The wind that night carried whispers, not air. It slithered down the cobblestones of Blackroot Village, tugging at shutters and trailing along rooftops like a finger across the spine of a book. The villagers stayed inside, doors locked, lamps unlit, as if hiding could make the dark less patient.
All except one corner of the square. There, a single lantern burned stubbornly. Its glow touched the faces of children who had dared to gather, clutching blankets or wooden swords, hearts pounding in rhythm with the cold night.
Beneath it sat a man they called Old Garron.
His armor was a patchwork of rust and dents, his cloak a faded banner of battles long past. One eye, cloudy and blind, stared nowhere in particular; the other burned bright, sharp as broken flint. A greatsword leaned against the bench beside him, wrapped in cloth that looked far too new for the rusted relic it covered.
"Late," he said, his voice a gravelly hum.
"We ran!" a girl protested, cheeks red from the chill. "The fog's moving early!"
"Fog doesn't move," Garron replied. "Things inside it do."
Silence settled for a heartbeat. Then a boy with a wooden sword stepped forward, chin lifted, trying to make bravery look natural.
"Tell the knight story," he said.
Garron's one good eye swept over the children.
"Which one?" he asked.
"The one with the dragon!"
"No—the one who fought the Bone Titan!"
"The one who loved the princess!"
Garron's lips twitched.
"Love," he said slowly, "is far more dangerous than monsters. Monsters break your body. Love can break your oath."
A hush fell. The children leaned closer, though none fully understood.
He adjusted the lantern wick, though it didn't need it. The flame danced as if in agreement.
"The night I remember best," Garron said, "a child was born who made the monsters stop moving."
The small ones gasped.
"They don't stop," a girl whispered.
"They did," Garron said. "Just once. And it was enough."
He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. The wind curled around the square, carrying the scent of wet earth and smoke from distant fires.
"The child was not royal," he continued. "Not chosen by prophecy. Not strong or magical. Simply… alive, and crying at the right moment. That is sometimes enough to make the world pause."
The children shivered, whether from the wind or the weight of the story, Garron could not tell.
"His name," Garron said, voice softer now, "was Aerin."
The name hung in the air, like smoke from the lantern, thin and stubborn.
"Remember this," Garron added. "This is not a story about winning. It is a story about what one gives up to protect what they cannot hold. And sometimes, what you guard most is not the thing the world sees—but the thing it cannot understand."
He leaned back, letting the children digest the words. Somewhere beyond the village, a horn sounded. Something moved in the dark. But under the lantern, nothing stirred.
Not yet.
And Garron, the knight who had seen too much, allowed himself a small, grim smile.
"Listen closely," he said. "Because heroes who get everything they want are usually fictions. And Aerin… was never fiction."
If you want, I can immediately continue Part 2, diving straight into Aerin's childhood, his strange power over monsters, and the first hints of why the knight could never truly hold him—keeping it long, novel-style, and emotional.
Do you want me to do that next?