Falling.
The sensation dominated Aedan's fading consciousness: the weightless terror of plummeting through darkness, the wind tearing at his clothes, the certainty of death rushing up to meet him. Time stretched impossibly as memories flashed before him, bright and vivid against the night.
His mother's smile as she read him stories of ancient heroes.
His father's rare laugh during family dinners away from the court's watchful eyes.
His brothers' competitive teasing during sword practice, which Aedan invariably lost.
The old gardener who taught him the names of every plant in the imperial gardens.
The baker's daughter in the lower city, who never knew she served pastries to a prince.
Strange, Aedan thought distantly, that his mind would choose these quiet moments rather than grand ceremonies or royal achievements. As if to remind him that beneath the crown and title, he had been simply a human being: a son, a brother, a student of life's small beauties.
The ceremonial sword still protruded from his chest, its elaborate hilt catching moonlight as he fell.
The blade had been a gift from the Eastern Kingdoms, presented to his father during a peace summit and later bestowed upon General Varius as a symbol of trust. Now it would accompany the last Valerian to his watery grave a final, bitter irony.
Pain bloomed anew as the sword shifted with his descent, the blade grating against bone. Aedan tried to scream, but the wind stole his voice. His vision darkened at the edges as his consciousness slipped away like sand through fingers.
Not like this, a voice inside him protested. Not without purpose. Not without meaning.
Something stirred within his chest; not just pain, but a strange warmth radiating from the wound. The sword fragment seemed to pulse, as if responding to his fading thoughts.
I don't want to die.
The thought crystallized with surprising clarity. Not from fear, not from a desire for vengeance, but from a deeper, more fundamental truth: his story wasn't finished. Whatever purpose his life might hold still lay ahead, unrealized.
The river rushed up to meet him, black water gleaming with reflected stars. Impact was seconds away.
In that final moment, as life and death balanced on a knife's edge, the sword fragment in his chest flared with brilliant blue light.
Pain transmuted into something else in the form of a burning transformative energy that coursed through his broken body. Behind his eyes, a constellation of shattered pieces briefly formed the image of a sword and then scattered like stars.
Aedan struck the water with devastating force. The cold shock drove remaining air from his lungs as the current seized him, pulling him under. Water filled his mouth, his nose, and his lungs. The darkness was complete now, consciousness finally surrendering to the inevitable.
His body tumbled through the depths, carried by the river's relentless flow. The ceremonial sword, loosened by the impact and then it separated from his chest.
All except for a single fragment that remained lodged near his heart, too deep to be dislodged. That fragment continued to emit a faint blue glow, visible only to the fish and river creatures that darted away from the strange, dying light.
Minutes passed. Or perhaps hours. Time lost meaning in the river's cold embrace.
***
Kalen Ironheart had chosen this spot for its solitude. The bend in the river, several miles downstream from the capital, offered good fishing and better privacy, which was exactly what a former Imperial Guard with too many memories needed.
His small cabin which was nestled in the woods was a short walk from the shore, providing shelter without confinement like a company without demands.
Tonight, something had drawn him to the river despite the late hour. A restlessness in his bones, an old soldier's instinct that the world had shifted in some significant way.
So he sat on the weathered dock, fishing rod beside him untouched, watching the dark water flow past while nursing a cup of strong spirits.
The moon hung low over the trees, casting silver light across the rippling surface.
Kalen's weathered face, framed by a salt-and-pepper beard, reflected years of service and the scars both visible and hidden that came with it.
At fifty-three, his body remained strong despite the old wound that had ended his military career, though he moved with the careful precision of a man who knew his limitations.
A sparkle in the water caught his attention as something reflective tumbling with the current.
Probably debris from upstream, he thought. The capital often discarded its unwanted things into the river, letting them become someone else's problem.
Then he saw the pale hand breaking the surface, limp and ghostly in the moonlight.
"God above," Kalen muttered, setting down his cup and rising to his feet.
Without hesitation, he dove into the cold water. Twenty years of retirement hadn't dulled the instincts forged through decades of service. He swam with powerful strokes toward the floating form, now recognizing the shape of a body being carried downstream.
Reaching the figure, Kalen grabbed the drenched clothing and turned the body face-up. A young man, deathly pale, with dark hair plastered across his forehead. Blood stained the water around them, emanating from a wound in the youth's chest.
Kalen didn't waste time checking for signs of life. He secured his arm across the man's chest and began swimming one-handed toward shore, fighting the current that seemed determined to claim them both.
His old leg wound protested, sending sharp pain up his thigh, but he ignored it with practiced discipline.
By the time he dragged the body onto the riverbank, Kalen's muscles burned with exertion. He collapsed beside the young man, breathing heavily, before forcing himself to his knees to assess the situation.
"Still warm," he muttered, pressing fingers to the youth's neck. No pulse, but the body hadn't cooled as his death was recent, perhaps minutes ago.
The wound in the chest was a distinctive stab wound from a fine blade, the kind carried by nobility or high-ranking military.
Kalen had seen enough death to recognize its finality. This boy was gone, another victim of the capital's endless political games. He should say a prayer, perhaps, then bury the body in the woods. The proper thing to do.
Yet something made him hesitate. Perhaps it was the youth's face, unmarked by the hardness of age or cruelty. Perhaps it was the strange blue light he thought he'd glimpsed beneath the water. A trick of the moonlight, surely.
"Too young," Kalen said to the night. "Whatever you did, boy, you deserved better than a river grave."
He placed his hands on the young man's chest, intending only to close the wound before burial a final dignity. As he pressed down, water gushed from the youth's mouth, followed by a sudden, desperate gasp.
Kalen recoiled in shock. "Impossible."
The young man jerked as he coughed violently and his body fought to expel river water from his lungs. His eyes remained closed as his movements were purely instinctual, and his body's desperate attempt to survive despite overwhelming odds.
Recovering from his surprise, Kalen quickly turned the youth onto his side, allowing water to drain more easily. "That's it, lad. Fight."
For several minutes, the young man alternated between coughing fits and ragged, shallow breaths.
Kalen watched in amazement as color gradually returned to the deathly pale features. The chest wound, which should have been fatal, seeped blood at a surprisingly slow rate.
"You're a stubborn one," Kalen murmured, his mind racing. The boy should be dead would be dead, by any natural law. Yet here he was, clinging to life with inexplicable tenacity.
When the coughing subsided and breathing stabilized somewhat, Kalen made his decision. He couldn't leave the youth on the riverbank, and taking him to the nearest town would invite questions he wasn't prepared to answer. That left only one option.
With a grunt of effort, Kalen lifted the young man into his arms.
Despite his slender build, the youth was heavier than expected dead weight, as the saying went, though in this case the description wasn't quite accurate. Adjusting his grip, Kalen began the trudge toward his cabin, each step sending pain through his bad leg.
"Don't you die on me now," he told his unconscious burden. "Not after all this trouble."
The cabin appeared through the trees, a simple structure of weathered wood with a stone chimney.
Smoke still rose from the fire Kalen had left burning inside, a welcome sight after the cold river. He shouldered open the door and carried the young man to his own bed the only one in the small dwelling.
Lying the youth down carefully, Kalen quickly gathered supplies: clean cloths, a basin of water, needle and thread, and the medicinal herbs he'd learned to use during his military service. The wound would need cleaning and stitching if the boy had any chance of survival.
As he cut away the soaking, bloodstained shirt, Kalen paused.
The chest wound was unlike anything he'd seen before. At its center, embedded deep in the flesh near the heart, was a fragment of metal part of the blade that had struck him, presumably.
But around this fragment, the flesh glowed with a faint blue light, pulsing in rhythm with the youth's heartbeat.
"What in all hells?" Kalen whispered, leaning closer.
The metal fragment wasn't just any steel. It had an unusual crystalline quality, catching the lamplight with unnatural brilliance.
And it seemed to have partially fused with the surrounding tissue, as if the body had begun incorporating the foreign object rather than rejecting it.
Kalen had heard stories of System manifestations. The rare, powerful abilities that could awaken in individuals through bloodline, trauma, or ancient artifacts.
Most were just tavern tales, exaggerations meant to impress gullible listeners. But some, he knew from his time in the Imperial Guard, were true.
"A System awakening?" he wondered aloud. "From a death wound?"
It would explain the impossible survival, the strange light, the body's unnatural resilience. But Systems were rare, typically appearing in noble bloodlines or those exposed to ancient power sources.
What were the chances of finding such a person floating down the river on this particular night?
The young man stirred slightly, face contorting in pain, though his eyes remained closed. His lips moved, forming words without sound.
Kalen leaned closer. "What's that, lad? Can you hear me?"
"Father," the youth whispered so faintly Kthat alen nearly missed it. "Mother... no..."
Nightmares, then. Or memories. Either way, they clearly brought pain.
"You're safe now," Kalen said, though he doubted the words penetrated the youth's unconsciousness. "Rest."
Returning to his task, Kalen cleaned the wound as best he could, careful to avoid disturbing the embedded fragment. Instinct told him removing it might do more harm than good, especially if it was indeed connected to a System awakening.
The surrounding tissue he stitched closed with the precision of someone who had mended many battlefield wounds.
By the time he finished, dawn light filtered through the cabin's small windows. The young man's breathing had steadied, though fever flushed his cheeks. Kalen placed a cool cloth on his forehead, then sat back in his chair, exhaustion finally catching up to him.
Who was this youth? What had led to his near-death in the river? The fine quality of his clothing, even soaking and bloodstained, suggested wealth.
The wound spoke of violence, of enemies with access to quality weapons. And his few mumbled words hinted at personal loss.
A nobleman's son caught in political intrigue, perhaps. Or a wealthy merchant's heir who had crossed the wrong people. Either way, his presence here represented danger to himself and to Kalen.
The sensible course would be to nurse him to sufficient health, then send him on his way with supplies and no questions asked. Kalen had built his solitary life precisely to avoid the complications of the world he'd left behind.
Yet as he watched the young man's struggle for life, Kalen recognized something in him, a will, a determination that resonated with his own.
This was no ordinary youth, regardless of his origins. Something significant had happened on the river tonight, something that defied natural law.
"Who are you?" Kalen asked the unconscious figure. "And what am I supposed to do with you?"
The young man gave no answer, lost in the borderland between life and death. The fragment in his chest continued its faint, rhythmic glow like a heartbeat of blue light that seemed to promise something beyond mere survival.
Kalen sighed, settling deeper into his chair for what promised to be a long vigil.
Whatever forces had brought this youth to his shore, whatever power now fought to keep him alive, Kalen had become part of the story.
For better or worse, their paths had crossed on this night of impossibilities.
"Live or die," he told the young man, "but do it with purpose. That's all any of us can ask."
Outside, the river continued its eternal journey, carrying away the night's secrets. The ceremonial sword that had nearly ended a royal line now lay embedded in the silty riverbed, all but one crucial fragment separated from its intended victim.
And in the capital, as dawn broke over the imperial palace, a new regime rose to power, believing the Valerian bloodline extinguished forever.
They were wrong.