The sun was brighter than usual that day, and the ocean blue sky held no clouds, though it was to be expected due to the fact that early spring had arrived in Eirland.

  Soren Taylor sat cross-legged in the tall grass just beyond his home’s garden fence, the field around him seemed to never end. The different types of grass and flora created a sea of green and gold that surrounded him completely.

  The wind blew strands of his dark brown hair across his forehead, and he brushed them away absent mindedly as he focused on the sword laid across his lap.

  It gleamed in the sunlight, a well-forged blade of steel with a black leather-wrapped hilt, and a single yellow gemstone embedded in the cross guard. He wiped a cloth slowly over the length of the blade, careful, treating the blade almost reverently.

  The way Hestus Grey had taught him.

  Hestus was a mentor to him, and one of the best swordsmen in central Eirland, even among knights and soldiers. He was a long time friend of his family, and his father’s best friend from before Soren was even born.

  They were adventurers, but when his father had met his mother, during a journey to aid a village under attack from nearby beasts, he had decided to give up a life of adventuring and settle down.

  From the garden, a soft breeze of wind and wide flickers of heat shimmered in the air as his father, Lukas, practiced his magic.

  Blue sparks formed around his outstretched fingers, rising in density, before vanishing completely. Lukas was a Veteran-rank mage, which was not to be taken lightly, even by adventurer standards.

  In the house behind them, Soren could faintly hear his mother humming a song as she moved about, sweeping or making food for the day, he couldn’t quite tell. It was peace, the kind Soren had grown up with.

  The kind he thought might last forever.

  “Soren!” his mother called from the doorway, voice carrying through the wind. “Lunch!”

  He stood, brushing loose grass from his pants and sliding the sword into its worn leather sheath. “Coming!”

  Inside, the house was warm with the smell of bread and roasted vegetables.

  They sat around the table, Lukas wiping his forehead with a cloth before taking his seat.

  Soren’s mother, Maren Taylor, set down a bowl in front of him, smiling. “What were you doing out there?” she asked as she sat down herself.

  “Cleaning my sword,” Soren replied, picking up his spoon.

  Maren rolled her eyes fondly. “You spend more time with that sword than you do with your own family.”

  Lukas chuckled. “He’s turning into a fine swordsman.”

  Soren smiled at the praise and nodded once, quietly pleased.

  His father took a sip of water, then added, “Hestus will be visiting us tonight.”

  Soren looked up, surprised. “He is? Is he here for training?”

  Lukas shook his head lightly. “No, it's personal business.”

  Soren frowned a little, curious at what that could mean, but he nodded again and finished eating his meal in silence.

  —

  The afternoon had passed slowly. The sun began to dip below the horizon as Soren moved through the motions Hestus had drilled into him. Slashes, guards, parries, they were all natural movements to him by this point in his training.

  The blade moved with ease in his hands now. He could feel the rhythm building in every swing, the way it sliced through the wind after he had picked up a sort of momentum from consecutive attacks.

  By the time dusk had arrived, and the sky had turned orange and pink, a black wooden carriage creaked down the dirt path toward their home. Soren stopped mid-swing, lowering his sword and watching as it rolled, before finally stopping outside the house.

  The horses neighed and stamped their feet against the ground, while four figures stepped down from inside the carriage.

  Hestus stood taller than Soren remembered, broad-shouldered, his once black hair now streaked with grey. Soren’s heart lifted at the sight of him, a mentor, a guardian. “Still at it, I see,” Hestus called out as he approached.

  Soren grinned as he stepped forward, shaking Hestus’ hand. “Just keeping the blade warm.”

  “That’s good to hear. How’s the practice coming?”

  “I’ve gotten better. I’ve been working on the overhead parry, though I’m still not sure I’d be able to hold it in real battle.”

  Hestus grinned and nodded, a look of approval in his eyes, then gestured to the men behind him. “You three, stay here.”

  They were mercenaries, rough looking, all with scars and smug expressions. Soren eyed them with an inexplicable discomfort. Something about the way they looked at the house made him uneasy.

  Lukas emerged from the house, wiping dirt from his hands. “Hestus, it’s good to see you. Come, let’s talk inside.”

  Hestus nodded, and gave Soren a parting pat on the shoulder. “I’ll see you after.”

  Soren nodded, though his eyes couldn’t help but linger on the mercenaries, as the men remained stationary near the carriage, seemingly impatient.

  He wandered back into the field, sword still at his side. The air had cooled down a bit, and the first stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky. He unsheathed the blade, watching the yellow gemstone in the hilt catch the last of the day’s light.

  He closed his eyes, and imagined it: silver armour shining, banners flying in the wind, and the crowd cheering his name. Soren Taylor, Knight of the Flame. Or maybe something cooler, like the Black Hilt. That had a ring to it. He smirked to himself.

  Then, a horrific scream tore through the air. It was high pitched, and undoubtedly terrifying. His smile vanished, and he turned sharply toward the house, heart dropping like an anvil in his chest.

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  Another scream, unmistakably his mother’s voice. Then, only silence followed.

  Soren’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword, and he ran. His feet pounded against the earth, his heart beating harder than ever before. The sun had vanished behind the nearby hills, leaving only a dimming orange glow in the sky, but it wasn’t the nightfall that made his chest tight.

  It was the scream. His mother’s scream.

  He reached the fence and skidded to a stop, eyes wide with adrenaline. There, in front of his home, stood the three mercenaries. One of them turned, and noticed him.

  “What’s the meaning of this?!” Soren shouted, his voice filled with panic.

  One of the men smirked to the others, before turning back to face Soren.

  “Kid shouldn't be a problem.”

  He cracked his neck, before he stepped forward and drew his blade.

  “Stop!” a voice barked from inside the home behind them.

  The mercenary froze, not able to fully draw his sword yet, as Hestus stepped out of the house, his silhouette framed in the doorway from the light within the house.

  Blood had seeped into his clothes, dark and wet, even staining the grey in his beard.

  In his grip was Soren’s mother, Maren, her hair wild and her eyes wide, while her face was streaked with tears.

  Soren stared at the scene unfolding in front of him, unable to speak, unable to move. His breath caught in his chest.

  His mother’s gaze locked with his, her brown eyes glistening with tears.

  “Soren, run!” she cried, her voice raw and broken. “Run, baby, please!”

  But… he couldn’t. His legs wouldn’t listen.

  Hestus's face twitched, a faint tone of regret creeping into his voice. “It’s not necessary. Please… don’t make this harder.”

  Behind him, Lukas stumbled into view, head lowered. He clutched his side, blood pouring through his fingers. His robes were drenched in a shade of dark crimson, and his face was pale.

  “Soren…” he breathed, smiling weakly, staring directly at his son.

  “You’ll be… an astounding young man.”

  Soren’s heart shattered in his chest, he had never heard such a tone of resignation in his fathers voice before.

  “No!” he choked out, taking a step forward, blade shining in his hand.

  “Finish him,” Hestus said.

  The mercenary standing nearest to the doorway gave a nod and obeyed. Without hesitation, he drove his sword through Lukas’ back, not fully at first, but a second thrust of force caused the tip of the blade to protrude through his chest.

  Blood sprayed across the doorway and onto the dirt path leading up to their home, pooling at Lukas’ feet and flowing down, between the grooves and gaps in each step of the stairs.

  Soren flinched. Something warm and wet hit his face, and he felt it trickle down his cheek, until it dripped onto the dirt beneath him.

  His father fell then, knees folding inwards as his body fell back onto the porch, while Maren screamed out of pure horror and shock, tears flowing even more now.

  She tried to speak, attempted to say anything, but the only sounds that left her mouth were inaudible, and fearful enough to send chills through even the most hardened of men.

  The world slowed, as Soren stared at the lifeless body of his father, his mind refusing to accept what he’d seen. The kind, patient man who had spent every morning brewing tea for them, who had taught him to tie knots, and read ancient maps.

  Gone, just like that.

  “You… you bastard!” Maren shouted at Hestus, twisting violently in his grip.

  “You would do this to your best friend?! Over a debt?! What kind of man are you?!”

  Hestus' jaw clenched, and he turned his head away, addressing the mercenaries.

  “Take her to the carriage,” he ordered.

  One of the mercenaries stepped forward and grabbed her roughly. She kicked and screamed as she was dragged away towards the carriage, but it was no use against the brute strength of her attacker.

  Soren’s fingers closed around the hilt of his sword.

  He felt cold.

  Then hot.

  Then furious.

  He let out a yell and lunged forward, blade raised. He slashed wildly, drawing blood from the mercenary’s shoulder. Soren lunged again, going in for another attack, but the mercenary stepped forward, too fast, the cut on his shoulder seemingly doing no damage.

  Soren didn’t even see the punch, he only felt the crushing force against his ribs and the hard slam of the ground against his head as he hit the dirt.

  “Don’t hurt the boy!” Hestus shouted, voice sharp, laced with the tone of command.

  Soren groaned, the world spinning, while his body was now pinned. Two mercenaries held him down, one had his knee pressed into his back while the other had a foot on his head.

  He struggled, growling through gritted teeth. His face was streaked with tears and blood.

  Hestus looked down at him, his expression unreadable. Soren clenched his jaw, and looked up at the man who had once taught him how to parry, how to swing a sword, and how to protect his family one day.

  The man who had murdered his father.

  The man now dragging his mother into the dark.

  Hestus stood over him, the moon now casting long shadows across the field as the mercenaries finally let go of him. Soren tried to stand, but he was too dizzy, and fell back to his knees. His sword was lost somewhere in the nearby grass, while blood was drying on his face.

  His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, but his eyes never left Hestus. The look he held in his gaze could only be described as one of pure rage and malevolence.

  Their eyes locked in silence. A stare down of rage and regret.

  “I didn’t want this,” Hestus said finally, voice low. “None of this. I—”

  He stopped himself. “I loved your father like a brother. You… you were like a son to me.”

  Soren said nothing. His head hung low, dark hair falling like a curtain across his face.

  “You have to believe me,” Hestus tried again, stepping closer, but stopping himself at a certain distance. “This wasn’t meant for you.”

  Soren's body trembled slightly, not in fear, but in an unrelenting fury, held back only by his physical exhaustion.

  Then, trying his hardest to push the words out, his body’s state of shock fighting back against any attempt he made to speak, he forced himself to become verbal.

  “If it’s the last thing I do…”

  His voice cracked slightly, and he swallowed hard, head still lowered and gaze hidden by his hair, which was matted slightly from sweat, dirt, and blood that was not his own.

  “I will… kill you.”

  Silence followed, uneasy and eerie, before he finally looked up at Hestus.

  “I’ll kill you… for this…”

  His fists clenched in the dirt, eyes filled to the brim with anger, sadness, and wrath. Hestus lowered his head, eyes now focused elsewhere, unable to look the boy in his eyes. He didn’t argue. He didn’t even try to defend himself.

  If anything, that had only made Soren more frustrated.

  A flash of guilt passed over his face, before he composed himself, hiding whatever sadness or regret that may have offered him even the slimmest chance of redemption in Soren’s eyes.

  “Knock him out,” he said quietly.

  A sharp crack followed.

  Everything went black.