Theo's fingers brushed over the silver insignia tied to his belt—a memory of home, and a reminder of what was at stake. Kaleon, walking just ahead, turned slightly, sensing a shift in the wind. He lifted his hand, signaling Theo to halt.
The forest went still.
Then came the sound: a low, thunderous growl. It echoed unnaturally, as though the trees themselves were holding their breath. From the shadows, they emerged—four High Orcs, each nearly eight feet tall, sinewed with thick muscle and covered in crude armor fashioned from bone, leather, and rusted metal. Their faces were twisted caricatures of man and beast, tusks jutting upward like curved daggers. Their eyes glowed faintly red.
Kaleon whispered, "They're raiders."
Theo didn't reply. He drew his small blade, hand trembling but firm.
The orcs charged.
What followed was chaos.
The first orc swung a massive spiked club, crashing it down where Kaleon had stood mere heartbeats before. He rolled aside, drawing his blade in a flash and slashing the creature's thigh. The orc bellowed in pain, a sound so deep it made the ground quiver. Theo, smaller and swifter, darted behind the second orc, slicing at the exposed back of its knee. Blood sprayed. The beast stumbled.
But these were not ordinary foes. These were High Orcs—beings bred for war and destruction.
One of them caught Theo square in the chest with the broad side of a crude axe. The blow launched him backward like a ragdoll, cracking against the trunk of an ancient tree. Blood splattered across bark. Theo slumped to the ground, unmoving.
"Theo!" Kaleon screamed, voice cracked and desperate. His distraction cost him.
The largest orc grabbed him by the arm and hurled him into the dirt. Before he could scramble to his feet, another slammed a heavy boot into his ribs. The pain was searing, white-hot. Kaleon gasped, coughed—blood gushed from his mouth. The world began to blur.
Above him, the orcs loomed. One reached down, lifted him by the hair. Another slung Theo over its shoulder. They grunted in guttural tongues, perhaps deciding whether to eat or enslave.
But something stirred.
Within the core of their broken bodies, a flicker of something deeper than mere life—aether, newly awakened within them—began to pulse. In Theo, the soul gate—the dormant inner channel—responded to pain and desperation. His eyes fluttered open, irises now veined with glowing blue.
Kaleon's vision cleared. His heartbeat thudded unnaturally loud. Then he felt it—like a storm trying to escape his chest.
The seal broke.
Kaleon erupted with a blast of pale aether-light, knocking the orc holding him several feet back. Theo's body arched as his own gate flared to life, though still dormant in function, it poured raw energy into his limbs. He leapt from the orc's shoulder, landing with a thud and rolling into a crouch. Blood ran down his chin, but he grinned savagely.
"Round two," he rasped.
The orcs regrouped, confused but undeterred. They charged.
Kaleon ducked low under a sweeping axe, then channeled his aether—not as a spell, but as strength. He struck the orc in the jaw with such force the bones cracked audibly. Theo danced between two others, blade whirling, energy trailing his strikes like comet tails.
Kaleon and Theo fought not like children, but like warriors possessed. Their pain became fury, their fear became fire.
One orc lunged at Kaleon, who summoned the latent memory of his father's sword forms. He ducked, swept the legs, then plunged his blade into the beast's throat. Black blood geysered. Theo, meanwhile, leapt off a stump and drove his dagger into the eye of another, hanging onto its head as it stumbled backward before toppling.
But the largest one remained.
It roared, lifting an axe the size of a coffin lid. It slammed the ground near Theo, who was thrown off balance. The orc reached down, grabbing Kaleon by the throat. Kaleon's vision dimmed again—but then, with a cry that felt like his very soul tearing free, he unleashed another surge of aether.
The seal on his soul gate pulsed—still dormant, but cracked.
Kaleon's entire body burned with power. With one final, desperate strike, he drove his blade up into the orc's chin, through the tongue, through the brain. The creature went limp.
Silence fell.
Theo stumbled over, clutching his side. His tunic was torn, soaked with blood, dirt, and sweat. His face—pale, lips cracked—held a flicker of exhausted triumph.
"We… alive?" he wheezed, dropping beside Kaleon with a crooked smile.
Kaleon didn't answer at first. He stared at the blood-stained dirt, breaths ragged, ribs burning with every inhale. Then, with effort, he lifted his gaze to Theo, and a small, bitter laugh escaped his cracked lips. "Somehow," he rasped. "Somehow, we're still breathing."
The battlefield around them was a graveyard of monsters, but their eyes were already shifting to what lay beyond.
Among the corpses, they scavenged what little loot they could—bone rings, rusted coins, a dagger of obsidian. But it was the map—torn and bloodied—clutched in the dead hand of the largest orc that caught Kaleon's eye.
He pried it free, fingers trembling. The parchment was thick and ancient, scrawled with sigils and marked with a crimson seal.
"Theo… look at this," he said, voice hoarse.
They unfolded it together, kneeling side by side beneath the fading golden light. It depicted a region unknown to them. Hidden paths wound through dark symbols and unnamed dangers. At the bottom, etched in faded glyphs:
Heartsway Hollow — The Lure Beneath the Leaves
As they stared, the map shimmered faintly. A soft, floral scent escaped its folds—unnatural, yet oddly inviting. Theo's fingers curled over the edge of the paper. "It's calling us," he said quietly. "Like it knows who we are."
"It marked us," Kaleon whispered. "We didn't just survive. We were chosen."
A moment passed in silence.
In the distance, just beyond the trees, the crude encampment came into view. They limped to it, moving like ghosts through the ruins. The air reeked of rot and blood, but near the center, tied beneath a wooden awning, stood two dark-coated horses—sinewy and strong. Stolen, perhaps… or abandoned by the fallen.
Theo leaned on Kaleon as they approached. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
Kaleon grunted, reaching for the reins. "I'm thinking we ride until the road runs out."
As they mounted, the horses stamped and neighed, as if sensing the strange energy within their new riders. Dusk wrapped the forest in deepening blues, fireflies igniting like stars among the shadows.
Theo glanced sideways at Kaleon. "Do you think they'd be proud of us? Your father. My brother."
Kaleon stared ahead, eyes hard. "They'll know when we return. Not as boys…"
He tightened the reins.
"…but as legends."
Without another word, they kicked the horses into motion.
Through the rustling leaves and fading sun, they rode. The map, tucked safe within Kaleon's cloak, pulsed faintly, guiding them.
They did not look back.
Fire had tested them. Blood had bound them.
And the road ahead was calling.