In the Year 203 of the Union Calendar, I, Kaidan Valis, stood at the precipice of power, though it did not feel like power at all. It felt like standing at the edge of a chasm, peering into an abyss where the shadows whispered secrets I could not yet understand. I was a student among legends, a name barely worth remembering within the hallowed halls of the Order of Eternal Flames. Here, strength was not a virtue; it was the currency of existence. And I, for all my intellect and heritage, was impoverished in the one thing that mattered most.
The Order was more than a training ground; it was a crucible where warriors were forged in blood and magic, their destinies etched in fire and steel. The air itself seemed alive, thick with the echoes of those who had come before, their triumphs and failures woven into the stone beneath my feet. I could feel the weight of expectation pressing against my back, a burden I had never asked to bear. My family's wealth had bought my place here, but no amount of gold could temper a dull blade.
I was not like the others. My peers embodied the ideals of the Order—honed to perfection, their bodies and minds aligned in the pursuit of absolute dominance. They laughed at my cautious nature, mocked my preference for strategy over brute force. In their eyes, I was a curiosity at best, a disgrace at worst. But there was one thing that set me apart, one thing that even the greatest warriors could not ignore: the prophecy.
"Shadow and flame, union and upheaval."
The words had been whispered to me as a child, an enigma that haunted my every step. I did not know whether it was meant to be a blessing or a curse, only that it clung to me like an unseen chain, binding me to a fate beyond my understanding.
Then came the summons. A cold morning, the sun barely breaking through the dense mist that coiled around the monastery walls. The Elders stood before us, their faces carved from the same unyielding stone as the Order itself. Their decree was simple, yet it shattered the foundation of my world. An ancient artifact had been unearthed—not by a champion of the Order, not by a scholar of renown, but by a woman from the slums of Golgotha. A nobody.
Her name was Eira Khali, and the blade she carried—Ægisfang—was said to be more than a mere weapon. It was a relic from an age before the Faerie Gods, a blade that could shape the fate of nations. And I, the least of the Order's warriors, was chosen to retrieve it.
I had no illusions. This was not an honor. It was a punishment, a trial meant to humble me further or break what little resolve remained. Perhaps they hoped I would fail and never return. Perhaps they simply wished to rid themselves of a distraction. But as I prepared for the journey, gathering what few tools and spells I could manage, something stirred within me. A whisper, faint yet undeniable. This was no mere test of my worth. This was fate, weaving its first thread into my story.
The road to Golgotha was long and merciless. Every step brought new hardship. Bandits who saw only a lone traveler ripe for the taking. Beasts twisted by magic, prowling the ruins of fallen civilizations. Hunger and exhaustion clawed at me, but I pressed forward, driven not by duty, nor honor, but by the relentless whisper of prophecy that refused to be ignored.
When I finally found her, she was unlike anyone I had ever met. Eira stood amidst the crumbling remains of an ancient temple, the weight of the world upon her shoulders yet unbowed. Her dark hair was wild, her stance wary, her eyes burning with a fire that defied fate itself. And at her side, the blade—a presence unto itself, its runes pulsing like a heartbeat, whispering secrets in a language older than time.
She did not welcome me. Why would she? To her, I was just another hand of the powerful, reaching to strip away the only thing that had ever given her purpose. I tried to reason with her, to make her see that I was not her enemy. But words meant little when spoken from a place of privilege. She had fought for every scrap of her existence; I had merely been given mine. I saw it in her eyes—the doubt, the suspicion, the pain of a life where trust was a luxury she could not afford.
And yet, she did not strike me down. Perhaps she saw something in me that I could not yet see in myself. Perhaps the blade whispered to her as well, guiding her hand as surely as it guided my path. Whatever the reason, she allowed me to stay. Not as an ally, not as a friend, but as an observer. A trespasser in her world.
As the days passed, I watched her. I listened. And in doing so, I learned that she was no mere scavenger who had stumbled upon destiny by chance. She and the Ægisfang were bound in a way that defied logic, defied reason. She did not wield it; it wielded her, filling her dreams with visions of fire and shadow, of a world standing upon the brink of annihilation.
She believed the blade had chosen her. And the longer I stayed by her side, the more I began to believe it as well.
I do not know what awaits me at the end of this path. Whether I will be remembered as a hero or reviled as a villain. Perhaps I will be nothing more than a footnote in history, forgotten in the tides of time. But I know this much: the world of Illos will never be the same. And neither will I.