The waves created a certain sound—a blissful blessing. It shimmered in the air, weaving a serene rhythm that seemed to touch every corner of Norm's Valley. Dark clouds slowly crept across the sky, stealing the sunlight and casting the land into an early, gentle night. Yet the world remained beautiful, untouched by gloom. Swans glided gracefully across the ponds, their nests cradled against their feathers, moving with a quiet determination as they hunted for fish beneath the rippling water.
The sound of the waves continued to ripple through the air, a soft yet persistent hum that seemed almost alive. Water flowed endlessly, whispering secrets of distant lands, of storms it had survived, and of the calm it would always return to. Soon, the clouds began to speak, not in words but in the low, rolling rumble of thunder, as if they were warning the valley of the coming rain. And then it came—soft at first, delicate drops that kissed the earth, then a relentless pour that drenched everything in a shimmering veil.
A lone bird soared through the gray sky, wings spread wide, battling against the wind. Its journey led it to the heart of the valley, landing softly atop the castle of a well-respected being, a guardian of this land of serenity and hidden power. The rain fell heavier now, each drop like a divine gift striking the earth in precise, melodic rhythm. Its sound echoed into the homes of the people. Children abandoned caution and ran outside to play, their laughter mixing with the patter of rain, their feet splashing joyfully in puddles. The scent of wet earth rose from the ground, filling the valley with a deep, nostalgic calm, stirring memories that even the oldest trees seemed to recognize.
Among the dancing shadows of the rain stood a young boy, soaked to the bone yet unbothered by the cold. His coat clung to his small frame, heavy with water, yet he remained still, captivated by the flutter of a butterfly weaving through the falling droplets. That boy was Aron. Today had been meant for swordsmanship lessons, a day his father had promised him. But the rain now poured relentlessly, and Aron let the thought fade, absorbed in the quiet symphony of nature around him.
From behind, a familiar voice broke the rhythm of the storm.
Agarth: "Aron, what are you doing out here?"
Thunder cracked overhead as Agarth approached, his figure cutting through the downpour with quiet authority.
Aron: "Just… looking at a bug."
Agarth sighed, a faint hint of disappointment shadowing his stern expression. He understood the deeper reason for his own frustration, though he did not voice it.
Agarth: "I'm sorry. The rain interrupted our session. But perhaps… it's not yet your time to learn swordsmanship." He paused, placing emphasis on his next words. "And don't stay out in the rain too long, Aron. You'll catch a cold."
Even as he spoke, Agarth's mind was elsewhere. One thought haunted him—one he could not dismiss. One day, this boy would become the most powerful man in the world. Rain or shine, lessons would come and go, but he would learn them all… on his own.
Agarth knew well that a human may learn from others, but it is the surroundings, the choices, and the struggles that truly shape a person. Pain, sacrifice, and endurance are not merely experiences—they are necessities. They forge strength, will, and the making of a true warrior.
He placed a firm hand on Aron's shoulder. The touch made the boy tense, his small frame stiffening under the weight of his father's presence.
Agarth: "Aron, my son. There will come choices in your life—choices you cannot undo. You are the eldest, the one upon whom responsibility falls first. Even after I am gone, or your mother, people will count on you. And so will I. Remember this—live without regrets. You were born free, and it is your right to choose who you become. Live your life as you wish. And never… ever look back."
Aron stood silent, absorbing the depth of his father's words. Emotions churned within him—pride, fear, wonder—but above all, a profound respect for the man who had raised him. Agarth drew him into a tight embrace, resting a hand gently on his son's head.
Agarth: "I love you."
The words struck deep into Aron's heart, filling him with a warmth and pride he could barely describe. A father… to be loved and to love in return—such a bond was rare, precious, and infinite.
Agarth finally released him, turning to attend a sudden issue with his soldiers. He walked away, his figure merging with the shadows of the castle, but he left behind a lingering presence, a protective aura that seemed to stay with Aron even as he wandered alone.
Aron found himself drawn to the pond, its surface rippling with the rain. He stared at his reflection, distorted yet familiar, the raindrops scattering his face into fragments.
Aron: "What is my destiny? What if I cannot become who everyone wants me to be? What does it truly mean to live without regrets?"
Before he could dwell further on his questions, a shadow appeared, dark and fluid like living smoke. It hovered above the pond, its form shifting and impossible to hold in one's gaze. A voice, deep and resonant, echoed within Aron's very soul.
Shadow Figure: "Behold, the successor. Do not awaken your power. You cannot die now. Let the blade control it… for you."
And just as suddenly, it vanished. Aron's eyes widened, his pulse racing. A successor? Power? Awakening? Questions swirled inside him like a storm. Sleep would come that night, but the echoes of that encounter remained, unyielding and heavy.
The rain continued without mercy, blurring dawn into night, until it finally ceased. The air became calm, and Aron fell into a deep, undisturbed sleep.
The next morning, he awoke to search for his mother. He found her standing by the window, gazing into the distance, the wind howling like a furious sea storm around the castle. He followed her gaze, noting the bustling activity outside—camps encircling a fire, knights drinking tea, and preparations moving in quiet urgency. But something unusual caught his eye.
His father embraced a stranger, an unfamiliar figure whose presence seemed both comforting and troubling. A knight knelt nearby, his hood obscuring his face. Before Aron could move closer, his mother pulled him back, tears glistening in her eyes. She held him tightly, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.
Milda: "You are a strong child, Aron…" Her voice trembled, thick with emotion.
Aron: "Mom, what's happening? Why are you crying?" He reached up, lifting his mother's face with care, brushing away the tears, and hugged her tightly. Whatever is troubling her… it must be serious. But right now, I won't leave her. She needs to feel safe, and I will be here.
A voice rumbled in his mind, deep and distant. Son…? Suddenly, Aron found himself in a void of darkness, unable to step forward, surrounded by whispers that seemed to rise from the very fabric of reality. Confused and frightened, he closed his eyes, struggling to understand the voices. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the vision faded. He was back in his room. The candle flickered softly, the house silent and still, everyone asleep around him.