The mountain wind howled through the ravine like a wounded beast. Snow dusted the blackened rocks, clinging to the dying heat of the forge-temples carved into the cliffs. Overhead, the sky churned with stormfire clouds—low, brooding, and bruised with violet lightning.
High on the ridge, Mo stood barefoot in the snow, his curly auburn let down, his breath silver in the cold air. Light brown eyes scanned the sky as he listened—not with ears, but with something deeper. A feeling behind the eyes. A tug beneath the ribs.
The Shamshir was waking again.
It was strapped to his back, wrapped in ash-cloth and old leather, the sword his father left behind before vanishing beyond the Bladed Horizon. No one in the valley had dared unsheathe it. Not even Mo.
Not until today.
From behind him, the heavy oak doors of the Spiritforge creaked open. A figure stepped out—a thin woman with pale skin, short silver-black hair, and a gaze like fractured glass. Aylen Voss, Sentinel of the Eastern Skybound.
"You feel it, don't you?" she asked.
Mo didn't turn. "It's louder than yesterday."
"That's not thunder," Aylen said, joining him at the cliff's edge. "It's the Second Seal. It's bleeding again."
Mo tensed. "Then it's true. The Flame Sect broke it."
Aylen nodded grimly. "And something is coming through."
---
They descended into the forge chamber, where runes pulsed dimly along the walls, lighting the ancient stonework with ghostlight. Elder Gorren was already waiting beside the anvil, bent and blind, his face folded by age and soot. His voice cracked like dry bark.
"The sword must be tested, boy. Or it will consume you."
Mo approached slowly. The wrapped Shamshir throbbed with heat, even in the cold chamber. His fingers itched with tension, the weight of sixteen years pressing down on his spine. His father's blade. His burden. His beginning.
"What happens if I draw it and I'm not ready?" he asked.
"You die," Gorren said plainly. "Or worse—you forget who you are."
Aylen placed a hand on Mo's shoulder. "You've trained for this. You are ready. And the world no longer has time for waiting."
Mo unwrapped the sword.
The leather fell away. The steel beneath shimmered blue—not polished, but alive, like water frozen mid-flow. Inscriptions lined the edge—glyphs older than any modern script, curling with elemental essence.
He drew the blade.
Pain flashed up his arm, into his mind—a thousand images at once: cities crumbling under firestorms, a winged serpent tearing through thunderclouds, a throne of glass cracking under the weight of a forgotten crown.
Mo gritted his teeth and held on.
Then, silence.
The blade quieted. And in the dead stillness of the forge, the Shamshir whispered:
"You are not him."
Mo's breath caught.
"But you will be."
---
Outside, the wind shifted. South of the mountains, deep in the lands of Moon Vale, the Second Seal shuddered. Runes cracked. The dreams of Titans stirred like coals in an ancient fire. Far beneath the world, something awoke and smiled.
And across the sea, a black-sailed ship turned west—its passengers cloaked in crescent masks and carrying the ashes of gods.
The game had begun....