The rain had been falling for hours, turning the streets of Roudnam’s slums into a quagmire of filth and despair. Ethan Ardent crouched beneath the broken awning of an abandoned shop, his threadbare cloak clinging to his thin frame like a second skin. The cold seeped into his bones, but he barely noticed anymore. Hunger was a sharper pain, gnawing at his stomach with relentless teeth.

He watched as a group of noblemen passed by, their fine cloaks and polished boots untouched by the muck of the streets. One of them carried a sword at his side, its hilt gleaming even in the dim light. Ethan’s eyes lingered on the weapon, his fingers twitching as if he could feel its weight in his hand. He had held a sword only once, years ago, when he’d stumbled upon a discarded training blade in the trash. It had been chipped and rusted, but to Ethan, it had felt like a piece of the stars.

“Dreaming again, Ethan?” a voice sneered.

Ethan turned to see Jarek, the leader of a local gang, leaning against the wall with a smirk. Jarek was a brute of a boy, with a face like a clenched fist and a temper to match. He had made Ethan’s life a living hell for as long as he could remember.

“You think you’ll ever hold a sword like that?” Jarek said, nodding toward the nobleman. “You’re nothing but mud, boy. Always will be.”

Ethan clenched his fists but said nothing. He had learned long ago that words were useless against someone like Jarek. Instead, he let the anger fuel him, let it burn away the hunger and the cold. One day, he promised himself, he would rise above this. One day, he would become a swordmaster.

The memory of Lord Eryndor flashed in his mind—the way the swordmaster had moved with the grace of a dancer, the way his blade had sung through the air. Ethan had been just a child then, hiding in the shadows as Eryndor defended a village from bandits. The swordmaster had been outnumbered, but he had fought with a skill and ferocity that had left Ethan breathless. When the battle was over, Eryndor had knelt beside a wounded villager, his voice gentle as he offered comfort. That moment had changed Ethan. It had given him a dream.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

And Ethan would do whatever it took to make that dream a reality.

Later that night, as the rain finally eased, Ethan made his way to the market square. The stalls were empty, the vendors long gone, but sometimes they left behind scraps of food or discarded goods. Tonight, however, the square was deserted—except for one figure.

A man lay slumped against the base of the fountain, his breathing shallow and ragged. Ethan approached cautiously, his eyes scanning the shadows for danger. The man was a soldier, his armor dented and bloodied, his face pale beneath a layer of grime.

“Help…” the man croaked, his voice barely audible.

Ethan hesitated. Helping a stranger was a risk he couldn’t afford. But something in the man’s eyes—a flicker of desperation, of humanity—made him pause.

“What happened to you?” Ethan asked, kneeling beside the soldier.

“Bandits…” the man gasped. “Ambushed… my unit…”

Ethan’s heart raced. Bandits were a constant threat in Roudnam, preying on travelers and soldiers alike. He glanced around, half-expecting to see shadows moving in the darkness.

“Please…” the soldier said, clutching Ethan’s arm with surprising strength. “Take this…”

He fumbled at his belt and pulled free a sword. It was a simple weapon, its blade dull and rusted, but to Ethan, it was a treasure beyond measure.

“I can’t…” Ethan began, but the soldier cut him off.

“You can,” the man said, his voice firm despite his weakness. “You have the look of someone who dreams of more. Take it. Train with it. And if you ever make it to Valenhold, seek out the Swordmaster’s Academy. They’ll make something of you.”

Ethan’s breath caught in his throat. The Swordmaster’s Academy was a place of legend, a school where the greatest warriors in Roudnam were trained. It was a dream so distant it had never felt real—until now.

“Why me?” Ethan asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The soldier smiled faintly. “Because I see the fire in you, boy. Don’t let it go out.”

With that, the man’s grip slackened, and his eyes closed. Ethan sat there for a long moment, the weight of the sword in his hands, the weight of the man’s words in his heart.

By morning, the soldier was gone, his body taken by the city guards. Ethan stood at the edge of the slums, the sword strapped to his side and a small bundle of supplies slung over his shoulder. Behind him lay everything he had ever known—the filth, the hunger, the despair. Ahead lay the unknown, a path fraught with danger and uncertainty.

But for the first time in his life, Ethan felt something other than fear. He felt hope.

With a deep breath, he stepped forward, leaving the mud behind.