(Opening teaser)
Kieran stood before the old chest beneath Gareth's floorboards.
Inside was a blade wrapped in deep violet cloth, untouched by time. The steel shimmered strangely in the firelight—not silver, not black, but something in between.
"This belonged to someone like you," Gareth said, his voice reverent. "A long time ago. He never came back. But the sword did."
Kieran reached for it—and the shadows shifted around the edges of the room.
For the first time, they didn't feel cold.
They felt like home.
The sword was unlike anything Kieran had ever seen.
Its blade shimmered faintly in the firelight, reflecting not just light, but something deeper—like the stars had been forged into its edge. It was lighter than expected, perfectly balanced, and warm to the touch. Not hot. Alive.
"Who did it belong to?" Kieran asked, running his fingers along the smooth hilt wrapped in faded leather.
Gareth stared into the fire, eyes distant. "He never gave his name. Just appeared one day, wounded and half-mad. Said the Void was opening again. Said it wasn't done with this world."
"What happened to him?"
"I buried him," Gareth said simply. "Up on the northern ridge, where the heather grows. The sword stayed behind. It wouldn't let me burn it."
Kieran looked down at the weapon. "It's not… cursed, is it?"
"Cursed?" Gareth scoffed. "No, boy. Not cursed. It's waiting."
Weeks Passed
Word spread fast in Eldoria. By the time Kieran's birthday approached, the village knew he planned to leave. Some were relieved. Others muttered that the curse was finally lifting.
Only a few tried to stop him.
"You think you can escape what you are?" the local priest, Brother Elwin, spat one morning as Kieran passed the chapel. "Evil clings, boy. You'll find no redemption in the outside world."
"I'm not looking for redemption," Kieran said. "Just something that's mine."
He never broke stride.
Each day, he trained with Gareth in the woods—sword drills, survival skills, meditation. Gareth taught him how to move silently, how to read tracks, how to feel the world around him, not just see it.
And sometimes, when no one else was watching, Kieran let go of the restraint he'd always clung to.
That was when the shadows came.
They didn't speak. They didn't whisper. But they responded—gathering around his feet, coiling around the blade, dimming the firelight in their presence.
He could feel them. And more frighteningly—he could command them.
The Night Before
The stars were sharp in the sky, piercing and still. Kieran sat by the river, sword across his lap, cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders. He was eighteen now.
Tomorrow, he would leave.
Gareth joined him quietly, handing him a satchel packed with rations, maps, and a silver medallion etched with a sun and crescent—an old traveler's charm.
"I won't lie to you," Gareth said. "This world doesn't forgive easily. Especially not power it doesn't understand."
"I know."
"You'll be hunted."
"I've been hunted since I was a child."
Gareth sighed. "Then you've already survived the worst part."
Kieran looked toward the east, where the road to Caldrath began beyond the hills.
"No," he said. "The worst part was staying."