The fire whispered as it burned, casting fleeting shadows across the Karradon hunting grounds.
Vareon sat still, unmoving, his eyes fixed on the blade resting across his knees.
Polished steel. Blood dried at the hilt. Not from the beast. From Gwem.
Above, the full moon hung silver and solemn, its light washing the forest in a strange and quiet calm. Yet Vareon's thoughts were not here, not now. They wandered back to a day he never truly left, the day everything changed. The day he failed.
He had only been thirteen. Young. Proud. Too eager.
Gwem, his cousin, barely eleven, had begged to follow him on the hunt. And Morvane, the war general and his father's closest kin, had allowed it.
"Let the boy learn courage," Morvane had said, handing Vareon a spear far too heavy for his arms. Too heavy for the burden it would leave behind.
They tracked the beast deep into the thorn-thick wilds. But this wasn't just any creature. It was a Chadrin, born of cursed soil and bred from darkness.
When it struck, it went for Gwem first.
Vareon froze.
His arms wouldn't lift. His legs wouldn't move.
Gwem screamed only once.
By the time the soldiers arrived, it was already over.
Morvane buried his son in silence that day. Not a single tear. Not a single word, until he turned to Vareon.
A hand on his shoulder. A whisper like iron:
"He died because you weren't strong enough. But I will make you stronger. I will make you worthy."
From that moment, Vareon became more than a soldier. He became Morvane's shadow.
Every cut. Every lesson. Every scar was etched from guilt and sharpened by loyalty.
Now, years later, he stood at the edge of the Syltharion Cave.
Its mouth was sealed by ancient vines. Its breath, a soft and restless wind.
He knew the stories. Everyone did.
Three families, chosen long ago to protect the sacred wellspring of the Moon:
The Myrelis, masters of timeless magic
The Kirenholme, guardians of relics and balance
The Karradon, warriors bound by oath and blood
And hidden beyond them, in the quiet spaces no one dared speak of, the Watchers.
Beings who believed the Syltharion's magic had poisoned the world. That it had lingered too long and grown too powerful. That it must be destroyed.
They had tried before. They would try again.
But something had changed. The Syltharion was dying.
The wolves had not transformed in moons. Magic was faltering.
The relics whispered louder than before. Even the moonlight had lost its edge.
Morvane believed it was time. A new protector must be chosen, someone whose heart was still untouched by the curse.
Someone who would willingly give their life to awaken the Syltharion.
Vareon's fists tightened.
Was that someone meant to be him?
A branch cracked behind him.
Morvane stepped from the trees, his cloak deep red, the color of dusk.
His eyes, always sharp, softened slightly as they met the gaze of the boy he had raised.
He handed Vareon a letter sealed with the Karradon crest.
"Burn this after reading," he said.
Then he turned and disappeared into the dark.
Vareon stood beneath the fading moonlight and broke the seal.
The time is drawing near. The Watchers move in secret again. The Myrelis speak of omens.
You were born for more than a sword.
The Syltharion needs a protector.
And you must become the vessel.
I've waited long enough.
We cannot lose this war.
You owe this to Gwem.
There was no signature. Only the faint scent of ash and old memory.
Vareon stared at the letter until his hands trembled. Then, without a word, he fed it to the fire.
The flames rose, and with them, the last of his doubt.
Above him, the moon watched. Quiet and cold.
Somewhere beyond the forest, others were stirring.
The old families were preparing. Secrets were shifting.
And the next choice would shape everything.
But Vareon had already made his.