The sun peeked over the fields of Mirdia, casting golden light across the dewy earth. In a quiet village nestled between wheat and wind, the morning began with the rustle of tools, the clink of buckets, and the soft murmurs of farmers starting their day.
Arriel's eyes snapped open before the rooster crowed. He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake his parents in the next room, and pulled on his patched tunic and worn boots. The air was cool, but his blood buzzed with anticipation.
Today was the day.
Outside, the earth smelled of grass and fresh soil. He passed his father already bent over a row of cabbage, his mother drawing water from the well. Both noticed him, but said nothing. They had learned long ago that nothing stopped Arriel when he got that look in his eyes.
Instead, his mother gave him a small cloth-wrapped bundle of bread and cheese. His father nodded silently and pointed toward the ridge.
"Be back before sundown," his father murmured without looking up.
Arriel nodded and ran.
The hilltop clearing wasn't far — just past the grazing fields and over a rocky slope — but it was hidden enough. This was his place. Here, the boy who dreamed could become the man he hoped to be, even if only in practice.
He drew a wooden stick from the hollow of a tree, its shape worn smooth from years of swinging. Planting his feet wide, he began his drills. Slash. Step. Guard. Thrust.
He'd watched knights perform these moves dozens of times from behind fences and market stalls. Sometimes, kind adventurers humored him with advice. Sometimes, they laughed. It didn't matter. Arriel remembered it all. He practiced every move until his shoulders ached and blisters tore into his palms.
He wasn't strong. Not yet. But he was stubborn.
By midmorning, sweat clung to his back and the stick felt like iron in his grip. He paused to drink water and unwrap the food his mother had packed. As he sat, watching the clouds drift lazily overhead, his gaze turned toward the horizon.
"Someday," he whispered to the wind, "I won't just watch from behind the fence."
Later that afternoon, Arriel stood at the wooden doors of the local adventurer outpost. It wasn't grand—just a squat stone building with a faded guild crest—but to him, it was sacred.
The clerk behind the counter blinked at him. "Arriel? You finally doing it?"
He nodded, trying to keep his voice steady. "I want to take a quest. Just a simple one."
She smiled and handed him a parchment. "F-rank. Slay one horned hare. Shouldn't be far from the north field."
He signed the form with a trembling hand and stepped outside.
The sun was high. The field shimmered with heat and buzzing insects. Arriel gripped the short sword he'd bought with his parents' help—a basic iron blade, slightly dull.
He found the creature easily. The horned hare was larger than he expected, fast and skittish. The fight was awkward, clumsy. He tripped once, narrowly dodged its kick, and finally struck it down with a desperate swing.
Then, something happened.
As the hare's body stilled, the air shimmered faintly. A warm sensation—like wind wrapped in light—washed over him. It entered his chest, filled his limbs, and pulsed through his veins.
He stumbled back, gasping.
"What... was that?"
His hands shook. It was real. He had felt it. Life itself had rushed into him.
And for the first time in his life, Arriel was afraid—not of monsters, but of what might be awakening inside him.