Taron Emberfall woke up the same way he did every day: stiff, cold, and covered in a light dusting of straw. He lived in a cramped loft above his mother's barn, where the smell of hay clung to everything, from the threadbare blanket on his makeshift bed to the worn tunic he slept in. The dawn sky outside was just starting to lighten, and a chorus of distant roosters reminded him he had chores to do.
He exhaled, rubbing his eyes as he sat up. Part of him wished he could curl back under the blanket and drift off again, maybe dream about being someone important—like a royal guard or a traveling adventurer. But the reality was, he had cows to feed and fields to check. And so he stood, grimacing at the twinge in his back, and climbed down the rickety ladder into the barn.
A few cows rustled in their stalls, sensing his presence. One let out a long, low moo, maybe as a greeting. Taron responded with a gentle pat on her flank. "Morning, Dahlia," he said, yawning so hard his jaw clicked. "You ready for some breakfast?"
He hauled a wooden bucket across the barn floor, the smell of feed dust drifting everywhere. Each day, he measured out portions for their small herd, thinking how odd it was that these creatures depended on him for survival, yet it was him—just a lanky seventeen-year-old—who felt stuck in the same repetitive cycle. Wake up, feed livestock, tend the fields, haul water, maybe fix fences if they needed repairs.
When he finished scattering feed, Taron stepped outside. The early sunlight cast a golden wash over the farmland, highlighting the tall grass and the patches of wildflowers near the fence line. He inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of dew and the faint tang of woodsmoke drifting from the farmhouse where his mother, Lorena, was probably boiling water for tea.
He couldn't deny that it was beautiful out here—peaceful, almost magical in a sleepy sort of way. But something had been nagging at him lately, a restlessness in his gut that told him life was about to shift in some monumental way. Maybe it was the gossip from travelers passing through, or the strange hush he felt in the wind at dawn. He couldn't quite name it, but it was there.
He trudged toward the small plot of vegetables behind the barn, mentally running through the day's tasks. Then he heard a voice calling his name. A figure ran up the dirt road, throwing up little clouds of dust with each step.
"Taron! You in there?" the voice called.
He squinted. It was Aron, a friendly neighbor who sometimes did odd jobs around the Emberfall place. But Aron's expression didn't look friendly now—he looked rattled, waving an arm as though chased by something.
"What's wrong?" Taron asked, meeting him halfway.
Aron bent over, hands on his knees, panting like he'd sprinted all the way from the next farm. "Your mother...she—she needs you at the barn. There's some kind of cart accident—man's hurt real bad—she sent me to fetch you."
Taron felt his heart drop to his stomach. "Hurt? Is my mother okay?"
"She's fine, but the traveler's in rough shape," Aron said, catching his breath. "She just needs an extra set of hands."
Without another word, Taron spun on his heel and dashed back to the barn. Inside, he found Lorena crouched beside a middle-aged stranger who was leaning against a broken wheel. A battered cart sat at an angle behind them, loaded with crates of what looked like salted meats and grains. The traveler's forehead glistened with sweat, and blood stained the makeshift bandage around his forearm.
"Mom?" Taron asked, his voice tight with concern.
Lorena lifted her head, her expression grim but calm. "Help me lift the cart so we can replace the wheel," she said. "This fellow's cart broke on the road, and I can't hold it up alone."
Taron rushed forward, planting his shoulder against the cart's wooden side. Aron joined him, and together they heaved until the axle lifted enough for Lorena to wedge a piece of sturdy plank beneath. The traveler watched with visible relief.
"Name's Warrick," he managed, wiping sweat from his brow. "I owe you folks a big debt. Darn axle snapped right as I was passing your orchard."
Taron saw the angle of the break, the splintered wood near the iron band. "Looks like it was barely holding together," he commented, then looked at the traveler's wound. "What happened to your arm?"
Warrick grimaced. "I got careless trying to stop the cart from tipping over. The wheel slammed into me."
Lorena cut away the soiled bandage and wrapped a clean strip of cloth around Warrick's forearm. "You'll need some time off that arm," she said. "If you keep traveling immediately, it might get infected."
But Warrick shook his head. "If I don't move these goods soon, I'll miss the Greenwood market. I'm just glad bandits didn't catch me out here."
Taron and Lorena exchanged a worried glance. Bandits? The rumor was that petty criminals had been getting bolder across the region, but hearing it directly from a wounded traveler made it feel all too real.
With the cart propped up, Taron helped Aron fit a replacement wheel. After a good deal of sweating and cursing at stubborn nails, they got the cart stable enough for Warrick to drive it again. The traveler thanked them at least a dozen times, insisted he'd pay them back somehow, then climbed unsteadily into his seat.
As Warrick urged the horse forward, Taron noticed something anxious in the man's eyes, like he was watching every shadow in the fields. When he disappeared from sight, Taron turned back to his mother.
"You think he's overreacting about bandits?" he asked, trying not to sound too naive.
Lorena let out a slow breath. "Hard to say. But I've heard talk of trouble from peddlers and caravans. Best we stay alert."
They headed into the barn to put away tools. Once inside, Taron couldn't shake the prickling feeling at the back of his neck. It was as if a strange wind had blown in with the traveler's warnings, stirring the normal calm of their farm. He glanced around, noticing how the stacked hay bales cast odd shadows on the barn walls.
"So," Lorena said softly, "go finish up your morning chores, but keep an eye out. If you see anyone suspicious on the property—"
"I know," Taron said, swallowing. "I'll come tell you right away."
Lorena gave him a tired nod, patting his arm. "We'll be all right, Taron. Our farm might not have much, but we can handle ourselves."
He wanted to believe that. He really did.
The Orchard's Secrets
By midday, the sun beat down harder than usual, making Taron's shirt stick to his back. He carried a woven basket into the orchard, determined to collect the last wave of apples before they spoiled on the branch. The orchard was a gentle slope of apple trees that his grandfather had planted ages ago. It always felt serene, with green leaves rustling overhead and sweet fruit shining like little red lanterns.
He set the basket by a gnarled trunk and climbed partway up the tree, picking apples one by one. The repetitive task lulled him into a half-daydream, letting his mind wander. He imagined the orchard at harvest time in years past, bustling with neighbors, laughter echoing between rows of trees. Now, everything felt quieter. Too quiet.
Halfway through filling his second basket, Taron looked down and noticed someone at the edge of the orchard. He squinted, nerves flaring—until he recognized the lithe silhouette. It was Minna, a huntress from the next farm over, known for her skill with a bow and her no-nonsense attitude.
Minna lifted a hand in a wave. "You going to hog all those apples, or what?" she called, voice warm but a little subdued.
Taron climbed down, brushing dirt off his knees. "If you want any, help yourself. I'm picking so many we won't finish them before they go soft."
She gave a small chuckle and leaned against the nearest trunk. Up close, Taron noticed worry etched around her eyes—same look Warrick had worn, minus the sweat and blood. "I was at Greenwood yesterday," she said after a moment's silence. "Rumors are swirling like crows in a storm. Some folks say they've spotted creatures roaming at night, more than just bandits."
Taron felt a cold prickle. "Creatures? Like… animals? Wolves? We do get them out here sometimes."
Minna's gaze flicked across the orchard. "Not wolves, at least not purely. People claim these attackers don't look fully human or animal. Tracks have been found that don't match anything in the local bestiary. Townsfolk are spooked. The rumor is they're vicious and appear out of nowhere."
Taron tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it stuck. "That can't be real, right? Sounds like a fireside story to scare kids."
She shrugged, not looking convinced. "I'm just telling you what I heard—and the mood in town is bad. The guard is on edge, travelers are jumpy, and some families are already packing up. It's not like Greenwood to lose its cool over baseless gossip."
A breeze ruffled the orchard leaves, and Taron noticed how the shadows under the branches seemed to twitch. He forced a laugh, though it came out shaky. "Well, you know my mother and me. We're not going anywhere unless we have to. But thanks for the warning."
Minna nodded, her expression solemn. "Same at our place. My father won't leave the land he inherited. We'll just—stay alert, I guess." Then she forced a change of tone, pointing at the basket. "You better let me grab a few apples, or I'll accuse you of hoarding."
He handed her an apple with a rueful smile, though the heaviness in the air didn't dissipate. They chatted a bit about normal things—crops, the upcoming harvest festival that might be canceled if the rumors kept folks inside. But the conversation never fully shook the tension. Finally, Minna waved goodbye, promising she'd keep an eye out for anything strange on her property.
When she left, Taron stood alone under the swaying branches, feeling the orchard's quiet press around him. It wasn't the comforting stillness of a lazy afternoon. It felt like the hush before a thunderstorm.
Discovery in the Barn
Later that afternoon, Taron found himself back behind the barn, trying to fix a broken fence post. The summer heat had dried and cracked the wood, and every time he hammered in a nail, it felt like the entire plank threatened to split. His arms ached, sweat ran down his neck, and all he could think about were Minna's words. Creatures that aren't quite human or animal. Could that be tied to Warrick's fear of bandits? Or was this something a lot worse?
He wiped his forehead on his sleeve and turned to grab another plank from a stack by the barn's side. Then he froze. Something pulsed in his peripheral vision—like a faint glow coming from behind the hay bales. The rational side of him thought, Probably just sunlight reflecting off a piece of metal. But a prickle of unease made him approach carefully.
The hay bales formed a loose barrier, and beyond them he spotted something: a length of steel half-buried in the straw. His curiosity spiked. Taron pushed one bale aside, exposing an object that looked suspiciously like a sword. Slowly, he reached out and lifted it, feeling an unexpected warmth radiate from the metal. It was broken halfway up the blade, jagged edges flecked with rust. Yet in the cracks and lines of the steel, a faint ember-like glow pulsed, as if something alive resided in the shattered sword.
A jolt of alarm and fascination shot through Taron. What in the world is this doing here? He turned it over in his hands, noticing unfamiliar symbols etched near the hilt—a swirl of patterns that reminded him of flames or dragon scales. Even though it was broken, he could tell this was no ordinary weapon.
"Taron!"
He nearly dropped the sword at the sound of his mother's voice. Lorena rushed around the corner of the barn, her eyes going wide the instant she saw the glowing blade. She pressed a hand to her mouth. "You found it," she whispered, looking stricken.
Taron swallowed. "Found what? This was behind the hay bales." He sensed her shock and maybe a hint of fear.
"That sword… belonged to your father," she said, her voice shaking a little. "After he disappeared, I recovered it—broken. I never wanted you to see it."
He blinked. He knew so little about his father, who had died when Taron was just a toddler. Lorena rarely talked about him, except to say he was brave and kind. A sword? His father had carried a sword?
"Why is it glowing?" Taron asked, noticing how his own heartbeat seemed to echo in the faint pulse of light.
Lorena shook her head, taking a step closer. "It's bound with an old magic. Your father was more than a simple farmer. He was part of a group called the Knights of Ember…they protected Arinthia from threats most people consider legends."
Taron felt like the ground was tilting beneath him. "You never told me any of this."
"I was trying to keep you safe," she said, eyes brimming with a mixture of guilt and resolve. "When he vanished, I was told the darkness he fought was defeated—or at least driven away. I hoped it would never touch our lives again."
Taron looked down at the broken blade, the glow highlighting every crack and scratch. Darkness? Knights of Ember? It all sounded like a story from a dusty old scroll. But the blade felt real enough, its warmth throbbing in his hand.
"So… what do we do now?" he asked, voice shaking. Images of the rumored creatures prowled in his mind. Could they be linked to the same darkness that claimed his father's life?
Lorena gently took the sword from him, though it still glowed faintly in her grasp. "I don't have all the answers, Taron. But there's a man in Greenwood Crossing—Sir Aldren. He fought alongside your father. If anyone can explain why this sword is active again, it's him."
Taron's stomach twisted. The orchard, the barn, the fields… everything he knew felt suddenly small. The road to Greenwood was half a day's walk, but after hearing about the recent attacks, traveling wouldn't be safe. Yet he sensed that ignoring the sword and these growing rumors wasn't an option.
Lorena set the blade down gently on a wooden workbench in the barn. "We'll leave at first light tomorrow. It's not safe here if something's stirring."
He almost argued—he hated leaving the farm unguarded. But if these creatures were real, they could attack at any time. At least in Greenwood, they might find help or answers.
As night fell, Taron tried to do his usual chores, but his thoughts kept drifting to that broken sword. He wondered how long it had been hidden in the barn, and what it might mean that it still glowed after all these years. More than that, he worried about what "darkness" truly entailed. Had he unknowingly stumbled into the same path that ended his father's life?
Dreams of Flames
Sleep didn't come easily. Taron lay in his loft with the lantern snuffed out, but his mind churned. Occasionally, the barn creaked as the night wind pressed against its old boards. He replayed the day's events: the terrified traveler, Minna's warning about strange beasts, and then finding a glowing sword linked to his father's hidden past.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed him. But his dreams were anything but peaceful. He saw fields aflame under a swirling red sky. Dark silhouettes with twisted limbs stalked the horizon, their eyes glowing like hot coals. In his dream, Taron clutched the broken sword, and it wasn't just glowing—it blazed with fire that licked along its edges. A voice echoed across the burning field, whispering his name with desperate urgency.
He jerked awake, heart pounding. The loft was dark and still, the only light a sliver of moon through a gap in the boards. He took a shaky breath, trying to calm down. It was just a nightmare, but it felt more like a prophecy. He rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and prayed dawn would arrive quickly.
Departing the Farm
Morning brought a stark, pale light to the Emberfall homestead. Taron climbed down from the loft, feeling groggy and uneasy from the night's dream. Outside, Lorena was already saddling up their only horse, an old mare named Halcyon. The half-packed cart they sometimes used for market trips stood nearby, loaded with a few supplies: dried food, spare blankets, a modest stash of coins.
Lorena glanced up as Taron approached, giving him a grim smile. "I don't like leaving the farm this way, but we can't risk traveling after dark."
He nodded, noticing how worn she looked. "I'll do whatever you think is best." He paused, working up the courage to ask, "Do you really believe those creatures are connected to… what Father fought?"
She sighed, tightening a strap on Halcyon's saddle. "I don't know. All I know is the sword was dormant for years, and now it's glowing again. That can't be a coincidence."
Together, they double-checked the farmhouse, securing windows and doors as best they could. Taron slipped the broken blade—wrapped in burlap—into the cart, half-hoping no one would notice it. The last thing he wanted was for rumors to spread that he had some magical sword. Word would travel fast, and not everyone in Arinthia had good intentions.
Before leaving, Taron took a final walk around the orchard. Dew sparkled on the grass, and the morning sun glinted through the apple branches. This place had been his whole world. He trailed a hand along the trunk of one old tree, silently promising he'd come back if he could. Then he joined his mother and the waiting cart.
They set out along the dirt road, Halcyon's hooves plodding steadily. The crisp air nipped at Taron's face, waking him more fully. He looked over his shoulder now and then, catching sight of the farmhouse shrinking behind them. His chest felt tight, as though he were leaving a piece of himself behind in those fields.
"So," Taron said, trying to break the tension, "have you actually met this Sir Aldren?"
Lorena nodded. "A couple of times, long ago. He and your father were close. If he's still in Greenwood, he might guide us to someone who can repair that sword—or at least tell us what it means that it's… alive again."
Taron felt the weight of the burlap-wrapped sword in the cart behind him. "Alive" sounded like the right word. Even now, he swore he could sense a faint warmth, like it was quietly listening.
They traveled for hours, passing fields and sparse woodlands. Occasionally, Taron spotted a distant farmhouse, some abandoned, others showing thin plumes of smoke from the chimney. At each sign of habitation, he felt a pang. Are they safe? Do they know about the creatures? He wondered if rumor alone could protect them, or if these farms would soon be ghostly ruins.
By noon, they'd made decent progress, the roads mercifully quiet. Lorena handed Taron a piece of dried bread and cheese for lunch, the two of them chewing in thoughtful silence atop the cart. The afternoon sun blazed overhead, chasing away any lingering chill from the morning.
"You remember anything else about Father?" Taron finally asked, voice subdued. "I hardly know anything about him."
Lorena stared at the horizon. "He was kind and brave. Too brave, perhaps, for his own good. He talked about wanting a world where people didn't fear what lurked in the shadows, where magic was used to protect, not harm. Sometimes I thought he took on more responsibility than he should have, always traveling to distant borders to chase rumors of evil."
She paused, lips thinning. "When you were little, he'd carry you around the orchard, showing you off to the neighbors. If you squinted, you two looked the same—dark hair, that same stubborn jaw." She let out a shaky breath. "Never imagined I'd be raising you alone, but here we are."
Taron felt a swirl of emotions—sadness, admiration, a flicker of anger at a father he never really got to know. He wanted to ask a hundred more questions, but it felt like it would only reopen wounds for Lorena. Instead, he just nodded, letting her words settle.
A New Road Ahead
By late afternoon, the outline of Greenwood Crossing appeared in the distance—a modest town encircled by recently reinforced wooden walls. Taron could see shapes moving along the ramparts, likely guards on high alert. Smoke rose from chimneys in a haze that spoke of cooking fires and blacksmith forges. It looked busier than usual, though not exactly welcoming.
As they approached, a pair of guards stepped forward, each holding a spear. "State your business," one said, sounding tense.
Lorena spoke up. "We're here to see an old acquaintance, Sir Aldren. We've heard… troubling rumors about the roads. My son and I hope to find refuge here until we learn more."
The guards looked at each other, then back at them. "Any contraband in the cart?"
Taron shook his head, hoping they wouldn't demand a closer inspection. He didn't love the idea of them discovering a broken, faintly glowing sword. But they seemed more concerned with new faces than anything else. After a moment's hesitation, they waved Lorena and Taron through, warning them that the gates would be locked after sunset.
Inside, Greenwood thrummed with nervous energy. Stalls that used to spill over with produce now looked sparse, and many windows and doors had makeshift barricades. A hush lay over the place, broken occasionally by urgent voices or a stray shout from a guard tower. Taron caught a glimpse of the local blacksmith's forge, flames licking the air as the blacksmith hammered out a row of spearheads. Every clang rang with a sense of impending conflict.
"It's worse than I expected," Lorena murmured, guiding Halcyon down a side street. She scanned the faces of passersby, as though searching for Aldren in the crowd. "Let's find a place to stable the horse, then ask around."
Taron nodded, mind spinning. So many changes had happened in just the last day: discovering that sword, leaving the farm, stepping into a town that felt on the brink of crisis. Somehow, it all tied back to the father he never knew, the Knights of Ember, and a threat that seemed bigger than bandits or local unrest.
They tied up Halcyon in a small stable near the outskirts of town, leaving the cart behind. Lorena carried a small pack of essentials, while Taron kept the burlap-wrapped sword slung over his shoulder, pretending it was any old bundle.
As they navigated deeper into Greenwood's narrow streets, Taron noticed more signs of tension. Boards covered shattered windows, and a few townsfolk huddled in alleys, whispering about missing neighbors. A child clung to his mother's skirts, tears streaking his dirty cheeks. Taron's heart clenched at the sight—this wasn't the same easygoing Greenwood he'd visited in years past.
Lorena halted near a flickering lantern post, glancing around. "We should find Borus, the blacksmith. He might know where Sir Aldren lives these days."
"Let's do it," Taron said, though his voice cracked slightly. The entire day felt unreal, as if he'd fallen into one of those old legends about cursed swords and lurking evil.
But if this was the path fate had laid out, Taron decided he'd see it through. He had no choice—whatever was happening in Arinthia, it seemed tied to his own bloodline. With a steeling breath, he tightened his grip on the bundle containing the broken sword, feeling its comforting warmth tingle across his shoulders.
In the distance, the forge's glow lit up the twilight. Taron led the way, each step echoing with the quiet promise that something extraordinary was about to begin.