The village of Greymoor was a quiet, unassuming place nestled at the base of the Eldorian mountains.
Life there was simple—farmers tilled their fields, blacksmiths hammered iron, and merchants bartered over sacks of grain.
The villagers knew little of war or prophecy, and few dared to dream beyond the valley's borders. But Darion was different.
For as long as he could remember, he had felt like an outsider in Greymoor. Though the people were kind and had raised him as one of their own, there was always a lingering sense that he did not truly belong.
The village elder, Master Rowan, had told him countless times of how he was found as a baby, swaddled in a cloak of dark blue fabric embroidered with strange silver runes.
He had been left at the roots of the Ashen Tree—a massive, ancient oak that stood at the heart of the village, its bark gray as the mountains and its branches sprawling like a crown over Greymoor.
Some whispered that he was a gift from the spirits, while others believed he was abandoned by a wandering traveler.
Darion had never known which to believe, but the mystery of his origins was something that had always weighed on him.
On the night of his seventeenth birthday, everything changed.
A storm unlike any Greymoor had seen in decades swept across the valley.
The wind howled like a chorus of spirits, shaking the wooden houses to their foundations.
Rain pounded the earth, and lightning split the sky with blinding flashes, illuminating the mountains in the distance.
Darion lay awake in his small loft above the village stables, staring at the flickering candle by his bedside, an unease curling in his chest.
Then he heard it—a voice, distant yet clear, echoing in his mind.
Come…
It was not a whisper, nor was it a command. It was something deeper, something that resonated within him, pulling at the very essence of his being.
He sat upright, his breath shallow. The pull was undeniable, like an unseen thread tugging at his soul. Without understanding why, he knew he had to follow it.
Throwing on his cloak, Darion slipped out of the loft and into the storm. The village was asleep, windows shuttered against the howling wind.
He moved quickly, his feet splashing through the muddy streets as he made his way beyond the village limits.
The voice called again, guiding him toward the eastern hills—toward the forbidden ruins that lay beyond the reach of Greymoor.
The ruins were ancient remnants of a forgotten time, stone foundations swallowed by moss and time.
The elders forbade anyone from venturing too close, warning of collapsed tunnels and restless spirits.
But Darion had no choice. He climbed the rocky slope, his heart hammering against his ribs as thunder rolled above. Lightning flashed, illuminating the ruins in a ghostly glow.
At the center of the crumbling foundations, the earth had been disturbed. A faint light pulsed beneath the ground, casting eerie shadows across the broken stones.
Darion stepped closer, his breath hitching. The voice in his mind grew louder, urgent.
Beneath…
He knelt and brushed away the loose dirt and debris. His fingers met something cold and smooth. With a final effort, he unearthed it—a blade unlike any he had ever seen.
The sword was long and elegant, its hilt wrapped in silver and dark leather. The crossguard bore intricate etchings of celestial symbols, and along the blade's length, ancient runes shimmered as if alive.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, warmth spread through his body, driving away the cold of the storm.
His mind filled with a rush of memories that were not his own—glimpses of battles long past, of warriors wielding the blade against monstrous shadows.
The Mystic Blade had awakened.
Before he could process what was happening, the ground trembled violently. A deafening crack split the night as the mountain's edge crumbled nearby. Darion staggered back, gripping the sword tightly.
The storm raged on, but the wind carried something new—a sound that made his blood run cold.
Hoofbeats.
Torchlight flickered in the darkness as shadowed figures emerged from the storm, their black armor glistening with rain.
Their eyes burned with an unnatural glow, their presence reeking of malice. They carried the sigil of the Shadow King.
They had come for the blade.
Darion barely had time to react before one of the riders drew a wickedly curved sword and spurred his horse forward.
Panic surged through him—he had never fought before, never even held a blade in battle. He took an instinctive step back.
Then, out of the darkness, an arrow whistled through the air and struck the rider clean through the chest. The soldier fell from his horse with a grunt.
A hooded figure leaped from the shadows, twin daggers flashing in the storm's light. With lethal precision, they cut down another rider before turning to Darion.
"Run!" the stranger ordered, parrying a soldier's strike.
Darion hesitated, but the pull of the blade was stronger than his fear. Gripping it tightly, he turned and fled into the night, the stranger close behind him.
He did not know where he was going, nor what awaited him, but one thing was certain—the world he had known was gone.
And his journey had only just begun.