The next morning, Arin awoke to a soft knock on his door. He blinked sleepily, the events of the previous day rushing back to him. The sword, the prophecy, his parents' worried faces—it all felt like a dream, but the weight of the sword resting beside his bed was proof that it was real.
"Arin?" His mother's voice came through the door. "Breakfast is ready."
"I'll be right there," he called back, quickly pulling on his clothes. He picked up the sword, the hilt still cool to the touch, and carefully wrapped it in a cloth before placing it in the corner of the room. He wasn't sure how to explain it to the rest of the village, but for now, he'd keep it hidden.
When he entered the kitchen, his parents were already seated at the table. The atmosphere was tense, and Arin could tell they had been discussing the situation before he arrived. His mother looked up as he sat down, concern etched on her face.
"Morning, Arin," she said softly, passing him a plate of bread and eggs. "We've been talking, and… well, we're worried about what might happen if the rest of the village finds out about the sword."
Arin looked between his parents, sensing the unease in the room. "You think they'll be scared?"
His father nodded, his expression grim. "People fear what they don't understand. A sword like that, tied to some ancient prophecy—it could bring more trouble than we can handle."
Arin frowned, the reality of the situation settling in. He hadn't considered how the village might react, but his father's words made sense. Briarwood was a small, close-knit community, and anything out of the ordinary was bound to cause concern.
"I won't show it to anyone," Arin promised. "I'll keep it hidden."
His mother sighed, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. "We just want to keep you safe, Arin. There's no telling what kind of attention that sword might attract."
Arin nodded, understanding their fears. "I'll be careful."
As they ate in silence, the tension in the room slowly dissipated, but the weight of the sword and the prophecy still hung over them like a dark cloud. Arin's mind was already racing, trying to figure out what he should do next. The man in the forest had said the sword was key to defending Eldoria, but he hadn't said how or when.
After breakfast, Arin helped his father with the usual chores around the farm, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the sword. He couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out, that something was coming, and he needed to be ready.
By midday, word had spread through the village that Arin and his father had been seen returning from the forest with something wrapped in cloth. Briarwood was a place where news traveled fast, and it wasn't long before curious neighbors began stopping by, asking questions and offering thinly veiled concern.
It started with Old Man Dorran, the village's self-proclaimed historian. He hobbled up to the fence where Arin and his father were mending a section that had been damaged in a recent storm. His eyes were sharp despite his age, and he peered at them with an intensity that made Arin uneasy.
"Morning, Dorran," Arin's father greeted him, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Morning," Dorran replied, leaning heavily on his cane. "Heard some talk around the village. People say you found something out in the woods."
Arin exchanged a glance with his father, who gave him a slight nod, letting him take the lead.
"We did find something," Arin said carefully, choosing his words. "But it's nothing to worry about. Just an old sword, nothing more."
Dorran's eyes narrowed. "An old sword, you say? There are plenty of old swords around here, but none that glow like the one people say you had."
Arin's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't realized anyone had seen the sword's glow. "I'm not sure where people got that idea," he said, trying to sound casual. "It was just a trick of the light, I think."
Dorran didn't look convinced. "You know, there are stories about swords like that, tied to ancient prophecies and such. People in these parts don't take kindly to those kinds of things."
Arin's father stepped in, his tone firm but respectful. "We appreciate your concern, Dorran, but there's no need for worry. It's just an old family heirloom that Arin found. We've taken care of it."
Dorran stared at them for a long moment, his gaze flicking between Arin and his father. Finally, he nodded slowly. "Well, if you say so. Just be careful, lad. Briarwood's a quiet place, and people like to keep it that way."
With that, he turned and hobbled back down the path, leaving Arin and his father to finish their work in uneasy silence.
The rest of the day passed in much the same way, with villagers stopping by under the pretense of friendly conversation, but all with the same underlying question: what had Arin found in the woods? Each time, Arin and his father deflected their questions, reassuring them that there was nothing to worry about. But as the day wore on, the tension in the village grew, and it was clear that their answers were doing little to calm people's fears.
That evening, as the family gathered around the dinner table, the weight of the day's events hung heavily over them. Arin's mother, who had heard from neighbors about the day's gossip, was visibly anxious.
"I don't like this," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "People are scared, and scared people do foolish things."
"We've done our best to calm them," Arin's father replied, though his tone was strained. "But she's right, Arin. We need to be careful."
Arin stared at his plate, the food untouched. "What if they find out the truth? What if they know it's more than just an old sword?"
His parents exchanged a worried glance. "Then we'll have to deal with that when it comes," his father said quietly. "But we can't let fear drive us. We'll just have to be cautious."
Arin nodded, but the anxiety gnawing at him wouldn't go away. The sword was still hidden in his room, its glow faint but constant, like a heartbeat. He could feel it calling to him, urging him to action, but he didn't know what to do.
After dinner, Arin excused himself and went to his room, needing time to think. He unwrapped the sword and held it in his hands, feeling the power thrumming through the blade. The runes on the sword glowed softly in the dim light, casting shadows on the walls.
"Why me?" Arin whispered, tracing the symbols with his finger. "Why now?"
He didn't expect an answer, but the sword seemed to pulse in response, as if acknowledging his question. The weight of it was both comforting and terrifying, a reminder of the responsibility he now carried.
A soft knock on the door startled him, and he quickly wrapped the sword back in the cloth before calling out, "Come in."
His mother entered, her face pale with worry. She sat down on the edge of his bed, her eyes full of concern. "Arin, I know this is all so much for you to take on. You're still so young, and this… this is beyond anything we ever imagined."
Arin looked down, his fingers tightening around the cloth-wrapped sword. "I don't want to bring trouble to the village. But I can't ignore what's happening."
She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "We don't blame you, Arin. None of this is your fault. We're just scared because we don't know what's coming."
"I'm scared too," Arin admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I feel like I have to do something. Like it's my responsibility."
His mother pulled him into a gentle embrace, her warmth a small comfort in the face of the unknown. "Whatever happens, you won't have to face it alone. We're here with you, every step of the way."
Arin nodded against her shoulder, feeling the tightness in his chest ease slightly. "Thanks, Ma."
She kissed the top of his head, then pulled back to look him in the eyes. "Just promise me you'll be careful. No matter what this prophecy says, you're our son first. Your safety is what matters most to us."
"I promise," Arin said, and for the first time all day, he felt a glimmer of hope. He wasn't alone in this. Whatever challenges lay ahead, he had his family by his side.
As his mother left the room, Arin unwrapped the sword one last time, holding it up to the light. The runes glowed softly, and in their faint light, Arin saw not just the weight of responsibility, but also the strength he would need to carry it.
With a deep breath, he set the sword down beside his bed and lay down, staring up at the ceiling as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. The village might be fearful, but Arin knew now that he couldn't let their fear control him. The path ahead was uncertain, but he had to trust in himself—and in the sword—to guide him.
And so, as the night deepened and the village of Briarwood fell into a restless sleep,