Chapter 1: The Boy Who Dreamed of Swords
The rain fell in jagged sheets, slicing through the sky like serrated edges, relentless and cold. The town of Emberhollow cowered beneath the storm, its spires and chimneys blackened with soot and damp misery. Within the narrow alleys of the magician's district, light spilled through warped windows, a pale reflection of a society steeped in elemental mastery. Fire danced on palms; water curled and writhed with a life of its own; air shimmered in invisible threads above poised fingertips.
Kael Draven ignored it all.
He sat cross-legged in the attic of his family's cramped home, cradling the blade he'd fashioned himself from scraps of steel salvaged from the forgeyard. It was crude—a shard of metal with neither grace nor refinement—but to Kael, it was everything. He ran his fingers over the edge, testing the bite of its bluntness against his thumb. No spark of magic danced at his touch. No flame erupted from his will. He was nothing but flesh and bone—a boy in a world where even the air bristled with sorcery.
Yet, he smiled.
The flickering light of the candle next to him reflected in his pale grey eyes, eyes that gleamed with a hunger no spell could sate. Kael closed them, letting the room dissolve into the echoes of dreams he clung to so tightly. Images of towering swords cleaving mountains, of warriors clad in flowing robes striking down gods with a single stroke—visions from the stories he had devoured in secret since he first learned to read. These were not the tales told by magicians, with their dull accounts of elemental mastery. No, these were the forbidden myths of swordsmen, men who defied heaven itself with sheer will.
His mother's voice tore through the floorboards below. "Kael! Stop hiding up there like a rat! There's work to be done!"
Kael's jaw tightened. The blade trembled in his hands.
He rose, descending the rickety ladder into a home that stank of damp wood and old bread. His mother was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of something that bubbled ominously. Her face was hard, lines carved deep by years of frustration and toil. She didn't look up as Kael entered.
"You're useless," she muttered, her words sharp as the storm outside. "Daydreaming about gods know what while the rest of us keep this house from falling apart."
Kael said nothing. His hand gripped the hilt of his makeshift sword tighter, the steel cool against his palm. It felt alive in his grip, as if it alone understood him in a way the rest of the world could not.
"What's that in your hand?" she snapped, finally noticing. Her eyes narrowed, sharp and disdainful. "Another one of your toys? For heaven's sake, Kael, when will you grow up? Magic is your birthright, not these... these things."
"It's not a toy," Kael said softly, though his voice trembled under her scorn. "It's a sword."
"A sword," she scoffed, slamming the wooden spoon down onto the counter. "We're not warriors, Kael! This isn't the dark ages! You have magic in your veins, and you waste your time with this nonsense!"
"No, I don't," Kael murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
"What did you say?"
He met her gaze then, a spark of defiance in his storm-cloud eyes. "I don't have magic. I never have."
The room fell into a heavy silence. Even the storm outside seemed to pause, holding its breath.
Her expression turned cold, her lips twisting with something between pity and disgust. "Of course you do. You're just... slow to manifest. Like your father. But it'll come."
"It won't," Kael said, his voice firmer now. He felt the weight of his sword at his side, an anchor against the rising tide of despair. "And I don't care. Magic is useless to me."
Her hand flew before he could brace himself, the slap landing hard against his cheek. His head snapped to the side, but he did not fall. The sting spread across his face, but he did not cry out.
"You ungrateful little—" she hissed, but her voice broke, anger cracking into something more fragile. "You'll end up like him. Like your father. A failure."
Kael clenched his teeth, his jaw tight enough to ache. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the house, the wooden door slamming shut behind him. The storm welcomed him like an old friend, its icy fingers clawing at his skin as he stepped into the night.
He ran, feet pounding against the muddy ground, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The blade in his hand felt heavier now, as if sharing his anger, his pain. He didn't stop until he reached the edge of the woods, a grove of ancient trees that loomed like spectres in the darkness. Here, he collapsed to his knees, the weight of everything crashing down on him.
The world didn't want him. It had made that clear enough. Magic was the measure of worth in Emberhollow, and Kael was empty—hollow in a way that could never be filled by the elements. But swords? Swords were different. They didn't require magic. They didn't ask for permission to be wielded. They demanded only dedication, only the will to become something more than flesh and bone.
Kael drew the blade and held it aloft, rain streaming down its uneven edge. In his mind's eye, he saw it glowing with power, cutting through the storm with a single, perfect strike. He imagined the world bending to its will, not through magic, but through mastery.
"I'll prove them wrong," he whispered to the night. His voice shook, but his grip on the blade did not. "I'll become stronger than all of them."
The wind howled in response, and for a moment, Kael could have sworn he heard a voice carried on the storm. A low, mournful whisper, like steel grinding against stone.
It will destroy you.
He froze, heart pounding, but the sound was gone as quickly as it had come. He shook his head, gripping the sword tighter. He didn't care what it cost. If it destroyed him, so be it. Better to die with a sword in hand than live as a shadow in a world that had no place for him.
Kael lowered the blade, pressing it to his forehead. The steel was cold, biting against his skin, but it grounded him, calmed the storm within. He closed his eyes, letting the rain wash over him, his breath steadying as the storm raged on.
When he finally rose, his eyes burned with a fire that no rain could extinguish.
Kael Draven was not a magician. He was not a failure.
He was a swordsman.
And he would carve his place into a world that had tried to cast him aside, one stroke at a time.