The clang of wooden swords echoed across the clearing like firecrackers on a quiet morning. Birds scattered from the trees overhead, startled by the sharp, rhythmic violence.
Kael stumbled back, arms shaking, sweat dripping into his eyes. His legs ached, his breath came fast, and the moment he overextended his guard—thwack—his brother's blade struck him across the ribs.
He hit the ground with a grunt, tasting moss and dust.
"You dropped it again," Daren said, standing over him with the easy grin of someone who knew he'd won from the first swing.
"I noticed," Kael mumbled into the dirt.
Daren extended a hand, helping him up without a word. Kael took it reluctantly, pride bruised more than his ribs.
"You think wolves or raiders are going to give you time to recover?" Daren teased, brushing bark shavings from his tunic.
"Maybe if they trip over their own feet first," Kael muttered.
A voice barked from the edge of the ring. "Only if they're blind, drunk, and polite."
Master Loran sat on his usual stone beneath the old birch tree, his walking staff resting across his knees. His single eye squinted in the morning sun, and the wrinkled lines of his face tugged upward in a smirk.
"Again," he said.
Kael groaned inwardly but nodded. He picked up his wooden training sword—nicked and splintered with use—and took his stance. Daren mirrored him, loose and fluid, like water waiting to become a wave.
The clearing around them was old. Worn bare by decades of footwork and sweat, the grass long since replaced by packed earth, dried blood, and the occasional rabbit hole. Pines circled them in a loose, watchful ring. Beyond that: the Vale, the village, and a thousand worries Kael wasn't ready to face.
He moved first this time. A step forward, blade low, feinting left. Daren read it in a heartbeat, sidestepping with the grace of a dancer and countering with a twist that disarmed Kael before he even understood what had happened.
His sword clattered to the ground. Again.
"Still thinking too much," Daren said, relaxing. "Your feet don't know what your hands are doing."
"You're not helping," Kael muttered.
"Yes, I am. You're alive."
Kael snorted but picked up the sword. Master Loran walked over slowly, leaning hard on his staff.
"Kael," the old man said, "you've got the spirit. But you fight like a boy still trying to impress his own shadow."
Kael looked down. "I'm trying."
"I know," Loran said. "That's why you'll get there."
Daren clapped his shoulder. "You're better than I was at your age."
Kael looked at him with skepticism. "Liar."
"A little. But not entirely."
They laughed together—genuine, easy—and Kael felt the tension in his chest ease. These were the mornings he lived for: the sting of a good bruise, the cool shade of the trees, the feeling that he was getting closer.
One day, he thought. I'll catch up.
---
They returned to the village just past midday. Serel Vale spread lazily across the gentle hills, all thatched roofs, low stone walls, and smoking chimneys. It was a quiet place. Not important enough for maps. Not dangerous enough for soldiers.
Children ran between carts of grain. Dogs barked at hens. Farmers unloaded sacks of potatoes from muddy wagons. The scent of baking bread mixed with sheep dung and the ever-present smoke of the forge.
Kael and Daren passed the smithy, where Old Man Jaro was usually hammering away at plow blades or rusted hinges.
But the forge was quiet.
Kael slowed. "That's odd."
"What?"
"No hammering. Isn't Jaro always at the forge?"
Kael asked. "Working from dawn to—"
"Day and night," Daren finished. "Even when there's nothing to fix."
Kael frowned, glancing around. It wasn't just the smithy. The birds were quieter than usual. A strange stillness had settled over the village, like the air itself was holding its breath.
"Something's wrong," he said.
Then came the scream.
It tore through the air like a knife—raw, human, terrified.
Kael's blood ran cold. He spun toward the sound.
Daren was already moving.
So was Master Loran.
The old man moved faster than Kael had ever seen him, his staff suddenly a blur, and the lines on his face hardened like carved wood. His single eye blazed with something fierce and ancient.
"Get to the square!" he shouted. "Warn the others!"
"But—" Kael started.
"Go!"
Daren didn't hesitate. He grabbed Kael by the collar and pulled.
They ran through the village, past startled faces and shouting farmers. People turned, confused, afraid. Mothers clutched children. Men reached for tools as if they were weapons.
Kael's heart pounded. He didn't know what was coming—but it felt wrong. Like the world had tilted slightly off its axis.
They burst into the village square just as the bell started ringing.
The alarm.
First time Kael had heard it in years. Maybe ever.
---
The village elder stood near the well, shouting orders. "To your homes! Bar the doors! Grab what you can!"
"What is it?" someone yelled.
"Bandits?"
"No," said a shaking hunter. "Wolves. Big ones. I saw them from the ridge. Not normal—red eyes. They moved like shadows."
Kael's mouth went dry.
Not normal wolves.
Legacy-tainted.
Daren shoved through the gathering crowd. "Where's the militia?"
"Out past the western ridge," someone said. "They left yesterday."
Of course they did.
Kael looked around. The village wasn't ready. The walls were barely waist-high. Most people didn't own weapons, and the few who did had nothing but rusted blades or farm tools.
And then the growling started.
Low. Guttural. Like the mountain itself was hungry.
Heads turned.
At the edge of the trees, just past the last fencepost, something stepped out of the shadows.
A wolf.
But not any kind Kael had ever seen.
It stood nearly as tall as a horse, fur dark as wet stone and rippling with sickly silver veins. Its eyes glowed—not with fire, but with something colder. Like starlight through ice.
And around its neck, hanging from cords of old leather and bone, was a collar that hummed with invisible pressure.
Everyone froze.
Kael couldn't breathe.
Something in that creature called to him. Not with words. With threads. He didn't know what they were yet, but he could feel them—faint, like spiderwebs brushing against his skin.
The Legacy was here.
Not an item. Not a relic.
A living curse.
The wolf growled, and the threads pulsed—like strings drawn tight, ready to snap.
And somewhere inside Kael, something woke up.
He didn't understand it. Not yet.
But soon... he would.
Because fate had just plucked its first string.