The first rays of sunlight filtered through the banners of the Temple of Elaria, tinting the air with a solemn golden hue. The morning breeze carried the scent of incense left burning by the monks before dawn, and for a fleeting moment, all seemed calm.
Until the main door burst open and a boy stormed in as if the end of the world were chasing him.
"I go in, grab the sword, and get out. Solid plan... right?" Krau murmured, a tense smile on his lips and sweat on his forehead. He strode forward, trying to move silently, but failing spectacularly with each step on the marble floor.
The temple was unusually empty. No monks, no guards, not even the strict priest Lucius, whose voice was the closest thing to a divine decree Krau had ever known. Just him... and the sword.
There, atop the main altar, rested the Sword of Orvan, a sacred relic that, according to legend, had been forged with the fire of the very sun. Its blade reflected the light as if absorbing it, and its hilt was carved with runes no mortal fully understood.
And yet, there it was, within reach of a barefoot teenager with a poorly buttoned shirt.
"This was easier than I thought!" he exclaimed, lifting it with both hands. It was heavier than he had expected, but not enough to dissuade him.
He turned, ready to flee the way he had come, when the massive temple doors opened with a resounding crash.
Lucius. White robe, red face, eyes burning like sacred embers.
"AH...! Hello, Sir Lucius. This is not what it looks like... right? Okay, goodbye!"
And he ran off like a frightened lynx.
"STOP HIM, FOR THE GODS' SAKE! HE HAS THE SWORD!" roared the priest, tripping over the hem of his robe. Krau thought that even his clothing was tired of him.
The streets of Marhëlyn erupted into chaos behind him. Three corners later, two overturned fruit carts, a dog now terrified of humans, and the anguished cry of an overweight baker bore witness to the whirlwind he had unleashed.
"Sorry! I'm so sorry! Watch out for that duck!" Krau yelled, dodging an elderly woman wielding a broom. The broom whistled past his ear, a personal warning from karma.
"The sword, Krau. You just go in, take it, and leave. Sure. What could go wrong."
A tied-up goat watched him pass with silent wisdom, as if it knew today was not going to improve.
The central market was a battlefield. Vendors shouted, buyers scrambled, and a minstrel raised his lute as if he could defend his dignity with chords.
"Crazy kid! I'll break the strings of your life!"
Krau ignored him. The weight of the sword on his back grew with every stride. It bounced as if it had a soul of its own and wanted to flee more than he did.
For a moment, he thought of letting it go. Just for a moment.
But then he remembered the morning. Standing before the mirror. His hands on his hips, his hair still tousled, and that determined gaze he had practiced so many times.
"Today, my legend begins."
He leaped over wobbling barrels, twisted into an alley, and at the end, he saw the back wall of the shop where Liora worked. His friend, his half-accomplice, the only one who treated him as more than "the favorite, the chosen of the church."
"If I get there, I'm safe..."
But fate, cruel and creative, had other plans.
His foot slipped.
A puddle of water. Lonely. Stagnant. Cursed.
"A PUDDLE OF WATER AND MUD?!" he managed to shout before crashing face-first and rolling gracelessly into the muck.
The sword slipped free, screeched against the stones, and barely lodged into the ground, as if it too had had enough of the commotion.
"I'VE GOT IT!" a guard shouted, panting as if his armor weighed a ton.
Krau scrambled to his feet. Mud covered him from eyelashes to ankles. His chest pounded inside him, as if it wanted to escape before he did. He could run. Climb the wall. Scream.
But he didn't.
He stood still. Breathing. Listening.
The footsteps approached like a funeral drum.
For the first time that morning, he thought of Darion.
His stern face. The scar over his brow. His voice that cut like ice.
"Duty is not chosen, Krau. Duty is fulfilled."
He remembered all the times they had told him he would be nothing. That gods didn't choose dreamers. That his mark—the red spiral he had been born with—must have been some divine accident.
Since his first cry, they had pointed at him. He had been born marked. That had to mean something. But the years passed, and no god came to claim him. No power awakened. Only fear. And silence.
For many, being marked was an honor. For him, it had been a lifelong sentence.
And yet, there he stood. With the sword. With mud in his teeth. Standing. Trembling. But standing.
He looked at the sword. It no longer gleamed like a promise. It only felt like another burden. Another reminder.
Of what he could never be.
Of what they would never let him try.
"Why does it have to be this way?" he whispered.
The guards surrounded him. One raised his spear with dramatic flair. Lucius, drenched in sweat, arrived limping, pointing a finger as if casting a curse.
"Blasphemer! Thief! Insolent child!"
Krau lowered his head. Not out of guilt. Not out of fear.
"...Adventurer," he said softly, as if speaking the word could make it real.
And for one second. Just one heartbeat…
The sword's hilt pulsed. A faint warmth, almost imperceptible, spread from his fingers to his shoulder.
As if the sword had chosen him, too.