The morning sun pierced through the cracked window of the wooden hut, casting golden rays across the dust-filled air. Lucas sat cross-legged on the worn floor, sweat trailing down his brow as he struggled to steady his breath. The spear—long, ancient, and glowing faintly with a warmth like sunlight—lay across his knees. It pulsed softly, almost like it had a heartbeat of its own.
"Again," came the raspy voice of Master Gigi, standing behind him like a shadow carved from stone.
Lucas gritted his teeth. His arms ached from the training. His soul, even more so. But he obeyed.
He rose with the spear in hand, moving through the forms his master had drilled into him since the day he first held the weapon. Each motion felt heavier than the last, not because of fatigue, but because of the weight of what the spear represented. Power. Responsibility. Destiny.
"You're still thinking," Gigi said, circling him. "Your movements are sharp, but your mind is elsewhere. That will get you killed."
"I'm not thinking," Lucas replied, though the lie tasted bitter.
The old man stepped closer, his weathered eyes narrowing. "The Spear of Sol does not serve a distracted hand. If your thoughts wander, the light will vanish. And in this world, boy, light is not something we can afford to lose."
Lucas lowered the weapon, his grip tightening. "Why me?" he whispered. "Why did it choose me?"
Gigi didn't answer right away. Instead, he turned to the door of the hut, where the sunlight streamed in like a silent judgment.
"Because it had to," he finally said. "And because something far older than either of us knows what's coming."
Lucas looked down at the spear. It shimmered softly in response.
Outside, the wind carried the scent of ash.
Something had awakened.