Date: September 13, 540, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Dawn found Kaedan already on the road. The cold morning air, thick and damp, burned his lungs, but he liked it. Every particle of this air was free, and he could breathe it deeply, without looking back at the orphanage walls. He walked along a barely visible trail, left probably by wild animals or rare travelers, and felt invincible. A homemade pack with supplies bounced on his back, and power pulsed in his fists, clenched from cold and determination.
The sun, rising higher, dispersed the mist, revealing a harsh but majestic vista. To the left of the path, the ground dropped into a deep ravine, at the bottom of which a turbulent stream roared, carrying its cold waters. To the right rose a slope, overgrown with mighty, mossy spruces and pines, their branches seeming stone-like from the old frost clinging to them. This wasn't the friendly Whispering Trunk Forest that surrounded the orphanage. This forest was older, more silent, and full of hidden threat.
"North," Kaedan whispered, the word escaping as a puff of steam. He clenched his hand into a fist, and at his will, responding to the surge of confidence, the ghostly, rough outline of a stone bracer appeared on his wrist. It was heavy, tangible, yet didn't restrict his movement. It wasn't just armor; it was proof. Proof that he wasn't just another orphan, that he was special, that his oath had weight.
The trail climbed, becoming steeper. A tree felled by a storm lay across the path, blocking the way with a mass of thick, slick branches. Bypassing it was impossible—a sheer drop on the left, a nearly vertical slope on the right. Kaedan thought for a moment, assessing the obstacle. Before, at the orphanage, they'd have had to find a long detour or, at best, drag the heavy log together. But now he was alone. And he had power.
He took a deep breath, feeling the familiar tension spreading through the muscles of his forearms. He concentrated, and this time the bracers manifested completely—from wrist almost to elbow, covered in a visible pattern resembling cracks in basalt. Without unnecessary flourish, he braced his hands against the trunk, found a foothold, and with a low growl rising from the depths of his chest, he pushed. The wood gave way with a nasty crack. Breaking branches snapped, wood chips flew. After a minute of intense effort, a passage was cleared. Kaedan stood, catching his breath, looking with satisfaction at the fresh breaks in the wood. He didn't feel particularly tired, just a pleasant, tingling fatigue in his muscles. He stroked the rough surface of the bracer, and it melted into the air, leaving only a slight sensation of heaviness.
He was confident that with his power, any creature would prefer to avoid him.
And fate itself seemed to decide to test his arrogance. A couple of hours later, when the trail briefly led him into a sunny glade, he heard a wary growl. From behind the blackberry bushes, staring at him with yellow, hungry eyes, emerged a large jackal. The beast was gaunt, ribs showing under its dirty coat, but its gaze held a desperate readiness to fight.
For a moment, Kaedan's heart sank, but it was immediately replaced by a hot, furious pounding in his temples. Fear was instantly banished by anger and excitement. Here it was, the first test! Without hesitation, he stepped towards the beast, the bracers appearing on his hands with the barely audible rustle of shifting stone plates.
"Come on, then!" he threw down the challenge, feeling power fill every cell of his body.
The jackal, seeing its prey advancing, not retreating, hesitated for a moment. But hunger was stronger than caution. With a low growl, it lunged, trying to grab his leg. Kaedan didn't dodge. Instead, he met the attack with a short, crushing blow from his bracer. The blow struck the beast's rib with a dull, bony thud. The jackal yelped, more from surprise and pain than serious injury, tumbled to the side, and with its tail between its legs, instantly vanished into the thicket. The fight lasted two seconds.
Kaedan stood there, breathing heavily, but not from fatigue—from adrenaline. He had won! One blow, and the predator fled. He looked at his stone fists, and a poisonous flower of pride began to bloom in his soul. He wasn't just strong; he was powerful. This forest, this road, this whole vast world—it was all now his territory, his proving ground.
He moved on, his step now even more confident. He wasn't just walking north; he was conquering it. With every step, he mentally imagined how one day he would return to his friends not as a boy with stone bracers, but as a mighty warrior in full armor, capable of establishing order and changing the world for the better by his mere presence. He had no idea that ahead, on that same northern road, a far more terrible and organized danger awaited him, one against which his pride and his bracers would be not a defense, but merely valuable merchandise. But that was still a few days of serene, arrogant travel away.