The Warrior's Vow

The biting wind whipped Kaelen's hair across his face, a familiar sting that did little to cool the fire in his gut. He stood on the ramparts of Aethelgard, the highest point of his kingdom, and gazed out at the bruised twilight sky. Below, the lights of his people's homes twinkled like fallen stars, each one a fragile promise he was sworn to protect. The air tasted of salt and the distant, metallic tang of fear, a constant companion since the day the illusion fractured.

His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, the worn leather a comfort against his calloused palm. It was a blade forged in the fires of necessity, honed by countless hours of training, and now, by something far more potent: a burning, unyielding rage. He drew the steel from its scabbard, the whisper of metal a stark contrast to the roar in his mind. The moonlight caught the edge, a sliver of pure, deadly light. He tested its weight, its balance, feeling the familiar response as if it were an extension of his own body.

“You’ll wear that edge down to nothing if you keep stroking it like that,” a voice rasped from behind him.