Rayan woke to warmth.
For a moment, he did not remember where he was, only that something small and soft was pressed against his side, breathing slowly. His eyes opened to the faint light of morning slipping through the narrow window, dust dancing in the pale beams.
His sister was there again.
She had curled up beside him sometime during the night, one arm draped over his chest, her forehead resting against his shoulder. Her dark hair was a mess, strands sticking out in every direction, her face peaceful in sleep. She looked younger like this. More like the child she still was inside.
Rayan did not move at first.
He was used to this. Ever since their mother had died, she often ended up in his bed. Sometimes without saying anything. Sometimes after a nightmare of her own. She never explained it, and he never asked. He simply made space.
Her fingers twitched slightly.
"…don't go…"
The words were barely a whisper, half-lost in sleep.
Rayan swallowed.
"I'm here," he murmured, so quietly it was almost a thought.
She did not wake, but her grip tightened for a moment, as if she had heard him anyway. Only then did he carefully shift, easing her arm from around him and slipping out of bed as slowly as he could. She made a small sound of protest, face scrunching up, then rolled onto his pillow and went still again.
He stood there for a second, watching her.
She was his older sister. By birth, by blood. But the way she clung to him, the way she followed him around, the way she looked at him when she was afraid—sometimes it felt as if she were the younger one. He had become her anchor without ever choosing to.
Rayan dressed quietly and left the room.
The house was already awake.
The smell of warm bread and herbs filled the air. His other sister was at the table, hair tied back, expression sharp even this early in the morning. She glanced up as he entered.
"You're late," she said.
"She was in my bed again," Rayan replied.
A knowing smirk tugged at her lips. "Of course she was."
From the small kitchen, their father looked over his shoulder. He was broad-shouldered, his movements steady and deliberate even in simple things like pouring water. Years of work as a guardian had carved lines into his face, but his eyes were still calm, still kind.
"Did you sleep at all?" his father asked.
"A little."
His sister at the table snorted. "You always say that."
They ate together in the familiar, comfortable quiet of a family that did not need many words. Outside, the village was already stirring—merchants opening shutters, the distant sound of carts on the road that cut through their home like a vein of trade.
It was a small place. Peaceful. Far from the great cities and the great dangers of the world.
And somehow, that made the weight inside Rayan heavier.
He waited until they were done eating.
"Father," he said.
His father looked up. "Yes?"
"I…" Rayan hesitated, fingers tightening slightly at his side. He had rehearsed this in his head, again and again. "I want to become a hero."
The room went quiet.
His sharper sister froze, spoon halfway to her mouth. Even the sounds from outside seemed to dull, as if the village itself were listening.
His father did not react immediately. He simply studied Rayan, eyes unreadable.
"A hero," he repeated slowly.
"Yes."
Rayan met his gaze. His heart was pounding, but he did not look away.
"I don't want to stay here forever. I don't want to live my whole life watching others protect the world while I… do nothing."
His father leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose.
"Do you know what you are asking for?" he said.
"I know it's dangerous."
"That is not enough."
He set his cup down.
"Heroes are not stories. They are not songs. They are people who walk into places others run from. They fight monsters. They cross the borders of kingdoms. They face things that break bodies and minds." His eyes sharpened. "Many of them never come back."
Rayan swallowed.
"I know."
"You do not," his father said quietly. "Not yet."
For a moment, Rayan thought of the nightmare that still followed him in his sleep. Of his mother's eyes, empty and still. Of the fear that had never quite left him.
"I'm afraid," he admitted. "But I don't want to let that decide my life.
His older sister stared at him, something unreadable flickering across her face.
His father was silent for a long time.
Then he spoke again, his voice steady, but heavier than before.
"Tell me what you think a hero is."
Rayan took a breath.
"Someone who can protect people. Someone strong enough that others don't have to be afraid when they're around."
His father nodded slowly.
"Strength is only part of it. Power in this world comes in many forms." He folded his hands. "There are those born as Magiars, those who wield magic—fire, wind, lightning, earth, water, ice. Some can defend, some can destroy. Others walk the path of the blade, relying on their bodies alone. And some… rare few… are both."
Rayan listened without blinking.
"Heroes exist in every relam," his father continued. "In Zah'Rakh, where deserts stretch farther than sight and wealth flows like sand. In Thalassar, among the seas and islands, where elegance and power walk hand in hand. In Fjornhald, land of academies and discipline, where the strongest are forged. And beyond them… the Demon realms, the Elven forests. The world is vast, Rayan. Beautiful. And merciless."
His father's gaze softened.
"If you walk this path, you will see things you cannot forget. You will lose people. You will fail. And one day, you may die far from home."
Rayan clenched his fists.
"I know… but I still want to go."
Silence.
Then his father reached into a small wooden box near the wall and pulled out a pouch. The weight of coins inside was unmistakable.
"If you are serious," he said, placing it on the table, "then start with something simple. A sword. Not a hero's blade. Just a tool. Learn what it means to carry one."
Rayan stared at the pouch.
"You… you're letting me?"
"I am not giving you permission to die," his father said. "I am giving you the chance to understand what you are asking for."
Rayan bowed his head.
"Thank you."
His older sister looked away, jaw tight.
His younger sister chose that moment to wander in, rubbing her eyes.
"…you going somewhere?" she mumbled.
Rayan smiled faintly.
"Just to the market."
She stepped forward and grabbed his sleeve.
"Come back."
"I will."
She studied him for a second, then nodded, as if satisfied, and went to sit at the table.
Rayan left the house alone.
The village market was alive with sound and color. Stalls lined the street, merchants calling out prices, the smell of spices mixing with fresh bread and smoked meat.
Travelers passed through constantly, the road making their village a small but steady artery of trade.
Rayan moved slowly, taking it all in.
This was the world he had always known.
And somehow, it already felt like something he was about to leave behind.
He found a modest weapons stall near the edge of the square. The swords were simple—no enchantments, no fine craftsmanship. Just steel and leather.
He reached out, fingers brushing the hilt of one.
"You looking to buy, boy?"
The voice was rough, older. Rayan turned.
The man sat a few steps away, half in the shade of a wooden awning. One leg was gone below the knee, replaced by a crude wooden prosthetic. Scars crossed his arms and face, some faded, others still angry against his skin. His eyes, however, were sharp.
"Yes," Rayan said. "I want to become a hero."
The man studied him for a long moment.
"…You?"
Rayan stiffened slightly. "Yes."
A short, humorless laugh escaped the man.
"Then you should learn something first."
He tapped the wooden leg.
"This is what's left of a hero."
Rayan hesitated, then stepped closer.
"You were one?"
"Once." The man's gaze drifted to the distant road. "I crossed borders. Fought monsters. Protected people who never knew my name." He looked back at Rayan. "And one day, I was too slow."
Silence stretched between them.
"Do you regret it?" Rayan asked quietly.
The man considered the question.
"…No," he said at last. "But I would never lie and call it glorious."
Rayan bowed his head slightly.
"Thank you."
The man waved him off. "If you still want the blade after that, then you might be serious."
Rayan bought the sword.
It was heavier than he expected.
The walk home felt longer than usual.
The sun had begun to dip when he reached the quieter stretch of road beyond the village. The world here was still. Only the sound of wind through grass and the distant call of birds.
That was when the footsteps came from behind.
Three of them.
Rayan turned.
They were older—men, not boys. Rough clothes. Hard eyes. The kind of people who saw opportunity where others saw only a child.
"Nice sword," one of them said.
Rayan's grip tightened on the hilt.
"I just bought it."
"We know." Another smirked. "And we think we'll take it."
His heart hammered.
He tried to step back.
The first blow came fast.
Pain exploded across his face. He staggered, metal taste flooding his mouth.
He barely saw the second man's fist before it slammed into his side.
Air left his lungs in a sharp gasp.
He hit the ground.
They did not kill him.
They did not even try.
They kicked him. Once. Twice. Enough to hurt. Enough to remind him of what he was.
Then they took the sword and left.
When the road was quiet again, Rayan lay there, staring at the sky.
His lip was split, warm blood trailing down his chin. His ribs ached, every breath sending sharp pain through his chest. Bruises were already blooming beneath his skin.
He did not cry.
He only lay there, shaking.
Not from pain.
From the realization.
The veteran's words echoed in his mind.
This is what's left of a hero.
When he finally stood, it was slowly, unsteadily. Every step home felt heavier than the last.
The village lights were already glowing when he reached the door.
He did not want them to see him like this.
But he went inside anyway.
His family looked up.
His younger sister was the first to run to him.
"Rayan…?"
He managed a small smile.
"I'm fine," he said, even as the world throbbed around him.
That night, he lay in bed again.
His sister found him as always, curling up beside him, small hands gripping his shirt.
He stared at the ceiling, the pain in his body dull compared to the weight in his chest.
He still wanted to be a hero.
But now… he knew what it would cost.
And he was afraid.
Yet even then, as his sister breathed softly against his side, as the village slept in fragile peace—
He did not let go of the dream.