The next days in Branthollow were restless ones. The Skyblade's descent was on every tongue—at the well, in the tavern, even whispered in the fields. Young men spoke boldly of traveling to the capital to enter the tournament, though few truly meant it. Most were farmers, craftsmen, woodcutters; their roots were sunk too deep into the soil of Branthollow to be pulled free by dreams.
Kael, however, could not shake the fire that had ignited in him. Each night he lay awake, staring at the rafters of the cottage, hearing the voice in his memory: Only the most powerful shall lift it… The words coiled around him like a snare.
On the third morning, he carried his staff not to the hills but into the glade beyond the river. There, where no one watched, he began to train.
At first, his movements were clumsy. He swung the staff as he had against wolves that prowled the flock, but wolves were not demons, and a shepherd's staff was not a warrior's weapon. Still, he practiced. Hour after hour he drove his body harder—running, leaping, striking at unseen foes. His palms blistered, his muscles ached, yet something inside urged him on.
Sometimes, when exhaustion blurred his vision, he felt a strange current move through him, as if the earth itself lent him strength. A strike that should have been weak cracked the air like thunder. A leap carried him higher than he thought possible. Each time, it startled him. Each time, he hungered for more.
---
Family Ties
"Training again?"
Kael froze. Mira stood at the edge of the glade, a basket of herbs in her arms, watching him with raised brows.
"You'll wear yourself into the ground," she said, walking closer. "And for what? To chase after some fairy tale sword?"
Kael leaned on his staff, sweat dripping from his brow. "It's not a fairy tale. You saw the sky, Mira. You heard the voice."
"I heard it," she admitted softly. "But that doesn't mean it was meant for you."
Her words stung more than he expected. He turned away, gazing toward the distant horizon. "Maybe not. But if I don't try… I'll never know. And if no one tries, what happens when the Demon King rises?"
Mira was silent for a long time. Then she set down her basket and stepped closer, placing a hand on his arm. "You're my brother, Kael. I don't want to lose you."
He met her eyes, steady and calm despite the storm in his chest. "You won't lose me. Not if I can help it."
---
The Farewell
That night, Kael spoke with his parents by the hearth. His father listened in silence, eyes shadowed with thought, while his mother's hands twisted in her apron.
"Branthollow needs no heroes, Kael," his father said at last. "We've survived by keeping our heads low, not chasing glory."
"I'm not chasing glory," Kael replied. "I'm answering a call. You heard it too. The Skyblade didn't fall for nothing."
His father sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard. At last, he reached across the table and set his calloused hand on Kael's. "If you go… then go as my son. Not a shepherd, not a dreamer. Go with honor."
His mother's eyes glistened, but she said nothing—only pressed a bundle of food and a wool cloak into his hands.
Before dawn, Kael stood at the edge of the village with his staff across his back, a small pack slung over his shoulder. The hills stretched before him, silvered by moonlight. Beyond them lay the capital, the Skyblade, and the princess he had only ever dreamed of.
He took a deep breath. The air was cool, sharp, full of promise.
"Goodbye, Branthollow," he whispered.
And with that, Kael stepped into the unknown.