The wind howled across the fields of Brumafosca, bending the golden wheat like waves under a stormy sea. Crows danced in the sky, black flecks against an overcast morning. To Kael, age ten and armed with nothing but a stick and an oversized imagination, it felt like the world was warning him of something. But he paid no mind. After all, cows don't feed themselves.
"Hey, Gertha! Move your fat butt!" Kael waved his stick at the laziest cow in the herd. She responded with a slow blink and an unbothered chew.
"Ugh, you're worse than Aunt Marla after stew night," he muttered.
Gertha mooed. Kael took it as a personal insult.
The morning routine was simple: feed the cows, milk the cows, don't step in cow dung. That last part was often the hardest.
As he finished tying up the feed sacks, a sudden scream tore through the air—a shriek so raw, so full of terror, that Kael's heart seemed to freeze.
"Mom?" he whispered.
He dropped the bucket. Milk splashed over his boots. Without thinking, he ran.
The door to the farmhouse hung broken on one hinge. Blood pooled on the wooden floor, staining Kael's path in crimson. He stepped through the entryway like a sleepwalker. The scent of iron and fire hit him all at once. Then he saw his father.
Garren lay sprawled near the hearth, eyes wide open, a slashed wound across his chest. Kael stumbled back, bile rising in his throat.
"No... no..."
A noise in the kitchen—a wet, heavy sound. Kael crept forward. That's when he saw it.
The monster.
Tall, horned, its skin like cracked obsidian, the Gharnok loomed over his mother. She was still breathing. Barely. The creature plunged its claw down one last time.
Something inside Kael snapped. He grabbed the fireplace poker—a black iron rod—and lunged.
He leapt onto the creature's back, screaming, stabbing blindly. Again. And again.
The Gharnok roared, stumbling back. It slammed him into the wall. Kael felt claws rake across his left eye. Pain exploded through his head. Then, darkness.
The last thing he saw before passing out was his mother's hand, twitching.
And the empty space where Lyra, his sister, should have been.
In the void of unconsciousness, Kael dreamed.
A gray sky. Endless ash falling like snow. And standing amidst it, a tall figure wrapped in silence and smoke.
"Little one," the voice said, though the figure did not move. "You did not deserve this world."
Kael tried to speak. No sound came out.
"But I see your heart. I see your fire. It must not die here."
The figure placed a hand on Kael's chest. A burning brand sank into his skin, searing a mark just over his heart.
"I give you what remains of me," the voice said. "But power without purpose is ruin. Do not forget what was taken from you. And do not forget who you are."
Then, silence.
Kael awoke coughing.
Wooden beams above him. A dusty ceiling. The faint scent of herbs. Pain flared behind his eye, but it was still there. His left eye. He reached up and felt bandages. A scar.
"You're lucky, boy," said a rough voice. "Another inch and you'd be talking to worms."
An old man sat nearby, stirring a pot over a small fire. Long white beard, one eye, and a crooked smile that suggested he'd seen too much.
"Name's Oren. Found you in the ruins. House was ash. You were bleeding out on the floor like a gutted pig."
Kael tried to sit up. The pain disagreed.
"My sister... Lyra... Did you see her?"
Oren shook his head. "No girl. But... there were no small bodies either."
Kael's heart lifted.
"And there were tracks. Not beast tracks—wagons. Armed escort, looked organized. That wasn't a raid, boy. That was a targeted strike."
Kael frowned. "Why would they take her?"
Oren stirred the pot again. "Because sometimes, monsters aren't the ones with claws."
"Yes but my parents..." He said in a voice bordering on tears
"Kid I know how you feel, I too have lost loved ones in these ways, but you must not let sadness consume you."said the old man as he looked at the boy with compassion
" I have an idea, kid, I'll train you, I'll teach you everything you need to know to be able to get by on your own, and then when you're ready you'll go on a journey. "
Six Years Later..
The wind howled outside the small wooden cabin as snow danced like restless spirits beyond the frosted window. Inside, the fire cracked softly, casting flickering shadows over the stone hearth and the two figures seated before it. One was small, with messy black hair and a bandage over his eye. The other was old, wrapped in a thick brown robe, his long white beard resting on his chest like the snow on the mountains beyond.
Six years had passed since Kael had watched his world burn.
The pain had dulled, but it had never left. The scar across his eye ached when it rained, a cruel reminder of the day everything was taken from him. But now, at sixteen, Kael had grown taller, stronger, sharper. And beneath the quiet ember of his heart, something else had been kindling: power.
"You're slouching," the old man said, not looking up from the bowl he was carving.
Kael immediately straightened his back.
"Better. A warrior doesn't walk like he's defeated. Even when he is. Especially then."
Kael nodded. "Yes, Master Thorne."
Thorne raised an eyebrow. "And don't call me Master. Makes me feel like some crusty noble."
Kael smirked. "Yes, Crusty Noble Thorne."
The old man sighed deeply. "Spirits help me. I raised a comedian."
Their banter was familiar now, a rhythm of warmth in the cold mountain days. Thorne had once been a legendary soldier, or so the rumors whispered. He never admitted much—only that he had seen too many wars and buried too many friends. When he found Kael half-dead in the wreckage of his home, something in the boy's empty stare must have stirred the dying warrior back to life.
Training had begun the very next day.
Swordsmanship. Meditation. Endurance. Tracking. Magic.
Thorne didn't coddle. He taught Kael as if the world were still trying to kill him—because it was. Kael learned quickly, driven by grief and rage and something else he couldn't name. Nights, he would stare at his palm and remember the dream—the god without a voice, the gift that thrummed in his veins like fire waiting for breath.
"Tell me again," Kael said, eyes fixed on the dancing flames. "Why would they take her and not kill her too?"
Thorne's knife paused mid-carve. For a moment, the only sound was the wind pressing against the cabin walls.
"Because she was special," the old man said quietly.
Kael turned to him.
"The creature that attacked your family—it wasn't acting on instinct. It had purpose. Those claw marks weren't just rage; they were a message. Someone sent it."
Kael's fists clenched. "Who? Why her?"
Thorne shook his head. "I don't know yet. But your sister may still be alive. And not as a prisoner."
Kael frowned. "Then what?"
"A pawn. Or something more."
That silence returned—heavy, expectant. It was like the air itself wanted to answer but couldn't.
Thorne stood, placing the half-finished bowl on the shelf. "Enough brooding. Time to run the cliffs."
Kael groaned. "In the snow? Again?"
"What if the monster that took her comes from the mountains? You think it'll wait for spring?"
"It could at least send a letter."
"Move, boy."
---
The snow bit at Kael's face as he climbed the narrow trail that clung to the cliffside. His breath steamed in the cold air, boots crunching through layers of ice. Thorne watched from below, arms crossed.
Every morning began with this climb—an exercise in focus and fear. One wrong step meant death. But after six years, Kael had learned not only to survive it, but to own it. He leapt from stone to stone, his body balanced like a predator, his breath in rhythm with his stride.
At the summit, he stopped and looked out.
The valley stretched before him like a sleeping dragon, its forests dusted white, rivers frozen in silver coils. Somewhere out there, his sister was waiting. And so was whoever had sent the beast.
He touched the scar under his eye.
"I'm coming."
---
That night, Thorne poured hot tea into a cracked mug and handed it to Kael. They sat by the fire again, the wind quieter now, almost respectful.
"You're ready," Thorne said.
Kael blinked. "For what?"
"To leave."
The words hit like a weight. He had known the day would come, but hearing it still felt like a sword drawn too suddenly.
"You won't find answers here," Thorne continued. "And the power you've been given—it's waking up. You need to understand it before it consumes you."
Kael looked at his hand, where energy sometimes sparked like heat lightning.
"Where do I go?"
Thorne reached into a drawer and pulled out an old map. He unfolded it slowly, revealing a sprawling land of names and legends.
"Start with the Scholar's City. If anyone can read divine magic, it's the priests there. But be careful. Gods are not worshipped like they used to be."
Kael nodded slowly. "And you?"
"I'll be here. Making soup. Swearing at the cold. Pretending not to miss you."
Kael stood and bowed low. Not out of formality, but respect.
"Thank you, Thorne. For everything."
The old man looked away. "Bah. Just come back alive. Or I'll kill you myself."
---
That night, Kael couldn't sleep. His dreams were vivid, strange.
A field of stars.
A girl's voice, distant.
Chains in the dark.
And the god again.
It had no face, only light and shadow. Its presence was not cruel or kind, simply there—like a mountain or the sea.
"You carry my regret," it said, voice like echoes through water.
Kael reached toward it. "Why me?"
"Because I watched and did nothing."
Kael woke with a gasp, heart thudding. The fire was low, the cabin still.
Outside, dawn bled into the sky.
He stood, dressed, and quietly packed his bag.
Before he left, he placed the old wooden bowl Thorne had carved beside the hearth. Carved into its bottom, barely visible, were three words:
"Live with purpose."
---
Kael descended the mountain as the sun rose behind him. Each step forward was a step into the unknown, but he didn't falter. Not now.
The world was wide.
The gods were silent.
But he had a voice. And he would use it.
Whatever waited beyond the trees—be it monsters, magic, or memories—he would face it.
Because he had a promise to keep.
And scars to honor.