Kael sat cross-legged on the floor while his grandparents stared at his hands like they had just seen a ghost.
The crackle of the fire filled the silence. Outside, the night winds swept across the rooftops of the village.
Finally, his grandfather spoke.
"Boy… do you know what you've done?"
Kael blinked. "Uh… yes? I found some gloves. I punched a giant boar. I survived. You're welcome."
His grandmother smacked the back of his head.
"Don't joke about this, Kael Stormound. Those aren't ordinary gloves. Those are relics. Cursed relics."
Kael rubbed his head, frowning. "You keep saying that word—relic. What does that even mean? They're just gloves that… turn stuff into cooler stuff."
"Exactly," his grandfather muttered grimly. "That is the problem."
He leaned forward, his weathered eyes glinting in the firelight.
"Listen carefully, boy. Centuries ago, before you or I were born, there was a warlord who nearly drowned Eatheria in blood. His name was lost to history—people only remember him as the Chaos Wielder."
Kael's grin faded slightly. "…Sounds friendly."
His grandmother folded her arms tightly. "The Chaos Wielder wore those very gloves. With them, he could twist the world to his will. A pebble could become a bomb. A stick could become a blade sharper than steel. He was unstoppable."
Kael's gaze dropped to his hands. The gloves pulsed faintly, almost as if proud of their reputation.
"What happened to him?" he asked quietly.
His grandfather's jaw tightened.
"The world united against him. Heroes, hunters, kings, even monsters themselves. They say he was finally slain after a battle that split the skies open and set mountains ablaze. But the gloves… the Gloves of Chaos… were never destroyed. They vanished."
His grandmother's voice trembled. "And now… they've chosen you."
The fire popped. Kael sat in stunned silence for a moment, then forced a laugh.
"Hah! Okay, great story, very spooky. But come on. Look at me. Do I look like a world-destroying warlord? I can't even finish chores without nearly burning the house down."
Neither of his grandparents laughed.
Kael's smile faltered. "…You're serious."
His grandmother grabbed his hands suddenly, squeezing them tight. "Kael, listen to me. Those gloves will whisper to you. They will tempt you. The more you use them, the stronger they will become… and the more they will try to consume you."
Kael felt the gloves tighten against his skin, as if reacting to her words. For a split second, he swore he heard a chuckle echo faintly in his head.
He yanked his hands back, hiding them in his lap.
"…So what do I do? Just… throw them away?"
His grandfather shook his head. "If it were that simple, they'd have been destroyed long ago. Relics like these don't vanish just because you want them to. They've chosen you, Kael. And until the day they release you—or you master them—you will never be free."
Kael stared at the gloves, his throat tight.
He thought of his parents. He thought of the monster that had killed them, its wings blotting out the sky.
Then he clenched his fists.
"Fine," he said, his voice steady despite the fear in his chest. "If these gloves chose me, then I'll use them. I'll fight monsters. I'll protect people. And if they try to control me…"
His grin returned, sharp and defiant.
"…then they picked the wrong Stormound."
The gloves pulsed again, as if pleased.
But in the silence of the night, Kael wasn't sure if the heartbeat he heard was his own… or theirs.