Smoke came first.
It curled over the treetops in thick, heavy clouds—dark as coal, stinging the air. Tikshn saw it as he climbed the hill overlooking Rihn, wooden practice sword slung across his back. The sky was bleeding black.
He ran.
By the time he returned to the village square, the elders were gathered in frantic circles, shouting over one another.
"They've set fire to the southern trail!"
"They want tribute!"
"We have no silver!"
"What about grain? Pottery?"
"What they want," came a voice from the crowd, "is fear. And we have that."
Tikshn searched the faces until he found his father. Aram's hands were covered in clay, still damp from the wheel, his eyes hardened in a way Tikshn had never seen. His mother stood beside him, clutching Kirin and Pell, trying to soothe them while keeping her own voice from trembling.
"Father," Tikshn gasped, "what's happening?"
Aram didn't look at him. He spoke quietly, to no one in particular. "A remnant sect. A failed martial clan turned raiders. They roam now—feeding on weak villages that can't fight back."
"Then let me fight," Tikshn said, gripping the hilt of his practice sword.
At that, his father did look at him—and there was something unbearably gentle in his eyes.
"Tikshn… this isn't a story. This isn't a play. This is real."
"I know it's real." Tikshn's voice rose. "I can fight. I've trained—"
"You've played." Aram gripped his shoulders. "You don't win wars with wooden swords."
That hurt more than any wound. But Tikshn didn't back down.
Saren appeared at his side, breathless, holding a small pack. "You need to hide," she said. "Take your siblings into the forest. I'll come with you."
"No." Tikshn's voice shook. "I can't run. I won't."
"They'll kill you," she said. "This isn't your fight."
"It is now."
He turned away before she could say more.
The invaders came at dusk. They wore black and rust-colored robes—tattered remnants of once-noble uniforms. Their leader, a one-eyed man with silver streaks in his beard, rode at the head on a pale horse. His sword was clean. His smile was not.
They gave no warning.
They didn't need to.
Huts were torched. Pots were smashed. Livestock slaughtered. They demanded grain, women, tools—whatever could be carried.
Tikshn stood in the square with his wooden sword drawn, facing them.
"Move, boy," one of them said, not even drawing his blade. "This doesn't concern you."
Tikshn didn't move.
So the man did.
A blur of motion. A backhand with the sheath—not even the blade—sent Tikshn flying into the dirt. His vision spun. Blood filled his mouth. He heard laughter.
Then screams.
When he opened his eyes, he saw his father—rushing forward with a kiln paddle like a shield.
"Leave the boy!" Aram roared.
The man turned.
And cut him down.
One stroke. Clean. Unceremonious.
Tikshn's scream tore from somewhere deep—too primal to be called a cry. He tried to stand, but something in his ribs was broken. His wooden sword lay beside him. Powerless.
All around him, the village burned.
His mother was pulled from their home, still trying to shield Kirin. Pell had disappeared into the smoke. Tikshn could do nothing. He had no cultivation. No strength. Only a body barely grown and a weapon made of dreams.
He saw the leader—the one-eyed man—watching it all from atop his horse like a painter admiring his own art.
Saren appeared again—dragging Kirin behind her, face streaked with ash. She knelt beside Tikshn, holding him, tears in her eyes.
"Please," she begged, "stay down. You'll die."
But Tikshn's hand reached blindly for the wooden sword.
"I don't care."
"You can't win."
"I'm not trying to win," he whispered. "I'm trying to matter."
Before he could stand again, the world went black.
He awoke hours later, in the forest, in a bed of ferns and cold dirt. The firelight was gone. The screaming had ended.
Saren had carried him. He didn't know how far. She sat beside him, covered in blood—not her own—holding his broken sword like a relic.
"They took everything," she whispered. "Your mother. Your sister. Most of the village."
Tikshn stared into the night sky.
"I had a sword," he said hollowly. "And it meant nothing."
Saren didn't answer. She only wrapped her fingers around his and said softly, "That's because it wasn't the sword that was weak."
He didn't sleep that night.
Something inside him had been severed—clean as his father's life. The boy who dreamed of glory died in the fire. What rose from the ashes would not dream.
It would forge itself in truth.