The sun barely crept above the horizon, casting a muted light over the small village of Veldor. It was nothing more than a collection of huts built against the edge of the Ashenreach wilderness, its people simple farmers and traders who had long given up on dreams of grandeur. They had learned the hard way that survival in this broken world came not from ambition, but from resilience.
At the edge of the village stood a youth, no older than sixteen, leaning against a tree as he watched the villagers go about their morning routines. His clothes were plain, his hair unkempt, and his expression distant, as though he was watching the world unfold through a veil of indifference. The boy's name—if anyone had ever bothered to ask—was Daelen. But like the land he walked, it was a name wrapped in obscurity, one lost to time.
Daelen's gaze flickered over the people of Veldor, noting their daily struggles. A father arguing with a merchant over the price of grain. Children chasing after a runaway goat. An elder whispering words of prayer at the village shrine, though whether it was for the land or for himself, no one could say.
Life here was simple. For some, that was a comfort. For Daelen, it was a cage.
The wind shifted, and for the briefest moment, Daelen thought he felt something—something familiar in the air. A stir of intent, a flicker of power, just beyond his reach. He blinked, but the sensation was gone, slipping through his fingers like sand.
The boy's hand instinctively moved to the hilt of the crude sword strapped to his back. It was a poor thing, forged by a blacksmith who had long since left the village. But it was all Daelen had. And that, for now, would have to be enough.
"You've been staring at that sword for days now," a voice broke through his thoughts. It was the elder, Celdor, his wrinkled face framed by a bushy white beard. His eyes, sharp and knowing, studied Daelen with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
"I'm thinking about it," Daelen replied, his voice low. "About what it can do. About what I can do with it."
Celdor chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "A sword is no tool for thinking, boy. It's for doing. And you," the elder said, pointing at him with a gnarled finger, "you've been doing nothing for too long."
Daelen turned his gaze back to the village, his mind racing with thoughts he didn't dare voice aloud. Temper the body, still the mind, and forge intent into every motion. He had heard the words since he was a child, but they had never felt real until now.
"What if I want to do more than survive?" Daelen asked quietly. "What if I want to make something of myself?"
Celdor's eyes softened, his voice growing quieter. "In this world, boy, making something of yourself is a dangerous game. But if you have the will to play, then I can't stop you."
He placed a hand on Daelen's shoulder, the touch unexpectedly heavy. "But remember, strength is not just about power. It's about knowing when and where to strike. Intent, boy. You must learn to control it."
Daelen nodded, but the words barely sank in. He wasn't sure if he believed them. There was something more—something missing. The past, the ruins of Ashenreach—they tugged at him, whispering of things he had yet to understand.
But as the sun rose higher, Daelen knew one thing for certain: his path was not in this village. It never had been. The world beyond—its ruins, its dangers—called to him. And for the first time in his life, he had the faintest idea of what it meant to follow that call.