Chapter 1 : The Beginning of Fate

  The village lived quietly, tucked between fields and river, as if the world had forgotten it on purpose.

  Morning mist clung to the ground, cool and forgiving. Smoke rose from clay chimneys in thin, peaceful threads. Somewhere, a bird called out—once, then again—unafraid. The boy ran barefoot through dew-wet grass, laughing, the sound light enough to belong to another age.

  From the doorway of their home, his parents watched.

  His mother’s smile was gentle. His father stood with arms folded, steady as the earth beneath him. This was how life was meant to be—small, slow, whole.

  Then the sound came.

  Hooves. Too many. Too fast.

  The first scream split the air before anyone understood what it meant.

  Fire followed.

  Bandits poured into the village like a sickness, blades flashing, torches roaring. Wood caught flame in moments. The river reflected the inferno, its surface trembling red, as if it too had been wounded.

  The boy felt his mother’s grip tighten around his wrist.

  “Run,” his father said.

  There was no fear in his voice—only command.

  The boy stumbled, pulled away as smoke swallowed the sky. He turned once.

  Just once.

  Steel fell.

  Fire rose.

  His parents did not.

  Hands dragged him forward. Screams faded behind them, replaced by the roar of flames and the pounding of his own heart. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the village was nothing more than embers and memory.

  That night, the world became colder.

  The survivors settled where the land broke sharply—a cliff overlooking a wide, relentless river. They raised tents from torn cloth and scavenged wood. Adults slept with weapons close. Children learned silence early.

  Time passed, though it no longer felt kind.

  The boy grew taller. Quieter. His laughter thinned, replaced by watchful eyes and careful steps. He learned to fish, to climb, to endure hunger without complaint. At night, fire returned in his dreams.

  When he was twelve, the wind was strong and the sun unforgiving. The children played near the cliff’s edge, chasing one another, pretending the past had loosened its grip.

  The boy ran too far.

  The earth crumbled beneath his feet.

  The sky vanished.

  Cold closed around him as the river seized his body, dragging him under, filling his lungs, tearing sound and thought away. Darkness swallowed everything.

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  Metal scraped against stone.

  The sound pulled him back.

  He woke in dim firelight, the smell of damp earth heavy in the air. A low flame flickered nearby. Before it sat an old man, hunched over a whetstone, drawing a long sword across it with slow, deliberate care.

  The boy froze.

  This was how stories ended.

  “You’re awake,” the old man said, without looking up.

  “P-Please,” the boy whispered. “I won’t cause trouble. Just… don’t kill me.”

  The sword paused.

  The old man turned, eyes sharp but calm. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have woken up.”

  The boy swallowed. “Where… where am I?”

  “My cave.”

  “I fell into the river. I need to go home. My people—they live on a cliff.”

  The old man snorted softly and returned to his blade. “There’s no cliff near here. Not for three or four days’ travel.”

  “That’s impossible,” the boy said, panic creeping into his voice. “I just fell.”

  “When we found you,” the old man replied, “you were unconscious near the riverbank. Wolves had gathered. Curious ones. Hungry ones. You were lucky.”

  The boy looked down. His hands were wrapped in clean cloth.

  “Can I leave?” he asked.

  The old man studied him for a long moment. “You can. But you won’t survive far like this.”

  The fire crackled. The cave felt heavier.

  Unseen, fate settled its weight.

  Night deepened, and footsteps echoed from the darkness.

  Two figures returned to the cave, cloaks heavy with the scent of forest and iron. They dropped their hunt to the stone floor and noticed the boy at once.

  “So this is him,” one said.

  “He fell into the river,” the old man replied. “Knows little of where he came from.”

  “Finding that place would take weeks,” the other muttered. “If it still exists.”

  “And the world doesn’t wait,” the first added.

  Silence answered.

  “Eat,” the old man finally said to the boy.

  They shared the meal without ceremony. No one asked questions meant to wound. When sleep came, it came quietly.

  Morning broke with the sound of steel.

  The boy rushed outside and stopped cold.

  Three old men sparred in the clearing, each wielding a sword that looked far too heavy for any mortal—let alone men in their seventies. Their movements were precise, grounded, merciless. Sparks leapt as blades collided. The earth trembled beneath disciplined steps.

  This was not play.

  This was truth.

  One of them broke away and approached the boy, resting his sword against his shoulder. He was massive—age carved into him, not weakening but refining.

  “You’ve been with us a night,” the man said. “Yet we don’t know your name.”

  The boy straightened. “My name is Guarder.”

  The man nodded once.

  “Then know ours.”

  He gestured to the man with calm eyes and a mind sharp as glass. “Veyo. Master of knowledge—politics, medicine, the unseen currents of the world.”

  Veyo inclined his head.

  Next, he turned to the swordsman whose blade moved as if thought itself guided it. “Veiron. Steel listens to him.”

  Veiron said nothing.

  Finally, the man placed a hand on his own chest. “Stavir. Strength answers to me.”

  Guarder stared, something steady igniting in his chest.

  Three old men.

  Three paths.

  And a boy whose past had been burned away.

  None of them spoke the truth aloud.

  But fate had already begun.