"I'm sorry, master," he said quietly.
Rolf's expression softened, and he stepped closer.
"You have talent, but you can't rush the process," he said gently. "The most important part of swordsmanship is a solid foundation. You need to master the basics first. You're young. You have all the time you need."
Selgan nodded slowly and lay down at the foot of a thick oak. He set his wooden sword beside him and stared up at the sky. The excitement and adrenaline drained away, replaced by a wave of pain and exhaustion. He was certain that tomorrow he wouldn't even be able to lift a finger.
"Why do we have to train in the forest—especially at dusk?" Rolf asked.
"My father forbade me to learn how to fight," Selgan replied. "I've asked him many times, but he always says the same thing—if I learn to wield a sword, he will never forgive me."
Rolf considered the boy's words in silence.
"Wergal is a strange man," he said at last. "Your father's movements clearly show he's a trained warrior, and yet he despises everything about it. I don't know what happened in the past, but I'm sure he has his reasons for turning his back on the way of the warrior."
Selgan knew nothing about his parents past. His father always grew tense whenever he asked where they had lived or what they had done before he was born. Three years ago, they had left Licrol in a hurry, as if fleeing from something. He hadn't even been able to say goodbye to his friends.
"Neither of them likes to talk about the past," he said, breaking the silence.
Rolf moved closer with a smile and ruffled the boy's long black hair.
"You're too young to worry about your parents' past," he said with a grin. "Now go on—I doubt you brought that basket here for fun."
Selgan's eyes widened as he remembered what he had told his mother before leaving home.
"Oh, shit."
He had completely forgotten his original purpose in coming to the forest. His mother had clearly asked him to gather medicinal herbs, which she used as the village healer to make potions and ointments.
Rolf laughed as he picked up the training swords.
"Then I'll leave you to it. Just don't wander in the forest too late at night—I'd rather not upset Irselt, and certainly not Wergal."
Rolf turned back toward the village, leaving Selgan alone. The boy picked up the basket and set off through the trees. He knew a place deep in the forest where the plants his mother used grew in abundance.
The towering trees rose around him like the walls of a vast city. There were countless stories about Nyrasal Forest. Some claimed it had been home to fairies and spirits since ancient times. Selgan had wandered beneath these old oaks many times, but he had never seen a single mythical creature. The forest was vast, stretching along the entire northern border of the Kingdom of Reisgal and even encroaching upon the lands of the mystical northern tribes.
Perhaps he had simply not seen enough, but in his experience, the tales were no more than bedtime stories meant to keep children from wandering too far and ending up as a wolf's supper.
The stories had their effect—the villagers feared the forest. Selgan, of course, was not one of them. He loved the wilderness almost as much as his home. Whenever he wanted to be alone, he came here to enjoy the quiet and the peace.
At last, he reached the clearing. A single massive oak stretched its branches toward the orange-red sky. The herbs he sought grew around it in a yellow-red carpet. Satisfied, he took a small knife from the basket and began his work.
His mother had taught him much about the art of healing, and she never missed a chance to remind him that healing was a nobler calling than the sword.
Yet after Rolf's words, he was certain that something in the past had driven his parents—especially his father—away from the blade.
By the time he finished, the last rays of twilight had vanished, and the moon bathed the trees in silver light. Far off, he heard the sounds of nocturnal creatures stirring. He cracked his neck and glanced at the great oak, which seemed even more mysterious under the moon.
Looking at the basket, he was sure his mother would be pleased—but also sure she would scold him.
The forest at night was a different place. The moonlight could not fully pierce the canopy, and darkness hung thick beneath the trees. At times like this, he often thought back to Licrol and his friends Vicran and Argeld. They had hidden in the woods often enough after getting into trouble—and trouble had been frequent.
He smiled at the memories. He wished he knew why they had left Licrol so suddenly, but his parents had never entertained his questions.
What did they think of me, leaving without a word?
He had wondered many times. Perhaps his friends thought he had betrayed them. Perhaps they hated him for disappearing without a trace.
He sighed and paused for a drink from his flask. That was when he saw it—from the corner of his eye. A light, but it wasn't moonlight.
It glowed not far away, beyond a cluster of trees. The icy-blue shimmer was unmistakable against the ink-dark night.
Without thinking, he moved toward it, though he knew it would be wiser to turn back. Curiosity proved stronger than caution. The closer he came, the brighter it grew.
He pushed through a tangle of branches and saw it clearly: a great sphere of blue light. It floated in the air before him, dazzling and bright—almost blinding. Selgan felt an irresistible urge to touch it.
His fingers brushed the surface, and a tingling ran through them—not painful, but strange, like a fleeting sting. The sphere flared, its brilliance multiplying until it shone like a miniature silver sun, forcing Selgan to shield his eyes.
When his vision cleared, the sphere had moved several meters away, glowing as if beckoning him. Selgan followed, but as soon as he came close, it darted away again.
He stopped. The orb clearly wanted to lead him somewhere—but should he follow? It hovered, circling a tree trunk as if waiting.
What are you? Where do you want me to go?
His mind told him to turn back, but his feet carried him forward.
The light quickened its pace, leading him deeper into the forest. Then it stopped again, its glow dimming.
Before him stood a tree unlike any he had seen—its trunk thick as a house, its crown high above the rest. But it was not the tree that stunned him—it was the ruins surrounding it, like the bones of some ancient giant.
He had never heard of any ruins in these woods.
Where am I?
The globe circled the trunk eagerly. As Selgan stepped closer, the air turned cold, as if summer had vanished. The light danced like a loyal hound awaiting its master.
Every instinct told him to stop, yet he stepped forward, drawn as if by invisible threads. The closer he came, the colder it grew, until his body was numb.
This time the light stayed where it was, hovering before his face. Its harsh brilliance had faded to a soft glow.
Then the ground shuddered. A crack opened beneath his feet. The light vanished, and he plunged into darkness. His scream was brief before the earth swallowed him whole.