Long before the maps were finished and the roads were named, there lay a stretch of land where the wind remembered things better left forgotten. These were the Whispering Hills—a rolling sea of emerald slopes that rose and fell like the breath of a sleeping giant. By day they looked harmless, even beautiful. By night, they spoke.
No one could say exactly when the whispering began. Some claimed it was the voices of ancient kings buried beneath the grass. Others swore it was the hills themselves, murmuring to the stars. Whatever the truth, every child in the nearby village of Eldermere was warned of the same thing:
Do not walk the hills after sunset.
Naturally, this made them irresistible.
On the evening the story truly began, the sun dipped low and painted the sky in copper and blood-red hues. Aerin Vale, barely sixteen and already too curious for his own good, stood at the edge of the last stone cottage, staring toward the hills. The wind tugged at his cloak as if urging him forward.
He had heard the whispers before—faint, almost gentle, like a half-remembered dream. Tonight, however, they were clearer.
Calling him by name.
"Aerin," they sighed, weaving through the tall grass. "Aerin Vale…"
His heart pounded. He told himself it was only the wind. It always was. And yet, the silver amulet at his chest—his mother's last gift—had begun to grow warm.
Against every warning he had ever received, Aerin stepped beyond the village boundary stone.
The hills welcomed him.
As he climbed, the air changed—thicker, older. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, and the moon rose too quickly, pale and watchful. The whispers grew louder, overlapping, arguing, pleading.
Come closer.
It has begun.
The seal is breaking.
Aerin reached the crest of the tallest hill just as the wind fell silent.
Before him, the earth split open—not violently, but slowly, like a waking eye. From the glowing fissure rose a soft blue light, and within it, the outline of something impossibly old.
A sword.
Its blade shimmered as if forged from moonlight, and runes along its length pulsed in time with Aerin's heartbeat. The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, the hills cried out—not in whispers now, but in a single thunderous voice that echoed across the land.
"The Heir Has Answered."
Far away, unseen towers stirred. Creatures long asleep opened ancient eyes. And in Eldermere, the village bells rang though no hand touched them.
Aerin Vale did not yet know it, but the world had just taken its first step toward war.
And there would be no turning back.
The echo of the words lingered long after the hills fell silent.
The Heir Has Answered.
Aerin staggered back, his breath ragged, the sword still humming beneath his fingertips. The blue light dimmed slightly, no longer blazing, but alive—aware. The fissure in the earth remained open, warm air rising from it like the breath of some great, unseen creature. His heart thundered so loudly he was certain the hills could hear it.
"I didn't mean to—" he whispered, though he did not know to whom he spoke. "I don't even know what I've done."
The sword pulsed once in response.
Slowly, almost reverently, Aerin wrapped both hands around the hilt and pulled.
The blade slid free of the earth without resistance, as though it had been waiting for centuries for that single motion. The fissure closed behind it, sealing itself until only scorched stone remained. When the sword was fully revealed, moonlight washed over it, and the runes along its length burned brighter than before—ancient symbols etched so deeply they seemed less carved than grown.
Aerin dropped to one knee.
The power flowing through him was not pain, nor was it pleasure. It was memory. Images flooded his mind—vast stone halls beneath starlit domes, banners snapping in cold winds, a city crowned by silver towers. He saw warriors kneeling, not in fear, but in oath. He felt the weight of command settle upon his shoulders, heavier than any blade.
And then it was gone.
The sword dimmed, its glow softening until it resembled polished steel beneath moonlight. The hills exhaled, and the night returned to itself—crickets chirring, grass whispering softly, the distant hoot of an owl reclaiming the silence.
Aerin rose slowly to his feet.
The sword was warm in his hands, balanced perfectly, as though forged for him alone. He should have been terrified. Instead, a strange calm settled over him, like the moment before a storm breaks.
That was when he heard it.
Hoofbeats.
He froze.
From the northern ridge, dark shapes crested the hills—riders, silhouetted against the moon. At least five, maybe more. They moved with purpose, their horses cutting through the tall grass as if guided by unseen paths.
Someone else had heard the call.
Aerin's thoughts raced. He had no training, no armor, no plan. Instinct screamed at him to run. He turned and fled down the slope, the sword held awkwardly at his side, its weight now unmistakably real.
Behind him, a horn sounded—low and mournful.
They had seen him.
Eldermere lay quiet under the moon, unaware of the storm about to break upon it. Lanterns glowed faintly behind shuttered windows, and smoke curled lazily from a few chimneys where hearth fires still burned. The village bells, which had rung without touch moments earlier, now stood silent and accusing.
Aerin burst from the hills, lungs burning, cloak torn, boots caked in mud. He sprinted through the fields, vaulting the boundary stone as if chased by death itself.
Which, in truth, he was.
He ducked between cottages, slipping through familiar alleys, the sounds of pursuit fading behind him. At the far end of the village stood the old mill—abandoned since the river changed its course years ago. Its doors hung crooked, its wheel long since rotted away.
Aerin shoved his way inside.
Dust filled the air, choking and thick. He pressed his back against the wall, sword clutched tightly, every sense straining for sound. Outside, hooves thundered past the village edge, voices shouting orders he could not hear clearly.
They were searching.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time seemed unsteady, bending around his fear.
At last, silence.
Aerin slid down the wall and sat heavily on the cold stone floor. His hands shook. He stared at the sword across his knees, its surface reflecting his own wide-eyed stare back at him.
"What are you?" he whispered.
The runes flickered faintly, then stilled.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
Aerin spun, blade raised.
"Easy, boy," came a calm, familiar voice. "If I meant you harm, you'd already be dead."
Relief crashed over him so suddenly he nearly collapsed.
Standing in the doorway was Bram Holloway, the village trapper—broad-shouldered, grey-bearded, with eyes sharper than any blade. He carried no torch, yet his gaze went immediately to the sword.
"So," Bram said softly, closing the door behind him. "It's true."
"You know about it?" Aerin asked.
"I know more than I ever wanted to," Bram replied. "And less than I should." He nodded toward the sword. "That's Moonsteel. I'd hoped never to see it again."
Again.
Aerin's blood ran cold. "You've seen it before?"
Bram's jaw tightened. "Once. Long ago. And it cost us dearly."
Outside, another horn sounded—farther away this time.
"They'll be back," Bram said. "And next time, they won't be searching blindly."
"What do I do?" Aerin asked, his voice barely steady.
Bram met his gaze. "You leave. Tonight."
They departed before dawn.
Bram led Aerin through the old river path, away from the roads, toward the eastern forests where the trees grew so close together even moonlight struggled to reach the ground. As they walked, Bram spoke—of kingdoms that no longer appeared on maps, of a realm called Lunareth, where kings ruled by oath rather than crown, and of a blade bound not to blood, but to choice.
"The sword doesn't make you king," Bram said as they paused beside a stream. "It asks if you are worthy."
"Of what?" Aerin asked.
Bram's expression darkened. "Of the burden."
The sky lightened as dawn crept over the horizon. Birds began to sing, unaware that the world had shifted in the night. Aerin looked back once, toward the hills now bathed in soft gold. They stood silent, peaceful—keeping their secrets once more.
He did not know if he would ever see them again.
By the time the sun rose fully, Eldermere was already far behind them.
And somewhere beyond the forests, forces long asleep were gathering—drawn by a whisper that had finally been answered.