Night fell too early that day.
Maybe Arion should've known something was wrong when the air went quiet, or when the dogs wouldn't stop barking at the mountains. But he didn't. Nobody did.
Not until the first house started burning.
By the time the shouts woke him up, the village was already chaos—flames climbing roofs, people running in every direction, and steel flashing in the hands of strangers.
Mercenaries.
Not the good kind.
His father shoved him toward the back door before he could even speak.
"Arion—run. Don't argue. Just run."
His mother's trembling hands pushed him right after.
He obeyed.
Because the look in their eyes wasn't something he'd ever seen before.
Fear.
Real fear.
Arion didn't look back.
He forced his legs to move through the dark, through the smoke, through the wheat fields. The air tasted like ash. His throat burned. His heart felt like it would break through his ribs.
Behind him, the village kept screaming.
He kept running anyway.
A whistle cut through the air.
An arrow hit the ground right next to his foot.
"Found someone! He's heading toward the ruins!"
Damn.
Arion turned and sprinted toward the only place he could hide—the old ruins just beyond the treeline. Nobody went there. Even animals avoided that place.
He didn't care.
Anywhere was better than the blade behind him.
He slipped on loose soil and tumbled down the rocky slope leading to the ruins. Stones scraped his arms. A sharp jab of pain shot through his leg as he hit the bottom.
He groaned, forcing himself up.
The ruins stood silent and broken—half-collapsed walls, moss-covered stones, and darkness seeping through every crack.
He didn't have time to be afraid.
Arion limped forward, searching for anything he could use. A stick. A stone. Anything.
His eyes caught a faint glint near a pile of fallen debris.
He knelt and brushed away the dirt.
A sword.
If you could still call it that.
The blade was rusted from hilt to tip, chipped badly, with cracks running across its spine. The leather on the grip was torn and barely hanging on.
No reason it should still be intact.
But it was.
Arion grabbed it without thinking.
Cold. Solid. Heavy.
More than he expected.
Not a good weapon.
Not even close.
But still a weapon.
At least usable.
Voices echoed from above the slope.
"Check the ruins! He might've fallen inside!"
Arion's pulse jumped.
He tightened his grip around the worn handle.
The sword gave a faint tremor.
Barely noticeable.
Probably his imagination.
Probably adrenaline.
He took a step back, hiding behind one of the broken walls. The shadows welcomed him, thick and unmoving.
Two mercenaries climbed down, scanning the ruins.
"He couldn't have gotten far," one muttered.
Arion held his breath.
"Stupid villagers. Thought they could hide food from us."
"Doesn't matter. We clean up the rest and leave before dawn."
Their boots hit the dirt, coming closer.
Arion swallowed.
He wasn't a fighter.
He'd never been trained.
The most he'd done was swing a stick at tree trunks as a kid.
But empty hands meant dying for sure.
With this sword, even rusted…
Maybe he had a chance.
A stupid chance, but still a chance.
He shifted slightly, preparing to move.
The sword pulsed.
Once.
Soft.
Almost like a heartbeat.
Arion froze.
"What—"
A foot crashed into the stone by his hiding spot.
One mercenary had spotted the movement.
"There!"
Arion moved on instinct.
He swung.
A wild, clumsy slash—not guided by skill, not by training, just pure survival. The mercenary blocked easily, but the impact surprised both of them. The rusted blade didn't shatter. It didn't bend.
It held.
Arion's arms shook from the force, but he gritted his teeth and shoved forward.
The mercenary kicked him back. Arion hit the wall hard, vision blurring for a moment.
The second mercenary laughed.
"Kid thinks he's a swordsman."
Arion didn't answer.
He stood again.
Leg trembling.
Breath short.
But he didn't drop the sword.
The first mercenary stepped in, raising his blade.
"Alright, boy. Let's end this—"
The ruins flickered.
For a brief heartbeat, everything around Arion dimmed—like someone had blown out all the torches in the world. The air shifted. Cold. Heavy. Wrong.
A whisper slipped past Arion's ear.
Not from the men.
Not from the ruins.
From the sword.
"…run…"
Arion's eyes widened.
He didn't wait to question it.
He dodged sideways, sprinting deeper into the ruins while the mercenaries cursed and chased after him. His leg screamed with each step, but stopping wasn't an option.
Not now.
Not after hearing that voice.
The ruins twisted into darkness as he ran. The night closed around him. The mercenaries' footsteps echoed behind him.
Arion stumbled, breath tearing out of him.
He didn't know why the sword whispered.
He didn't know why it trembled in his hand.
He didn't know why it felt warm now.
But he did know one thing:
This wasn't just a broken weapon.
Something was inside it.
Something awake.
Something aware.
And for the first time since the attack began…
Arion didn't feel completely alone.