Bravae, son of Okevae, was well known throughout the small town of Deiamy as the unfortunate heir to a disgraced legacy. His father, the late Okevae, had once been a powerful oligarch with influence that reached across Norea, the Five Kingdoms, and even beyond. He had dominated the timber trade between the Braunian Empire and the lumberjacks of the Great Darron Forests, living a life of luxury and freedom despite the brutal occupation of the land.
To many, he had been a sellout. A man who profited while the rest of the continent of Amfua suffered. A sympathizer of the oppressors. A traitor to his people.
But his downfall had been nothing short of tragic.
Okevae fell ill with an incurable disease. Though his wealth afforded him access to the best medical resources, his strength slowly faded. Worse still, his wife died during childbirth, trying to bring Bravae into the world. The loss plunged Okevae into despair. He became a shadow of himself, drinking heavily, neglecting the timber empire, and retreating from public life. Even those who once resented him couldn't help but pity the broken man.
Which made it all the more shocking when the Braunian Supreme Council accused him of funding resistance militias, treason against the Empire. He was dragged from his manor and executed in the forest, without trial or defense. No one spoke for him. No one dared.
Bravae was just four years old.
The Empire seized his father's assets. The Council of Elders divided the wealth among themselves. Some whispered they had orchestrated Okevae's downfall, feeding lies to the Braunians. Others called it divine justice. The fate of a man who'd forgotten where his loyalty should lie.
Regardless of opinion, one truth stood above the rest: Bravae had been born into a life of ruin. And only the gods could prepare him for what lay ahead.
He was taken in by his late mother's aunt, Siphymi, a kind, widowed farmer who had lost her husband during the Great Wars that led to Norea's fall. Despite her poverty, she raised Bravae with warmth and care, feeding him from the little she had and teaching him the value of hard work.
He grew quickly. Strong. Quiet. Determined. By the time he was a teenager, he was considered one of the hardest-working youths in Deiamy. Old farmers hired him to till the earth when their own hands failed them. When the Empire demanded deliveries of hay and corn, Bravae was chosen as part of the envoy. He was trusted, reliable, a steady presence in a town still haunted by the past.
But even at nearly twenty-one years old, the shadow of his father's legacy still lingered.
No one could say if it had defined him. But many believed he was destined for something great. Though very few would have imagined that "something" would involve stealing gold from the most feared military force on the continent.
And even now, hobbling into town beside his friend Orvae, that gold no longer occupied his mind.
All he could think about was the strange connection he had felt to the weapon now resting in his hand.
A sword unlike anything he had ever seen. A force that stirred something ancient inside him.
The town of Deiamy was quiet. Most villagers were still in bed, save for the drunkards and nightcrawlers lingering in the streets after a long night at the tavern. Few had noticed the distant explosion in the forest.
Bravae and Orvae slipped into the hay barn owned by Orvae's grandfather. A few sheep stirred and bleated as they entered, closing the door behind them.
"Shhh," Orvae whispered, trying to calm them.
A single oil lamp flickered in the corner, casting shadows between two straw-filled beds.
Bravae, exhausted, collapsed onto the bed farthest from the door, the black sword clattering beside him.
"That was insane," Orvae muttered, slumping down onto the opposite loft.
Bravae exhaled. "Yeah. It was."
"What happened back there? One second you looked like you were dying, the next… you had the strength of ten thousand men. You looked like you were possessed."
Bravae sat up slightly. "I felt it too. I wasn't in control… not fully. It was like… someone else was inside me. Guiding me. Fueling me."
Orvae pointed to Bravae's thigh. "Your wound. It's gone."
Bravae looked down, confused. He reached for the spot where the bullet had hit.
Nothing.
Smooth skin. No pain.
He gasped and sat upright. "Incredible!"
Orvae rubbed his temples. He couldn't stop picturing the fiery figure that had annihilated the Braunian soldiers.
Bravae reached for the sword again. The handle, once hot, was now cool to the touch. It was massive, nearly four and a half feet long, with a handle that resembled a standard blade but a width that made it feel more like a cleaver. Yet despite its size, it felt light in his hands.
"What is that thing?" Orvae asked, staring.
"I don't know. I found it in the hollow under the tree. It was glowing… and it pulled me to it. I heard a voice. It was soft, almost soothing. It spoke to me."
Orvae blinked. "Wait. The sword talked to you?"
"Not in words. Not exactly. But it felt like it was alive. Like it knew me."
"And the fighting? I didn't know you could move like that. You didn't even flinch from the heat. I got burned just standing near you!"
"I can't explain it," Bravae said, staring at the blade. "It was like… something ancient took over. Rage. Power. The voice kept telling me to strike. And I couldn't stop."
"Can I see the sword?" Orvae asked.
Bravae hesitated but extended the weapon toward him. Orvae reached out to grasp the handle, but recoiled instantly, yelping in pain.
"What? What happened?" Bravae asked, alarmed.
"It burns! It's hot! It burned me!" Orvae blew air into his palm, flicking his wrist.
Bravae looked confused. "What do you mean? It's cold as metal. Are you joking?"
"No, no— I'm serious. It's hot. I don't want to touch it again. You should put it away. That thing is dangerous, and we don't know anything about it. In the morning, we should take it to Gbavamy. Maybe he'll know more."
"Gbavamy?" Bravae scoffed. "That old drunk who lives alone in the mountains? He's crazy."
"Maybe, but his father was a historian, one of the last custodians of Norean cultural beliefs. If anyone knows something about a mystical sword, it's probably him."
Bravae frowned, then gave a reluctant nod. He wrapped the sword in linen and slid it beneath the bed, burying it beneath loose straw.
"How did you get hurt?" Bravae asked, eyeing Orvae as he bandaged his side.
"Oh, this?" Orvae grimaced. "Those bastards from the castle. Don't worry, they're dead now. You finished them off." He gave Bravae a pat on the shoulder before lying down.
"I did that?" Bravae whispered, the weight of what had happened sinking in like a sledgehammer. He sat up slowly, the images of fire, blood, and screaming still a blur in his mind.
He stood and peeled off the remains of his burnt shorts and underwear, replacing them with fresh clothes from the cupboard. Then he lay back down.
"Bravae," Orvae mumbled from across the barn, "what do you think is going to happen now? They'll come after us, right?"
Bravae stared at the ceiling. "I don't know. But I think our lives just changed forever. Let's get some sleep. We'll figure it out in the morning."
"Hm... I agree. Good night," Orvae said, blowing out the lamp.
⸻⸻⸻⚔︎⸻⸻⸻
That night, Bravae did not sleep in peace.
He dreamt of a cave— deep, dark, and echoing with strange whispers. A monstrous creature loomed at the center, screaming nothing but death and destruction. The dream shifted.
He stood alone on a battlefield.
Corpses littered the earth. Screams of agony. Explosions. Braunian soldiers firing rifles. Blood everywhere. Yet no one saw him.
Then darkness.
Perpetual, suffocating darkness. A familiar voice whispered to him in a language he didn't know, and out of the void appeared two glowing eyes, flat, vertically slit, with amber-red pupils and fiery yellow irises.
The voice grew louder. The pain in his head intensified. He screamed.
He woke up drenched in sweat, gasping.
His forehead still throbbed faintly.
Sunlight streamed through the rafters of the barn, casting golden streaks across the hay. The scent of dry straw and animal feed filled the air.
Orvae snored softly nearby.
Bravae rose, pulled on his shirt and sandals, and splashed his face with water.
Then he tapped Orvae. "Wake up, sleepyhead. You've got work to do. The sheep need to be taken out to pasture."
"Mmmf," Orvae groaned, rubbing his eyes.
"Come on. I have errands to run for Aunt Siphymi, but I'll be back before noon. Don't let anyone into the barn. And don't walk around shirtless, we don't need questions."
Orvae nodded groggily.
Just then, the barn door creaked open.
Both boys froze.
An old man entered, wiry and weathered, dressed in a dark blue robe. His long white hair hung down his back. This was Amintoro— Orvae's grandfather, a former chieftain of Deiamy and the owner of many of the town's farms and barns.
They jumped up and greeted him.
"Looks like you boys had yourselves a fine night," Amintoro said, twiddling his beard with a smirk. "Came home late, didn't you?"
"No, Pop, we just went to deliver some—" Orvae began.
"Spare me," Amintoro interrupted with a chuckle. "I may be old, but I'm not blind. I know what you boys were up to."
They both stared at him, wide-eyed.
"You've been out chasing girls at Balam's Bar," the old man laughed.
The boys exhaled in unison and laughed along.
"Well," Amintoro said, still grinning, "I've got nothing against a little fun, as long as you don't forget your chores. Moderation, boys. Moderation." He winked and stepped out of the barn.
"Phew. That was close," Bravae muttered.
"I'm just glad he didn't catch us coming in last night," Orvae replied.
Bravae nodded. "We need to be more careful. Stay here. I'm going to Siphymi's."
"Be quick. I'm just as excited as you are to find out more about that sword."
Bravae looked at him, nodded again, then slipped out of the barn.
⸻⸻⸻⚔︎⸻⸻⸻
He kept to the backstreets, avoiding main roads and open spaces. He pulled his hood low to shield his face. As he walked, he noticed something unsettling. Braunian soldiers everywhere. Patrols. Guards. Armored scouts.
He hadn't seen this many troops since he was a boy. Back when the Empire expelled a man named Excovae from Deiamy for alleged treason.
Since then, things had been quiet. But not today.
He ducked through overgrown hedges, climbed fences, and moved through abandoned lots. Doing everything he could to stay out of sight.
He had just made it through the quieter west block and was turning onto the street that led to Siphymi's home when a voice rang out behind him:
"Hey! You there— stop!"
He froze.
And slowly… turned around.