The night sky didn't just shatter—it was torn asunder, a cosmic fracture ripping open the fabric of reality itself.
From that gaping wound in the heavens, Gareth Valven fell.
No gentle descent. No welcoming embrace.
Only a deafening roar—a torrent of searing light shards burning with the fury of forgotten gods and ancient power.
Time unraveled around him; seconds stretched into eons. Past and future collided, memories bleeding into prophecy.
Then—abrupt silence.
He struck cracked stone beneath a relentless golden sun. The taste of dust filled his lungs. Above, the echo of a shattered throne pulsed in the sky—like a heartbeat of power and ruin.
Shadows seemed to stir at the edges of the square. Watchers. Curious. Menacing.
Gareth Valven had arrived.
The land was vast and unfamiliar.
He rose unsteadily, staring at his trembling hands. His name was there, and nothing more.
"I am… Gareth Valven. But where am i?"
The world moved around him. Children ran barefoot, laughter cutting through the dust. A blacksmith's hammer rang steady in the distance. Merchants bellowed at passersby. Women leaned from balconies, gossiping over baskets of bread.
And yet, for every laugh, there was suffering: men snoring drunk in the dirt, beggars coughing against the sun, dogs pawing at scraps tossed aside.
The smell of sweat, iron, bread, and smoke wove into one.
Gareth moved through it in silence, absorbing voices carried on the street like fragments of a song:
"Another tax rise? Bastards in Aurensport bleed us dry."
"Fish is fresh today—don't touch the rotted baskets."
"Priests say the sun burns hotter each year. Curse or omen, who knows?"
"Did you hear? A man fell from the sky."
"Bah—old wives' tales."
His chest tightened. They mean me.
An old woman shuffled near, eyes bright against her wrinkled face. She pressed a warm roll into his hand without pause.
"Welcome to Sunstead, child."
She smiled as if she knew more than she let on, then vanished back into the crowd.
Gareth chewed slowly, the sweetness anchoring him to reality. This isn't a dream.
The streets narrowed into crooked alleys. Shadows deepened, swallowing the laughter. His steps echoed alone now. Ahead, through smoke and silence, a building slouched against the dark.
A tavern.
Its timbers sagged like tired bones. Lanterns flickered weakly above the door, their light smeared against fogged windows. Iron studs gleamed from the warped wood as though the door itself watched him approach.
Gareth hesitated. Every instinct urged him away. Yet hunger, curiosity, and something nameless pulled him forward.
The door was rough beneath his palm, splinters biting his skin. He pushed.
Light and noise spilled out in a crash.
Inside: warmth, laughter, chaos. Tankards slammed, dice clattered, voices rose in bawdy chorus. A bard sang half-drowned by drunken song. Smoke curled gold above the rafters.
Gareth lingered near the door, whispering to himself:
"I shouldn't be here. I'm… fifteen. Too young."
And then—his gaze snagged on a figure in the far corner.
A man. Alone.
The air bent around him, heavy, wrong. While the tavern roared, he sat still—a shadow rooted in storm.
Don't look again. Don't—
"You. Boy."
The voice scraped the air like iron dragged over stone.
Gareth froze. Slowly, he turned. The man's eyes—sharp, unblinking—had already found him.
"Come."
His legs moved before thought. Step by step, the figure sharpened: a cloak frayed at the hems, leather straps scarred by cuts, chain glinting faintly beneath. A dagger hilt gleamed, boots caked with old mud as though he'd walked through kingdoms.
At the table, Gareth swallowed dryly.
The man studied him, then spoke with unnerving calm.
"You're not from here."
Before Gareth could answer, a flick of the hand—swift, precise.
Pain lanced his neck. Darkness dragged him under.
He woke to the creak of wheels, rope biting his wrists. Horse-sweat and sea-salt filled the air. Stars freckled the sky above.
The man drove the cart in silence, hood lowered now. His face was gaunt, beard streaked gray, eyes alive with unsettling clarity.
"You'd be dead if they knew," he said flatly. "Falling from nothing. No coin. No name. They'd have gutted you before nightfall."
"…Why save me?" Gareth rasped.
The man turned his head just enough for Gareth to see the weight in his gaze.
"Because now you owe me. A life-debt. You breathe because I allowed it."
Gareth's throat tightened. "…Where are you taking me?"
The man's mouth flicked, almost a smile.
"Aurensport."
The cart crested a hill.
And the world opened.
Aurensport rose from the sea like a fortress carved by gods—its skyline jagged with towers and spires, its high walls crowned with banners of flame and sun. Lanterns burned like stars along bridges of stone. Ships crowded the harbor, their sails striped crimson and gold, their masts spearing sky and mist alike. The crash of waves against the docks thundered like war drums.
It was no city. It was a challenge.
And it was waiting for him.
A month passed.
He trained under Garric's eye, sparred in the courtyard with Aelina—his sharp-eyed daughter whose blade struck like lightning. He learned the markets, the rhythms of coin, the whispers of streets that ate the careless whole.
And then came the summons.
"Time to earn your place," Garric said at dawn.
Gareth rode south with three others—Dren, broad-shouldered and reckless; Kael, quiet and calculating; Rina, fierce and unyielding. Their mission: to slay a beast plaguing the outer settlements.
The Roath Drogen.
The hunt was chaos—fangs like sabers, claws like scythes. Steel clashed, arrows snapped. Gareth's blade struck true, piercing the creature's heart. Victory burned in his chest.
But triumph was brief.
The beast's dying strike cut Rina down. Her scream silenced the forest. From the shadows, more came—kin of the beast, snarling and enraged.
Kael fell. Dren with him.
And Gareth ran.
Branches lashed his face as Gareth tore through the forest, lungs burning, boots sliding on roots and mud. The sound of pursuit had faded, yet he couldn't stop. Not until the treeline broke, not until his legs gave out beneath him.
When at last the darkness of the woods gave way to the city's pale glow, he collapsed against cold stone, body shaking, blood and sweat and dirt clinging to his skin. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, but it wasn't exhaustion that made him tremble. It was memory.
The carriage. The laughter. The faces.
He saw them as clear as if they sat beside him still.
Dren first—broad-shouldered, brash, always filling the air with his booming voice. He'd cracked jokes the whole ride south, claiming he could wrestle a bear with one hand tied and still win. He had roared with laughter when Gareth doubted him, his grin wide and infectious. "Stick with me, boy," he had said, ruffling Gareth's hair like an older brother. "I'll teach you what real courage looks like."
Then Kael—quiet, calculating, always watching. Where Dren was fire, Kael was stone. His words were few, but sharp, each one cutting straight to the point. He had leaned forward in the carriage, eyes narrowed, and told Gareth not to mistake arrogance for bravery. "Beasts don't care for pride," he had said flatly. "Only survival." Yet there had been a wisp of kindness in his gaze, a silent understanding.
And Rina—fierce, unyielding, but with laughter that rang brighter than any bell. She had teased Gareth mercilessly for his awkward grip on his sword, smirking as she corrected his stance, nudging his foot into place. "There. Now you almost look like a warrior." She had smiled at him, wide and unguarded, as the wind lifted her hair and the road stretched out before them. In that moment, Gareth had believed her unstoppable.
Together they had filled the carriage with warmth. For a time, Gareth had felt like he belonged.
But that was before the hunt.
The Roathdrogen.
Even now, the name sent a shiver down his spine. A creature of legend whispered in hushed voices by hunters and mercenaries alike. Born of the deep forests, it was said to be a beast older than the kingdoms, a relic of the wilds before man claimed the land. Its body was like a wolf twisted with nightmare—fangs as long as daggers, claws that carved through shields as though they were bark. Its hide was said to drink steel, arrows snapping harmlessly against its flesh.
And worse—when one was slain, its kin would come. Always. As if bound by blood and vengeance.
That was what Garric had sent them against. That was what had torn his companions apart.
He pressed his hands to his face, choking against the sob that clawed at his throat.
Dren's roar as he fell.
Kael's silence.
Rina's scream.
All of it tangled into a single, unbearable weight.
"I ran," Gareth whispered, voice hoarse. "I ran while they died."
The night pressed close, heavy with his confession.
But even as the words left him, another thought clawed its way forward, desperate, insistent.
"I'm guilty…" His hands lowered, his eyes burning red. "…but it's not my fault."
The words shook in the air, raw and trembling. He hated them, feared them, but clung to them all the same.
"I wasn't ready. I couldn't have saved them. Gods, I wanted to, but—I couldn't. I… I'm not strong enough."
He drew his knees tight to his chest, trembling as the city's distant bells echoed faintly on the wind.
"I wanted to be brave. I wanted to be like them. But I'm not."
Tears blurred his sight. And yet… somewhere deep beneath the guilt, beneath the grief, a flicker stirred—a promise unspoken.
In his palm lay a small flower he had torn from the roadside as he ran—its crimson petals delicate, trembling in the wind. A red poppy.
A symbol of fallen warriors.
His tears struck its petals as he let it slip from his grasp. It drifted down to the soil, red against brown, fragile against the weight of death.
And then—
A sting at his shoulder.
He gasped, clutching at the sudden burning in his skin. Unseen hands—unseen will—drove something into him. A drop of blood not his own seeped into his veins.
He collapsed, writhing, but he did not see what came next.
On his shoulder, just below the collarbone, a mark seared itself into existence: a broken sun. Its rays jagged, fractured, yet burning with golden fire. A sigil of power, of destiny.
But Gareth never saw it.
His body went still, unconscious in the dirt. The red poppy lay beside him, petals scattering on the wind, a silent requiem for the warriors he could not save.