A mighty punch hurled Zigmo into the temple wall, stone cracking around him as a man-sized crater formed. Rynor, relentless, launched himself from the opposite side of the chamber.
Zigmo gritted his teeth, drawing and loosing an arrow in one motion.
It sang through the air—only for Rynor to catch it with one hand and fling it back at double the speed.
The impact barely missed Zigmo's cheek, a line of heat slicing past his skin.
And suddenly… he was back there.
Five Years Ago
"Faster! Faster! Now—pivot your blows! Yes! Yes! Gruahh!"
The voice of the great warrior Falbir thundered across the training grounds.
Sand exploded under their feet. Wooden swords cracked against shields. Dust mixed with sweat and blood as Zigmo traded blow after blow with Rynor. Bones ached. Muscles screamed. The world shrank to the sound of their grunts and the sting of each strike.
Hours later, with both warriors battered and bleeding, Zigmo landed the final strike.
The crowd roared his name. He was beloved that day—by everyone except them.
On the edge of the arena, Syla leaned close to whisper into his brother's ear. Rynor's eyes darkened. Zigmo felt the heat of their hatred even then… and chose to ignore it.
The Beginning
When he got home, the scent of spiced tea and candle wax filled the air. His mother, Ephilia, sat in the glow of the hearth.
Once, she had been a jewel of the empire—a dancer whose grace drew the eyes of nobles and elders alike. Men fought for her hand and whispered darker desires behind closed doors.
But she refused them all.
Everything changed the night the Orc King returned victorious from war. In the great banquet hall, amid gold banners and victory feasts, Ephilia danced. Their eyes met—hers, the empire's most sought-after beauty; his, the kingdom's fiercest warrior commander.
They moved toward each other, and the hall fell silent. Nobles whispered in outrage. The King's adviser, Nobelm, clenched his fists—his own decades-long pursuit of Ephilia crushed in an instant.
From that night on, they were inseparable. The court did not forgive them. Exiled to the outskirts of the empire, they left behind wealth, titles, and the dance halls.
In the quiet hills beyond the empire's reach, Ephilia and the King conceived a son.
They named him Zigmo, after an old phrase in their tongue: "We will always smile."
And smile he did. Zigmo grew quickly, his father teaching him the blade, his mother passing on the patience and rhythm of her dance. But his true gift lay elsewhere—in the bow.
By twelve, he could shoot a bird from the sky mid-flight, loose two arrows in the time it took a man to blink, and split a falling leaf before it touched the ground.
The Letters
Life should have been peaceful.
But the letters kept coming.
Always the same message, inked in the same black seal:
"You have been summoned to join the Wall for Zycothia."
Each summons pulled his father away. Weeks, months passed without him. Zigmo learned early that war was not an interruption in life—it was the shape of it.
He also learned something else.
He was being targeted.
By who, he didn't know.
Why, he could only guess.
But he loved his kingdom, and so… he obeyed.