The village of Eldermere had never been important.
Nestled between Empyrea's golden wheat fields and the Veridia's creeping pines, it was the kind of place history forgot. Its people were farmers, its guards were aging knights with rusted swords, and its greatest danger was the occasional wolf stealing chickens.
Reyn loved it all the same.
He wiped sweat from his brow, squinting at the setting sun as he stacked firewood against the side of the house. His muscles ached from a day of harvesting, but the smell of his mother's stew—thyme, barley, and the last of winter's salted pork—made it worth it.
"Reyn!" His father's voice carried from the porch, where Lukk sat sharpening a scythe. The blade glinted too sharply for a farmer's tool. "Stop dawdling. Storm's coming."
Reyn glanced at the cloudless sky. "Since when do you predict weather?"
Lukk didn't smile. "Since always."
That was his father—a man of few words ,strong and dependable.
Inside, Emilia hummed as she stirred the pot, her dark braid swaying. She was the only one who could make Lukk's stern face soften, the only one who knew the old songs from lands far beyond Empyrea.
"You'll wear out the floorboards, pacing like that," she teased as Reyn stole a carrot from the cutting board.
"Blame the harvest," he said, crunching into it. "Old Man Herrick says we've got two days before the grain rots."
Emilia's smile faltered. "Then we'll work faster."
A shout from the tavern drew Reyn's attention. Through the window, he saw two drunkards—Joren and Mallick—slumped over a table, their voices slurring.
"—monsters, I'm tellin' ya!" Joren slammed his tankard. "Saw shadows moving in the forest! Like the old tales!"
Mallick wheezed. "Pah! Eldermere's stood two hundred years. Not one monster attack. You're piss-drunk."
"Or you're blind! Heard from a trader that Shadowmere's got things fighting for 'em now. Not men. Not beasts. Worse."
Lukk's hand tightened on the scythe.
Reyn rolled his eyes. "Joren's been 'seeing monsters' since he lost three goats to a fox."
Emilia's spoon stilled. "Still. Stay close tonight."
The rest of the day went quiet with Reyn and his family enjoying a nice hot meal before crashing into his bed entering a deep sleep due to his exhaustion.
Suddenly, Reyn woke to the smell of smoke.
At first, he thought the hearth had sparked. Then he heard the screams.
He bolted upright as the window shattered.
A figure landed in a crouch, its outline wrong—too thin, too long-limbed. Moonlight glinted off a dagger.
Reyn barely rolled off the bed as the blade split the mattress where his heart had been.
"Lukk!" Emilia's shriek tore through the house.
His father burst through the door, eyes wild. For the first time in Reyn's life, Lukk looked terrified.
"Cellar. NOW."
Another assassin dropped from the rafters. Emilia shoved Reyn behind her—
—And the dagger took her through the throat.
"NO!" Lukk's roar shook the walls. His hand lashed out, and the air rippled with silver light. A force like a warhammer hurled the assassin through the wall.
Reyn stared, numb. His mother crumpled, her blood black in the moonlight.
"W-what—"
"Run." Lukk hauled him up, dragging him toward the back door. The village was burning. Shadows twisted where they shouldn't—figures flickering between houses, blades flashing.
The village knights were already dead, their armor split like overripe fruit.
"Who—?" Reyn choked.
"Shadowmere." Lukk's voice was gravel. "They were supposed to fight a war at the border, What are they doing here?"
A whisper of movement—Reyn turned just as an assassin lunged.
Lukk moved faster. His scythe blurred, and the assassin's head hit the dirt before his body crumpled.
Farmers didn't fight like that.
Reyn's stomach turned to ice. "Who are you?"
Lukk didn't answer. He tore a pendant from his neck—a cracked silver shard—and pressed it into Reyn's palm. "When I say, you run. Don't stop. Don't look back."
Shadows pooled at the end of the lane. Six assassins. Ten. More.
Lukk raised his hands. The pendant burned in Reyn's grip.
"You're going to die", an assassin hissed.
Silver light erupted.
The world tore apart.
.....
Reyn woke to the taste of salt and iron.
His body ached as if he'd been dragged through a storm. When his vision cleared, he found himself sprawled on cold stone, the air thick with the scent of damp rock and something older—like lightning trapped in stone.
He pushed himself up, his hands scraping against grooves carved into the floor. The chamber was massive, its walls rising into shadow. Six towering doors of blackened bronze surrounded him, each etched with strange, looping symbols that hurt to look at for too long. Between them, statues of armored figures stood frozen in poses of agony or triumph, their features worn smooth by time.
No windows. No other exits. Just the howl of wind beyond the walls—a constant, screaming gale that told him he was nowhere near Eldermere anymore.
"Father..." His voice died in his throat. The last thing he remembered was the pendant's burning light, his father's face as the shadows closed in—
A glint caught his eye.
At the chamber's heart, half-buried in the stone, stood a sword.
It was a pitiful thing—rusted, its edges chipped, the leather of its hilt cracked with age. Yet something about it made the hair on Reyn's neck rise. The way the scant light seemed to cling to it. The way the air hummed faintly around it, like the moment before a thunderclap.
He shouldn't touch it.
He did.
The instant his fingers closed around the hilt, the chamber shuddered. Dust rained from the ceiling as one of the great bronze doors—the one behind the sword—groaned open, revealing a sliver of darkness beyond.
The wind's scream rose to a wail.
Then, from the statues, voices.
Not from their mouths—those remained still, locked in their silent cries—but from the air itself, as if the very stone remembered speech:
"Enter."
The word slithered around him, less a sound and more a pressure against his skin.
"Prove yourself."
Reyn's grip tightened on the sword. The rust flaked under his fingers, revealing a sliver of dull silver beneath.
The door yawned wider. The wind howled.
And somewhere, deep in the dark beyond, something stirred.