Drip... drip... drip...
Water echoed softly against the stone. A gentle warmth rose from the smooth surface beneath him. The scent of moss and earth filled the air.
Light stirred, his body submerged in a shallow pool of shimmering water. His skin felt cold despite the warmth of the shrine. He blinked groggily, eyelids heavy, as though a deep sleep had held him in its grip for days—perhaps longer.
He sat up slowly, droplets sliding down his bare arms. His breath fogged in the cool air, and he realized he was dressed only in a simple brown tunic, loose trousers, and an old, worn amulet hanging from a cord around his neck. The amulet felt strangely heavy against his chest, its surface etched with faint runes that glimmered faintly in the dim light.
Light furrowed his brow, rubbing his temple. A fog clouded his mind, like the remnants of a fading dream. He searched for something—anything—but found only fragments.
His name. Light.
His home. Solara.
Everything else... nothing. The faces, the memories, the reason he had been asleep in this place—all gone, slipping away like water between his fingers.
He looked around, heart pounding. The chamber was quiet—carved from stone, with strange murals etched into the walls: scenes of knights, dragons, and celestial bodies swirling around a central figure holding a sword aloft.
The pool he lay in shimmered faintly, its surface disturbed only by his slow, careful movements.
At the far end of the shrine, resting against a pedestal, lay a sword.
Simple. Unadorned. Its blade glinted faintly in the light streaming from a small crack in the ceiling. The hilt was worn, wrapped in leather, but it called to him with a quiet pull—like a part of him was missing until he grasped it.
Light rose, water dripping from his clothes as he approached the blade. His bare feet echoed softly on the stone floor.
He reached out, fingers brushing the hilt, and a sudden rush of something—memory, power, duty—washed over him.
He gripped the sword tightly, testing its weight. It felt... right. Natural. As if it had been waiting for him.
His gaze drifted to the exit—an ancient archway leading out of the shrine. Vines crept down its sides, and beyond it, he could see only light.
Light exhaled slowly and stepped forward.
When he emerged, the world opened up in a rush of color and sound.
He stood on a high cliff, overlooking a sprawling valley. The air was crisp and cool, the sky a brilliant blue speckled with drifting clouds. Below him stretched lush forests, rolling hills, and wild fields of golden grass swaying in the breeze. Herds of deer and wild horses ran free across the plains, their movements graceful and untamed.
Birds wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and clear in the morning air. A faint breeze tugged at Light's hair and tunic, carrying the scent of pine and wildflowers.
And in the distance—half-shrouded in mist and framed by the rising sun—he saw it.
A ruined castle.
Its once-grand towers now crumbled, ivy creeping across the broken walls. The banners that must have once flown there were tattered and faded, fluttering weakly in the wind. It stood like a ghost of something long lost, a monument to forgotten battles and broken oaths.
Light's breath caught in his throat. Something about the castle stirred a deep ache in his chest, a longing that scraped against the hollow space where his memories should have been.
He tightened his grip on the sword and began to descend the rocky path down the cliffside, one careful step at a time.
Light's boots crunched softly over grass and dirt as he descended from the cliffs into the open valley. The sunlight spilled over the land in golden sheets, warm on his face though the wind still carried a sharp mountain chill. He gripped the sword tightly—its weight familiar, though the memories behind it were not—and scanned the vastness below. Forests stretched like emerald oceans, and far in the distance, half-shrouded in mist, rose the ruined bones of a castle.
Solara.
He didn't know why it pulled at him—only that it did.
Light moved without hesitation, boots brushing through wildflowers and grass as he stepped into the open field. Then, some way down a worn dirt path, movement caught his eye.
A man—young, with a cart mired in a rut—was hopping about in frustration. Boxes and cloth rolls were scattered across the ground, and a tangle of rope lay in an unhelpful knot nearby. The man let out a sharp "Hmph!" and gave the wheel a theatrical kick.
He was small, maybe a head shorter than Light, with windswept red hair the color of autumn leaves and green eyes that glittered with mischief and wit. His clothes were well-worn, patched in places, but clean—a brown vest over a green shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a leather satchel across his chest bursting with tiny vials and parchment scrolls.
Light stopped, silent, watching.
The man turned suddenly, eyes locking with Light's. His expression immediately shifted from annoyance to surprise, then to a wide grin.
"Oi! You there!" he called, gesturing frantically. "Yes, you! You've got that 'tall, capable, and brooding' look about you—mind giving a hand? Unless you prefer watching a poor merchant get eaten by his own cart!"
Light said nothing. He stepped forward, wordless, and grasped the edge of the cart. With one solid lift and a quiet grunt, he freed the wheel. The cart thudded back onto the path, dust puffing into the air.
The red-haired man blinked, impressed. "Well, I'll be... Thanks! That would've taken me another hour, easy." He dusted off his hands, then offered one to Light. "Name's Rowan. Wandering trader, potion hawker, occasional fortune-teller—though I make no promises on accuracy."
Light glanced at the hand, then shook it once—firm, brief.
"Light," he said simply.
Rowan tilted his head. "Light, huh? Just that?"
A nod.
"Well, can't argue with mystery. Everyone loves a tall, quiet swordsman. You from around here?"
Light paused. The wind tugged at his cloak. He looked toward the far ruins, eyes shadowed.
"Solara."
Rowan's smile faltered. The cheer in his voice dipped just slightly. "Solara?" He rubbed the back of his neck, green eyes narrowing. "You're serious?"
Light nodded once.
There was a pause. A bird chirped in a nearby tree. Somewhere in the tall grass, a fox darted through a thicket.
"Listen," Rowan said, softer now. "I don't know what memories you're carrying, but Solara's been gone a long time. Ten years, maybe more. Castle's a grave now—castle town, too. Overrun with monsters, scavengers, and worse. Whatever you're looking for there... you might not find it."
Light's brow twitched slightly, but he said nothing. His gaze remained locked on the distant silhouette of the castle.
"I'm going," he said, final.
Rowan exhaled through his nose, folding his arms. "Stubborn, aren't you?"
Light didn't answer. The sword at his hip glinted in the sun.
Rowan studied him a moment more, then let out a light chuckle. "Alright, alright. I get it. Heroic silence, tragic past, haunted ruins—it's like something out of an old ballad." He slung a strap back over his shoulder and tugged the cart forward. "But you won't last long with just a sword and the wind in your hair. If you're really dead set on marching into the mouth of death, you'd better stock up first."
He jerked a thumb down the road. "There's a village just a few hours' walk from here. Eldenridge. I was headed there anyway to sell off some odds and ends. Small place, but they've got decent supplies. Come along—I'll vouch for you."
Light said nothing, but followed as Rowan set off, the wheels of the cart squeaking gently as they rolled.
Rowan glanced over his shoulder with a grin. "You've got the kind of face that says, 'I'd rather fight a demon than make small talk,' don't you?"
Light kept walking, silent, gaze ahead.
Rowan laughed. "Alright, alright. I'll do the talking, you do the brooding. Deal?"
Light didn't answer, but the faintest tilt of his head gave the smallest, imperceptible nod.
They walked together into the setting sun, the shadow of Solara ever distant on the horizon—but closer now.