The night of the festival arrived, and the entire village gathered to celebrate. Music filled the air, lanterns danced in the breeze, and the scent of roasted meat and sweet pastries wafted from the market stalls. Yet, despite the festivities, Lorian could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. The air felt thick, charged with an electricity that he couldn't explain.
As midnight struck, an eerie silence fell over the village.
Lorian stood at the edge of the square, watching the stars twinkle overhead. He had always felt a strange connection to the night sky—its vastness, its mystery. But tonight, something was different.
From the shadows, Thorne appeared again, beckoning him with a single motion of his hand.
"You feel it, don't you?" the old man asked in a voice that seemed to carry more weight than his frail body suggested.
Lorian nodded, though he did not know what he was nodding to.
"It has chosen," Thorne said, his voice grim. "It has chosen you."
Before Lorian could respond, Thorne turned and began to walk toward the edge of the village, where the ancient ruins lay, hidden beneath the thick forest canopy. Without thinking, Lorian followed, though his heart pounded in his chest, and his mind screamed at him to turn back.
The path grew darker and narrower as they ventured deeper into the woods. The trees seemed to close in around them, their twisted branches like fingers reaching for the sky. It was as if the forest itself was alive, watching, waiting.
At last, they reached a clearing, and in its center, resting on a stone pedestal, lay the sword. Its blade glowed faintly in the moonlight, an eerie, almost hypnotic shimmer that called to Lorian's very soul.
"This is the Cowardly Sword," Thorne said softly. "It has waited for you."
Lorian froze. The sword... it looked so... powerful. So dangerous. And yet, he felt a strange pull toward it, an undeniable urge to take it in his hand.
"I—I can't," Lorian stammered, stepping back. "I'm not a warrior. I'm not... brave enough."
Thorne's eyes narrowed. "That's why it chose you."
Lorian's mind raced. The stories, the legends, they had always spoken of a hero, someone who was strong and fearless. But this was not him. He was nothing like those warriors.
"I'm scared," Lorian admitted, his voice trembling.
"You will be," Thorne said. "You will be scared every day. But the sword will not leave you as long as you remain true to yourself."
Lorian hesitated, but something deep inside him whispered that he had no choice. Slowly, hesitantly, he approached the sword.
The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, a shock of energy coursed through him, a rush of fear and exhilaration that took his breath away. He was not sure if he had done something right or wrong, but the sword did not leave him. It stayed, as if it had been waiting for his touch.
For a moment, Lorian stood there, holding the sword with trembling hands, unsure of what came next.
"Now you begin," Thorne said softly, his voice full of meaning.