The academy smelled of iron and rain.
Kael remembered that first—not the drills, not the shouting instructors, not even the blades—but the way wet stone and oiled steel clung to the air like a promise and a warning all at once.
He was eleven.
Too young to understand what he had stepped into.
Old enough to never leave it again.
The training yard was crowded that morning. Dozens of children stood in uneven rows, boots too large for some, sleeves rolled up too high for others. Some looked terrified. Some looked excited. A few looked empty in a way Kael would later learn to recognize far too well.
Beside him stood Taro.
Nine years old. Too small for the uniform.
Sword nearly as long as his arm. He kept shifting on his feet, craning his neck to see everything at once, eyes bright and unfocused like he was watching a story unfold instead of the beginning of a war.
"Kael," Taro whispered, tugging his sleeve.
"There's so many people."
Kael nodded. He didn't trust his voice yet.
They had arrived together. That part mattered to him more than anything else. He wasn't alone.
Then the line shifted.
Two unfamiliar figures stepped into view ahead of them.
One was taller than most kids their age, posture stiff, shoulders already set as if bracing against something invisible. His hair was messy, eyes sharp, constantly scanning—calculating. He looked angry at the world just for existing.
Rin.
The other stood slightly behind him, calm where Rin was restless. A girl with observant eyes and hands folded neatly behind her back, already watching instructors, already learning without being told.
Lira.
Kael didn't know their names then. Only that they were new. Only that something about them felt… solid.
The instructor barked orders. Lines adjusted. Names were called. The academy began swallowing them whole.
Years passed in fragments.
Training blurred into repetition—cuts, stances, footwork, discipline. Blades grew heavier. Bodies tougher. The academy thinned.
Kael remembered the first promotion ceremony.
The older trainees stood proud, freshly marked, blades polished. They looked invincible. Like heroes.
They left in teams.
Some came back.
Some didn't.
At first, the losses were distant. Names spoken quietly by instructors. Beds left empty. Training partners reassigned.
Then the absences grew familiar.
Kael learned to count by subtraction.
He saw the way instructors avoided eye contact when a group didn't return. The way the younger trainees whispered at night, pretending not to listen when lists were read aloud.
He watched Rin's anger sharpen into something dangerous.
Watched Lira retreat deeper into logic and preparation.
Watched Taro laugh louder, smile wider—like he could keep death away if he didn't look at it too closely.
Kael watched all of them.
And somewhere along the way, without ever saying it out loud, he understood something terrible and unshakable:
If I don't keep them alive, no one else will.
The vision shifted.
Another graduation. Another group stepping forward.
This time, it was their turn.
The academy yard looked smaller than it once had. The faces fewer. Too many empty spaces where children should have been.
Kael felt the weight settle on his shoulders—not pride, not fear, but responsibility.
He heard voices behind him.
"Let's go home after this one."
Someone laughed. Someone agreed.
The words echoed strangely, stretching, blurring—
Then the memory fractured.
A girl's face surfaced in his mind.
Older. Bloodied. Eyes wide with terror and relief all at once.
Help me.
The sound snapped like a breaking bone—
—and Kael was back in the forest.
Cold earth pressed into his spine. The smell of blood and frost burned his nose. The weight on his chest was crushing.
The wendigo loomed over him, pinning him down, claws digging into his shoulders. Its jaw stretched wider and wider, skin tearing at the edges, mouth opening far beyond anything human.
Its breath washed over Kael—icy, rancid.
Kael screamed.
Not in fear.
In defiance.
A raw, animal sound tore from his throat as he jammed his sword upward, the flat of the blade wedged between the creature's widening jaws. His arms shook violently, muscles screaming, tendons burning as the wendigo pushed down harder.
Steel groaned.
Kael's vision blurred, but he didn't let go.
Not yet.
Not like this.
Not before they're safe.
The wendigo's eyes narrowed, irritated.
Then—impact.
The crushing weight vanished as something slammed into the creature's side with monstrous force, sending it flying off Kael and crashing through the trees in a storm of splintered wood and ice.
Kael sucked in a ragged breath, rolling onto his side as the world spun.
A figure stood between him and the darkness.