The boy who could not lift a sword buried his father with bare hands.
His nails tore against the earth. His skin split on the cold, sharp stones. Blood mixed with mud and ash as he dragged the broken body into a shallow grave behind the scorched remains of their home.
There was no one left to help.No one left to weep.The Ironspire Clan was dead.
His father had once been a warrior feared across five provinces. A blade-dancer who carved his name into the bones of empires. But in the end, he died like a common criminal—cut down by the men who used to call him brother.
Kael didn't scream.Didn't cry.Didn't curse the heavens.
He simply kept digging.
The village watched from the distance. They always did. Watching. Whispering. Judging. None stepped forward.
They said he was cursed. Born without a spark. Spiritless. Weak.They called him a mistake of fate.They spat on his name as if he'd been the one to bring ruin to his bloodline.
But in that cold silence, as he laid his father beneath the stone and placed a rusted sword into the grave like an offering, Kael made a vow.
"I will never touch the earth again... until it's soaked in the blood of those who made me crawl."
The wind answered with silence.
And Kael rose.