The forest was alive with the quiet hum of nature. The golden light of dawn filtered through the thick canopy, casting shifting patterns onto the forest floor. Birds chirped above, a gentle contrast to the distant rustling of unseen creatures moving through the undergrowth.

Remoran, barely thirteen, inhaled deeply, savoring the crisp morning air. The scent of damp earth and pine filled his lungs, grounding him in the moment. He had always loved the woods, the way they seemed to embrace him with their ancient, whispering boughs. He imagined them watching over him, protectors of a world separate from the one where fields had to be plowed and fences mended.

His father had sent him out to track deer, but his mind had wandered, as it often did. His feet had taken him further than usual, past the familiar landmarks and into a part of the forest he had never explored. The old stories whispered of ruins hidden in these woods, remnants of civilizations long forgotten. He had always dismissed them as tales meant to keep children from straying too far.

Then he saw it.

A pile of stones, half-consumed by moss and ivy, sat in a clearing like the broken remains of some ancient shrine. The air was still here—too still. Even the usual sounds of the forest seemed muted.

A shiver crawled up Remoran’s spine, but curiosity was stronger than fear. He stepped closer, crouching to inspect the stones. They weren’t scattered randomly; they had been arranged deliberately. With careful hands, he brushed away the moss and dirt, revealing a glint of something beneath.

His fingers found cool, smooth metal.

His breath hitched as he pried the object loose. The moment he lifted it from the earth, a chill ran through him. He unwrapped the worn leather covering, and his heart pounded in his chest.

A sword.

It was unlike anything he had ever seen—uneven, rugged, its dark metal veined with deep etchings that seemed almost organic, as though the blade itself had grown rather than been forged. The hilt was wrapped in old, worn leather, and when he touched it, a strange warmth pulsed beneath his fingers.

The sword hummed.

It was not a sound, nor a vibration—more like a whisper felt rather than heard. A murmur curled around the edges of his thoughts, slipping between his defenses like water through cracks in stone.

Take me.

Remoran jerked his hand away, stumbling back. His breath came fast, his chest tight. He glanced around the clearing, expecting… what? A trick of the wind? An unseen watcher?

Nothing.

He swallowed hard and reached for the blade again. This time, he held firm. The whispering feeling did not return, but the unease lingered.

He knew he should leave it. He knew he should bury it back where he had found it and walk away.

But he didn’t.

Wrapping the sword in its leather covering once more, he secured it under his arm and turned back toward home.

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By the time he reached the final hill overlooking the farm, the sun had risen high in the sky. Sweat clung to his skin, but he paid it no mind. He couldn’t wait to show his father what he had found. Maybe the old man would recognize it.

But as he crested the hill, his stomach twisted into a tight knot.

Smoke.

Thick, black plumes coiled into the sky, blotting out the sun. The acrid scent of burning wood and something else—something foul—clawed at his nostrils. His home.

His legs carried him forward before his mind could catch up. The sword, forgotten, bounced against his side as he tore down the slope, his boots skidding against dirt and rock.

He reached the base of the hill, where the wooden fence that lined their farm should have been. Instead, it was shattered, splintered like brittle twigs. The ground was torn and scorched, deep grooves in the soil marking the path of destruction.

He ran.

The farmhouse was gone, engulfed in flames. The barn doors hung off their hinges, one barely clinging to the frame. The fields were trampled, crops destroyed.

He spun in place, his eyes darting frantically. "Mother! Father!" His voice cracked with desperation. "Bryn!"

Silence.

No. Not silence. A noise.

A deep, wet, slurping sound.

The hairs on his neck stood on end. His grip tightened around the wrapped sword as he forced himself forward, toward the barn.

The stench hit him first—rot and blood, thick and suffocating. His stomach lurched. He braced himself against the doorway, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat.

Inside, hunched over the broken body of a horse, was a creature unlike any he had ever seen in life—only in nightmares.

An orc.

Its skin was a sickly, mottled green, its muscular frame slick with sweat and gore. Jagged tusks jutted from its maw, stained with fresh blood as it tore into its meal. Its small, beady eyes flicked up at him, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

Then it grinned.

Something in Remoran snapped.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.

The sword was in his hand before he even realized he had drawn it. The leather wrapping fell away, and as the blade gleamed in the firelight, something in the air shifted.

The orc lunged.

Remoran moved faster.

The blade met flesh, and for the first time, Remoran heard it—not just a whisper, but a voice, rich and dark, curling around his thoughts like a snake coiling around its prey.

Yes.

The orc let out a strangled gasp, its eyes widening in shock. Remoran barely registered the blood pooling at his feet, the warmth splattered across his hands and face.

He had never held a sword before. Never killed before.

But in that moment, as the orc slumped to the ground, something deep inside him knew—this was not the last time he would take a life.

His breath came in ragged bursts. The voice inside his head—inside the sword—was silent now.

And that was somehow worse.

He staggered back, gripping the blade so tightly his knuckles went white. His heart pounded in his ears.

Then, the sound of hooves.

Remoran turned, still dazed, as a figure dismounted near the ruined fence line. A man, clad in dark armor, his expression grim beneath his helmet.

Demoris Valhaven, captain of the town guard.

Remoran felt his knees threaten to give way.

"What happened here, boy?" Demoris’s voice was steady, but his eyes darted from the burning wreckage to the blood-stained sword in Remoran’s hand.

Remoran opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat.

His world was gone. His family was gone.

All that remained was the sword.

And the whispering, waiting silence.