Legends were never meant to breathe.
They were carved into stone, buried in forgotten songs, whispered to frighten children into obedience. They belonged to the past—safe, silent, unmoving. Yet on the eve the sky burned silver and the earth trembled beneath a nameless wind, the oldest lie ever told began to unravel.
In the kingdom of Aurelion, dawn arrived late.
The sun hovered behind a veil of ash-colored clouds, staining the streets in dull amber light. Bells rang from the High Spire, not in celebration, but in warning. Merchants paused mid-trade. Soldiers tightened their grips on spear and shield. Even the birds refused the morning, clinging to rooftops as though flight itself had become a betrayal.
At the edge of the city, where cobblestone surrendered to wild grass and ruin, a boy knelt before a sword that should not exist.
It was embedded in the earth like a wound that refused to heal.
The blade shimmered faintly, etched with runes that pulsed as if remembering something long forgotten. Time had worn the world around it—crumbled towers, fractured stones, moss choking the bones of a fallen age—but the sword remained untouched. Unrusted. Awake.
The boy's name was Kael.
He had not come seeking glory. He had come running from it.
Kael's hands trembled as he reached toward the hilt, his breath caught between fear and disbelief. Every tale he had ever been told screamed at him to flee. Swords like this did not choose kings—they consumed them. Wizards warned of relics bound by blood oaths and broken gods. The old men in taverns spat at the mention of such artifacts, calling them cursed myths meant to lure fools to their graves.
Yet the sword hummed softly, as though it knew him.
As Kael's fingers brushed the leather-wrapped hilt, the ground groaned. A shock of cold surged through his arm, not painful, but heavy—like memory poured into bone. His vision fractured. The sky split open, revealing stars where none should be.
He saw battles that had never been recorded.
Wizards burning cities to ash.
Kings falling to their knees, crowns shattering on stone.
A figure cloaked in shadow, whispering a name that echoed through centuries.
Legend is not born, the voice said.
It is remembered.
Kael tore his hand away, collapsing backward as the vision shattered like glass. The sword dimmed. The sky stitched itself whole again. Silence returned—thick and accusing.
From the ruined watchtower behind him, a staff struck stone.
"Step away from it," a voice commanded.
An old man emerged from the shadows, his cloak stitched with sigils that shimmered like dying embers. His beard was silver, his eyes sharp enough to cut truth from lies. Magic clung to him the way smoke clung to fire.
A wizard!
"You don't understand what you've touched," the man said, raising his staff. "That blade ended an age."
Kael struggled to his feet, heart pounding. "Then why is it calling to me?"
The wizard's grip tightened.
"Because," he said grimly, "the world is running out of heroes—and legends are growing desperate."
Far away, beyond Aurelion's walls, ancient forces stirred. Seals cracked. Prophecies long dismissed as superstition whispered themselves back into existence. The line between myth and memory thinned, and the past began to reach forward with blood-stained hands.
The story had begun again.
And this time, it refused to remain a story.