Sylas opened his eyes to the scent of blood and ash—thick, suffocating, clinging to his lungs like an omen that refused to be exhaled. The world around him flickered with ruin. Flames devoured what was left of a village, their embers dancing like fireflies in a sky choked with smoke.
He felt the weight in his hands before he saw it—a sword, its blade segmented, nine fractured pieces barely holding together, as if it had been shattered and forced back into shape. A weapon that had seen too much, broken and resembled the hands that held it.
The silence was not true silence. It was the absence of life.
Then—a voice, slicing through the stillness like a blade through flesh.
As Sharp as Menacing.
"This is where it all began. From here… I lost everything."
Sylas turned, searching for the source.
A man stood amidst the carnage, wreathed in shadow and fire. His cloak, black as a starless void, was adorned with golden etchings that shimmered like dying embers. His face was half-hidden in darkness, but his left eye—scarred and marked—caught the fire's glow, burning with something ancient.
Sylas's throat tightened. "What do you mean?"
The man did not answer immediately. He stood still, a statue carved from grief and wrath, watching the flames consume a sentimental place.
When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy, each word carving something unseen into the air.
"This village meant nothing to me."
A pause. A breath held too long.
"But it had people who were everything."
Sylas turned back to the ruin, unease coiling in his gut like a sickness waiting to be named.
Then, from the smoke, shadows began to take form.
Figures emerged—warriors, no brutes clad in metal, their armor polished but stained, their spears alive with colors, almost like magic.
And at the center of them stood him.
A man draped in polished silver, his armor clean elegant. Unlike a killers.
He held a long spear, its tip glinting in the firelight—impaled upon it, like a grotesque trophy, was a severed head.
Sylas's breath hitched.
Red hair.
green gem like eyes, now. the void of life.
A face that should have been laughing, teasing, alive—now frozen in death.
His stomach lurched. The world spun. He barely had time to turn before bile surged up his throat, spilling onto the scorched ground.
The scent of iron filled his mouth.
"Mercy."
The word slithered into the air, laced with something colder than the grave.
Beside him, the man exhaled slowly, but when he spoke, his voice trembled—not with sorrow, but with fury raw enough to strip flesh from bone.
"They called her a witch."
Each word was an indictment, a curse upon the human beasts.
"they took everything away from us."
The embers swayed, drawn to his rage.
"She gave up everything to protect the orphanage—" his breath hitched, "everything she gave, and they still. killed her."
Sylas clenched his jaw, his nails digging into his palm, but the man did not stop.
"when she was no longer useful—" his body trembled, the storm barely contained, "they used the law to distroy what she had build."
The fire crackled, a distant scream lost in the howling wind.
Sylas forced himself to look at the man again, and this time, the stranger met his gaze directly.
A sudden agony exploded in Sylas's skull.
His left eye burned—as if molten iron had been poured into it, searing through bone, branding him with something unseen.
And the man's own left eye—deep red, glowing like a dying sun—stared back.
The air itself shook.
Something awoke.
The world wavered, twisting into static, unraveling at the seams.
"Look closer, Sylas."
The words crawled through his veins like venom, and with them came a whisper, soft but merciless.
"Don't let them take mercy."
Sylas gasped, stumbling back. "Who... who are you?"
The man smirked.
Shadows curled at the edges of his lips.
"I am... you."
Sylas dashed upright, his breath ragged, skin slick with cold sweat.
His eyes darted to the mirror across the dimly lit room. His left eye glowed faint red, flickering like dying embers before fading.
His reflection looked… different. His gaze was sharper.
He reached for the door handle, but before he could open it—
SLAM.
The door burst open, smashing into his face.
Kael slid into the room, grinning. "Huh? Did Sylas leave? I thought he was still—"
A hand shot from behind the door, grabbing Kael by the hair.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The door closed.
A beating followed.
The market bustled with life, thick with the scent of roasted meat, damp wood, and sweat-soaked workers. Sylas moved through the crowds, Kael trailing behind, face swollen and bandaged.
"Where exactly are we going?" Kael groaned.
"Stable repairs. Water wheel maintenance. Then coal," Sylas replied without looking back.
Kael groaned louder. "That's so much work."
"It's basic labor," Sylas said flatly. "Worker slaves do seventeen hours a day."
Kael sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. Let's get this over with."
By the time they finished, the sun had begun its descent, casting the town in hues of amber and crimson.
Sylas paused.
The sky… burned.
Just like in his dream.
A chill ran down his spine. He forced himself to shake it off.
"Let's go see the smith."
The forge reeked of smoke and molten metal, the air thick with heat.
Kael leaned against the doorframe as Sylas approached the blacksmith—a bearded man with hands as calloused as old leather.
"We finished the jobs," Sylas said, handing over a blank sheet paper.
The blacksmith took it, his hands shaking slightly with age. His eyes flicked between the paper and the boys.
Then, just as they turned to leave—
"Wait."
Sylas stopped.
"Take a weapon with you."
Kael's eyes lit up. Sylas, however, remained skeptical.
"Why?"
"Just a thanks," the blacksmith said, voice distant.
Sylas narrowed his eyes. "But why?"
The old man hesitated before finally speaking.
"These are dead man's swords."
Sylas frowned. "Dead man's swords?"
The blacksmith's gaze darkened. "Just ask the—guild" His voice trailed off.
Sylas turned to the weapons lined up against the wall.
Rust. Cracks. Imperfections.
"I apologize, but these swords are useless," he said. "One's going to break in a single swing. Another is too dull to cut."
The blacksmith smirked and tossed a blade toward him. Sylas caught it mid-air.
"You've got a sharp eye."
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, the blade pulsed—metal veins of light crawling along the steel.
Sylas frowned. This wasn't some cheap, rusted weapon.
"This is… too good." He tried to hand it back. "We can't pay you."
The blacksmith shook his head.
"I don't need payment. I just wanted someone who actually understands blades."
Outside, the last flickers of sunset faded into darkness.
Sylas turned to Kael and pressed the sword into his hands.
"Take this. I don't handle longswords well. It's better for you."
Kael hesitated. "But… he gave it to you."
Sylas didn't repeat himself.
Kael exhaled. "Oh. Uh… thanks, Sylas"
Sylas turned away. "Don't mention it."
The tavern loomed ahead—an old beast of wood and stone, thick with the scent of ale and sweat.
Inside, Sylas approached the workers' table and handed over the signed papers.
A man nearby called out. "Hey, Mister Mysterious! Why not grab a drink with us?"
Kael shook his head. "I'm not old enough, and you know it."
The men sighed. "Come on, even I had drinks before I was eighteen."
Kael turned slightly. "I'm not even eighteen. I'm seventeen."
The man blinked. "No way. You look older."
A worker cut in, tossing Sylas a small pouch. He opened it—inside, silver coins gleamed.
"Thirteen silver. For completing Request thirteen."
Sylas took the pouch, turned to leave. "I'll see you guys around."
Stepping into the cold night air, he barely got a few steps before Kael spoke up.
"Hey, Sylas. Starting tomorrow… let's train with the sword."
Sylas exhaled. "Why?"
Kael hesitated. "This sword… it feels too heavy to wield."
Sylas smirked. "Sure. If you can offer me something in return."
Kael scratched his head. "Uh… sure? What do you want?"
"In a few days, I'm heading north. You'll have to come with me."
Kael's eyes widened. "Wait, we're leaving town?"
"Exactly."
As they walked, Sylas couldn't shake the unease gnawing at his gut.
Something was coming.
Something he couldn't predict.