The Stirring Shadow
Jett watched the direction Aren had gone.
He stood there long after the boy's figure vanished beyond the trees.
The wind brushed against his silver hair.
"…So it begins," he murmured.
With a quiet sigh, he unsheathed his sword and stepped into the forest.
His pace was neither hurried nor slow — deliberate. Measured.
Then—
He stopped.
The forest had gone silent.
No insects.
No birds.
Only the faint rustle of leaves.
Jett's single sharp eye scanned the darkness between the trees.
"I know you're there," he said calmly.
"Reveal yourself."
For a moment—
Nothing.
Then the shadows shifted.
From between the trees emerged something grotesque.
Three meters tall.
Its body twisted and elongated, covered in dozens of unblinking eyes that rolled independently across slick, black flesh. Its limbs bent at unnatural angles, claws digging into the soil as if the earth itself rejected it.
It did not roar.
It only breathed.
Wet.
Heavy.
Jett showed no fear.
"I've killed your kind before," he said quietly.
"Many times."
Though older now, the aura around him did not waver. To him, a single creature like this was no threat.
What unsettled him was something else.
"For the Abyss' influence to reach a village this remote…"
His gaze hardened.
"The kingdom has grown weak."
The creature suddenly lunged.
It moved like an arrow loosed from a bow — fast enough to split the air.
But faster—
Lightning flashed.
Steel sang.
In a single fluid motion, Jett stepped forward.
One strike.
Then another.
Then a third.
The creature froze mid-movement.
A thin line of silver traced across its body—
And it split apart into dozens of pieces.
The forest fell silent again.
Jett wiped the blade once against the grass before sliding it back into its sheath.
The entire fight had lasted less than a breath.
But his expression did not relax.
"…Scouts."
That meant something larger was moving.
And soon.
Meanwhile—
Aren had already reached the village.
Smoke rose lazily from chimneys. Children ran across dirt paths. The warm noise of evening life filled the air.
Villagers greeted him with smiles.
"Back from training already?" one woman called.
Aren waved casually.
Tod, a broad-shouldered young man a few years older than him, approached with a grin.
"How was training today? Where's the village chief?"
Aren shrugged.
"Jett said he had something to handle in the forest. Told me to head back."
Tod raised a brow.
"Oh? That old man never misses dinner."
He leaned closer.
"Someone important came from the Mountain Temple."
Aren blinked.
"The temple?"
"Yeah. They're gathering names. Probably for the Selection Ceremony."
Aren's expression shifted slightly.
The Selection.
Three days away.
"Where is he now?" Aren asked.
"Probably at the village shrine."
That was all Aren needed to hear.
"Thanks, Tod."
He broke into a run.
The small stone shrine stood at the edge of the village, candles flickering within its open doorway.
Aren slowed as he approached.
For some reason—
The air felt heavier here.
Colder.
He stepped inside.
Kneeling before the altar was a man dressed in white and gold ceremonial robes. His hair was dark, neatly tied behind him.
What caught Aren's attention was the symbol embroidered across the man's back.
Not a scale.
A blazing sun.
Its rays spread outward in perfect symmetry — the sacred mark of the Goddess of Light.
Only those who had received her blessing were permitted to bear that emblem.
And judging from the man's polished white-and-gold armor resting beside the altar, he was no ordinary priest.
A Palatine.
One of the temple's holy knights.
The man slowly rose to his feet.
He turned.
Sharp features. Calm eyes. A faint, practiced smile.
He studied Aren for several seconds before speaking.
"And what might your name be, young one?"
His tone was gentle.
Measured.
But his gaze was not.
Aren felt it.
He wasn't being greeted.
He was being evaluated.
Aren tilted his head slightly.
"Isn't it proper to introduce yourself before asking someone else's name?"
The candles flickered.
For a brief moment, silence lingered between them.
Then—
The man laughed softly.
Not mockingly.
But with interest.
"Well said."
He placed a hand over his chest and bowed slightly.
"Sir Caelum Vaelor. Palatine of the Radiant Temple."
His voice carried quiet authority.
"Now," Caelum continued, straightening, "may I know who stands before me?"
Aren met his gaze without lowering his eyes.
"Aren."