The morning air bit lightly at his skin. It smelled of wet earth and smoke drifting from the village hearths. Vaan slipped into a light tunic. It was simple, functional and meant to be worn beneath an armor. The fabric clung to his skin with the slight chill of dawn, but he barely noticed. Today was enlistment day.

  When he finally made it to the watchtower, only a few others had shown up. The wooden structure stood tall at the edge of the village, solid but clearly worn from years of battling the elements. A ladder led up to the lookout, where a lone guard was slouched against the railing, eyes fixed on the horizon. Down below, the meeting area was just a small patch of open ground next to the palisade, with an old weapons rack leaning off to one side.

  Tal showed up not long after, moving with the steady confidence of someone who already belonged here. He would make a solid fit for the Watch, his Guardsman class lending itself well to the role. He just needed to keep his mouth shut. Not everyone took to his humor well. And then there was Risa whose presence he had not expected.

  Vaan turned toward her, raising a brow. "Didn’t think you’d sign up."

  Risa smirked, adjusting the bow slung over her shoulder. "I don’t. Aiming to be in reserve."

  It made sense. Hunters weren’t full-time Watchmen, but the role came with privileges... Discounted gears, access to weapons, free use of the training grounds. A smart trade for little commitment.

  Only three other initiates showed up for enlistment as they waited. A Spearman, a Brawler, and a wiry boy he had seen somewhere with a strange class: Quickfeet. No sign of Ronald.

  Vaan had checked on him the day before. The boy had been glad for company, but pain still clung to his features. The missing ear made him look... off. The apprentice healer had done well. The wound was clean, neat. But it still felt wrong. Ronald had thanked him for the salves he'd taken from his mother’s cabinet.

  In any case, Vaan wondered about the low turnout.

  He had seen plenty of initiates during the ceremony and he recalled many had gotten combat classes. But looking around now, most of those faces were missing. Likely they had either not enlisted or perhaps they had moved on to neighboring villages where they could start afresh with their classes? There were two other small settlements on the west after which there were the mountain ranges of Gogor and then ocean. At the north were several happening towns and villages embroiled in conflict. Many of the folks who had come for initiation were from these western and northern settlements.

  Wragford? Just a dot on the map. As Garix had said, a handful of Watchmen was plenty here.

  The Ashwa Kingdom’s summons came every so often, and when they did, Petros would send out a few of his men to serve in the imperial army. They always came back stronger, and with heavier coin purses. Few took a liking to adventure and moved on to the towns and cities. But Petros himself? Vaan couldn’t recall him ever leaving the village.

  And now Petros stood before them. His presence was solid, unshaken, like the heavy timber beams of the watchtower.

  “We don’t need a lot of stupid men,” he said bluntly, voice like iron scraping against stone as his eyes swept over them. “Or women”, his gaze paused on Risa’s bow, then swept across the rest.

  “What we do need is the good ones. Who can stand firm for the village and protect it when needed. This isn’t for coin.”

  A pause.

  “If you want only gold, walk away. There are better jobs out there that would align with your interests. This job is for giving back to the village. Respect, honor and satisfaction for a job well done will be your rewards. And some coin on the side. If you feel it is not enough, speak now.”

  Vaan stayed silent. So did the others. Vaan didn't care about coin though he would rather have more of them than less. He didn’t plan to stay on the watch forever though. Someday he would leave the village to the southern or northern settlements which offered more adventure. Maybe he will join the imperial army and gain experience. See the world, grow stronger.

  Spending an entire life in Wragford, never seeing what lay beyond the forests and hills felt tragic. Even Risa, sharp-eyed and strong-willed as he recalled from their shared childhood, had dreams of exploration beyond the village. Maybe someone like Elijah, who lived in pages and quiet thoughts, could find contentment here. But Vaan couldn’t. That life wasn’t for him.

  Petros frowned. It was as if he was expecting one of them to balk.

  Vaan saw it too. They didn’t need this many recruits. Not in Wragford! Someone would be sent away.

  He thought it would be Quickfeet.

  But it wasn’t.

  Petros’s gaze settled on the Brawler.

  “Thomas,” he said. “Come back next year. If we’re short, maybe then.”

  The boy stiffened. “What? Why?”

  Petros crossed his arms. “The Watch doesn’t need lone fighters. We need teamwork. Brawlers don’t fit.”

  Thomas stared; jaw tight. Petros softened a little.

  “Vic’s still in town. He made it without the Watch. Go talk to him.”

  The boy didn’t reply. Just turned and walked away. His glare burned into their backs as he left.

  Then came the oath.

  One by one, they spoke the words Petros demanded of them. A vow of service, a promise to protect.

  Vaan said them without hesitation, feeling the weight of them settle into his chest.

  This was it.

  He was part of the Watch.

  After the oath, there was no celebration. No handshake. No warm welcome.

  Just Petros giving a curt nod and muttering, “Training begins now.”

  The clearing behind the eastern watchtower was little more than packed earth and sun-bleached training dummies, with a rack of battered shields leaning against a fence like forgotten relics. Beside it, a wooden crate sat half-sunk into the mud. The lid creaked when Petros kicked it open with a boot.

  “Spears,” he said simply.

  Vaan peered in. The weapons inside were plain shafts of wood tipped with blunt iron heads. Scarred, chipped, and dull with use. Training spears. The real Watchmen carried better ones! He’d seen them during festivals and village alerts, shining under sunlight, their grips wrapped in treated leather. But these looked like they'd seen two generations of recruits.

  He picked one that felt right. It had a bit of a curve in the shaft, but the balance was decent.

  “Thrust, parry, withdraw,” Petros said, standing before them like a black cliff in the morning sun. “Again. And again. No flair. No spins.”

  They lined up, four across! Vaan, Tal, Risa, and the Quickfeet boy. Risa adjusted her grip awkwardly. Spears weren’t her thing. Her fingers naturally twitched toward the quiver that wasn’t there.

  “You serious about this, bowgirl?” Tal asked, grinning.

  Risa smirked, stabbing forward. “I can still poke a rat’s eye with this.”

  Petros didn’t smile. He watched silently, arms folded, eyes moving from footwork to elbows to wrists. He corrected no one. Just took note. Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward the tower.

  The old man who replaced him had a wiry frame, his muscles lean but defined. Deep wrinkles and a jutting jaw gave him a permanent scowl.

  “Name’s John.” he said without fanfare, planting his spear in the dirt.

  Vaan knew him of course. He had visited Garix aplenty and had always been kind and up for a laugh. Now in duty, his eyes didn't show any form of recognition.

  John Allweather

  Level 24

  Tal whistled. “That’s near the milestone!” If he reached Level 25, he would be awakened!

  “Precisely why I don’t have time to babysit! All of you! Line up and RUN”

  They blinked at him.

  Tal blinked. “Running? With the spears?”

  John stabbed a finger toward the watchground perimeter. “Ten laps. Spear in thrust position. First five laps anticlockwise! Keep the spear to your right. After that, clockwise! Switch to your left. Don’t drag your feet. Don’t drop the weapon. GO.”

  Tal groaned, but Vaan was already moving. The hard-packed dirt made for a decent track, circling the main clearing and passing by the training dummies, the fence, the old sheds.

  The first few laps were manageable. Vaan’s grip stayed steady; the spear held out like a lance. His right arm burned from the awkward tension, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through. Risa started strong but slowed after three laps, shaking out her wrist. “Didn’t sign up for frontline drills!”, she panted.

  Tal lagged behind after lap five, muttering curses between gasps.

  Quickfeet… what was his name again? started with energy, light on his feet, but his posture was off. His spear wobbled with each stride, and by the fourth lap, he was already adjusting his grip often.

  At lap five, John barked from the center, “SWITCH!”

  The direction changed. Now clockwise, with the spear in the left hand. That was worse. Vaan’s form dipped slightly. His off hand wasn’t as steady, but he held his pace. Quickfeet’s breathing was audible now, heavier and more ragged with each lap.

  Lap seven. Quickfeet stumbled and dropped his spear with a curse. He bent to grab it, falling further behind.

  Lap eight. Vaan pushed ahead, sweat streaming down his temples, but his legs still held steady.

  Lap nine. His shoulder throbbed. His lungs burned. But he could see the end.

  Lap ten. He didn’t sprint. He didn’t lunge. He just focused and endured, finishing with a grim, silent determination a good stretch ahead of the rest.

  Vaan stopped, chest heaving, hands numb around the shaft of the spear. But he’d finished. First.

  “Not bad,” John said, voice flat. “Next time, don’t wobble when switching arms.”

  Risa was sitting on a log, already sipping from the water ladle. Tal lay flat on his back in the grass, wheezing. “I hate running,” he croaked.

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  Vaan didn’t say anything. He just drank deep from the barrel and let the cold water settle the fire in his chest.

  Two older Watchmen leaned against the fence, watching them with half-smirks and crossed arms.

  One of them called out, “That a parade or a workout? Thought the Watch trained fighters, not marchers!”

  Tal, still red-faced, sat up with a sheepish grin. “We just swore the oath!”

  The man snorted. “Oath’s good. Now swear to hold that spear like it won’t poke your eye out.”

  They walked off, still chuckling. Vaan recognized them. Mikel and Boren. Familiar faces from the forge, back when their swords needed more fixing than swinging.

  Funny how now they were all on the same side of the fence.

  Still, something nagged at him. He scanned the grounds again. No swords. None at all, except for Petros and the short blade John carried.

  Vaan stood there awkwardly, the training spear still in his hands. He looked around. Risa was already slinging her bow back over her shoulder.

  "That's it?" he asked.

  Risa gave a dry chuckle. "Looks like it. Petros and his grand speeches, and then we're left standing around like sheep." She turned to leave, walking toward the treeline where the fields curved into the woods.

  Halfway there, she glanced back over her shoulder and caught Vaan watching her go. A smirk tugged at her lips. "Keep staring like that, Redbones, and I'll start charging coin for the view."

  Then she was gone, her laughter lingering in the air like a soft breeze, leaving Vaan standing there with a quiet grin on his face.

  Tal, having splashed his face with water from the barrel to cool off, walked over with a heavy sigh. He gave a long groan and stretched his arms. “Spear drills and sprints... I’m dead. I need food. Maybe two ales. Maybe four.”

  “It’s just afternoon,” Vaan shook his head with a smirk. “Don’t get drunk!”

  “I’m Tal,” he said, waving a hand dismissively as though that explained everything, before trudging off without a second glance.

  Quickfeet was chatting with a girl near the palisade, animated and grinning. He seemed to know everyone. It was just that Vaan couldn’t recollect the boy’s name.

  Vaan hesitated. No orders. No next steps. Just the quiet hum of the afternoon and the faint sting in his legs.

  He eventually trudged toward the weapon racks, resting the spear gently beside the others.

  He was just turning to leave when a familiar voice cut through the quiet.

  “Joined the Watch, did you?”

  Vaan turned.

  The man leaned against a crumbling stone wall, arms crossed and smirking. His green cloak caught the breeze, revealing a silver-and-blue badge stitched into the fabric.

  The guild scout.

  Vaan remembered him clearly.

  “I saw you then,” Vaan said. “At the ceremony.”

  Even then, he'd looked like he didn’t belong among the villagers.

  “Remy,” the man said, pushing off the wall. “Guild scout. Don’t worry, I’m not here to test you.”

  Vaan frowned. “You have been observing me for a while now!”

  Remy tilted his head, assessing him. “Saw your form out there. You’ve got grit. Too much to waste your time holding a spear for village squabbles. What if I said you could be in Darven’s Roost by dawn? Start your name with a real party.”

  Vaan didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure what to say.

  “So, here’s the pitch,” Remy continued, stepping closer, voice low, like he was letting Vaan in on a secret. “You start with me. Tonight. We head to Darven’s Roost.”

  Vaan stiffened slightly at the name. He’d never been, but he’d heard the stories. A city of towering spires and endless lantern light. Streets alive with music, trade, and whispers of magic. Nobles strutting in enchanted cloaks. Guild banners fluttering above bustling squares. A place where ambition could make or break a man.

  And where everything cost more than it should.

  “That place is expensive,” Vaan muttered. “I can’t afford to live there.”

  Remy gave a knowing grin. “If you fit in with the party I have in mind… you won’t have to worry about coin.”

  Vaan’s brow furrowed. “What kind of party?”

  Remy tilted his head, eyes gleaming with that same unreadable glint he’d carried during the initiations. “Can’t say,” he replied smoothly. “Guild’s rules. I’m just a scout, not a recruiter. But this group? Let’s just say they’re not your average alley-chasing, mud-eating greenhorns.”

  He gave Vaan a moment to let that sink in.

  “They don’t take in just anyone. But I’ve got a feeling. You’ve got something… different. Could be exactly what they’re looking for.”

  Vaan didn’t answer right away. A sponsored party, a real chance… It sounded tempting. Too tempting.

  “And if I don’t fit?” he asked.

  Remy shrugged. “Then welcome to life. You’ll still be in the Roost. There are always parties forming. You can rent a room with other rookies, pick up odd quests, train in the guild yards. It’s hard, though. No lies there. Until you get some levels and a patron? Every copper’s going to count.”

  He thought of the boar hunt. Of Ronald. Of how much it had taken to bring down just one beast without magic. He knew he would leave the village one day after he had settled his affairs. Perhaps, after the Grand Trial, when he had grown stronger. Maybe Tal and Ronald would accompany him. Perhaps, Risa too. He hoped she would. He recalled the kiss under the twin moons.

  He would one day leave the village, but not today.

  “I’m not ready,” he said finally. “Not yet.”

  Remy didn’t look offended. Just nodded, like he already knew.

  “I’m around till sundown. Don’t take too long to think. You’re not the only one I’m after anyway.” He smirked. “Got a friggin’ noble to chase down next. Real joy, that one.”

  He turned, whistling a low tune as he strolled back toward the edge of the fields.

  Vaan stood alone again, the wind tugging gently at his tunic.

  Opportunity had just come knocking. And for now, he’d closed the door.

  But something told him… that wouldn’t be the last time.

  Vaan reached home with a strange mix of excitement and unease still lingering from the day’s events. He was eager to talk to Garix about the training and more importantly, about the guild offer he’d turned down. But as he approached the house, he slowed at the sight of a carriage parked just outside.

  Not just any carriage.

  It was the same one he’d seen during the initiation. The insignia of House Veldrane gleamed on its lacquered door. Silver sword crossing golden pickaxe over a black field. In Wragford, where nobility was more myth than presence, the Veldranes were one of the few names villagers actually recognized. Traders of rare metals, their wagons passed through now and then, bound from the southern mines to the northern strongholds.

  But a noble visiting their home? That was something else.

  Inside, the living room suddenly felt too small. A young woman sat elegantly on the bench near the hearth, her posture flawless, every gesture precise. She wore rich silks layered in deep forest green, a crest-shaped brooch bearing the Veldrane’s insignia fastened at her shoulder. Her features were striking, high cheekbones and a quiet grace with which she looked at him, her hands folded gently over her lap. She looked like she belonged on palace balconies, not the worn cushions of a blacksmith’s cottage.

  She turned toward him with curious eyes. “You must be Vaan,” she said with a soft smile.

  Vaan blinked. “Yeah. That’s me.” His voice came out rougher than intended. “You’re… uh, not from around here.”

  Her smile widened slightly. “Priscilla Veldrane.”

  Of course she was.

  She stood and gave a faint dip of her head. Polite. Measured. Noble through and through.

  Vaan rubbed the back of his neck. “You always travel around with your own fancy carriage and show up in stranger’s homes?”

  “I do try to be discreet,” she smiled again. There was a sparkle of amusement in her voice this time. She didn’t seem put off by his bluntness. If anything, she seemed intrigued.

  At the table, Garix sat across from the man Vaan immediately recognized—the unmistakable Erik Veldrane whom he had seen in passing during the ceremony. His fine attire and sharp, calculating expression had made him stand out during the choosing ceremony. Vaan understood that he had probably accompanied his daughter. The conversation paused as Vaan stepped in.

  Garix stood. “Please wait here, sir,” he said to Erik, before nodding at Brenda, who moved to serve refreshments. Then he gave Vaan a pointed look. “Come with me.”

  Vaan stepped into the forge with Garix, the scent of iron and ash still thick in the air. Tools hung in careful rows, and at the center of the worktable lay the sword—longer now, elegant in its final shape. The duskiron gleamed with a muted luster, a strange metallic sheen that seemed to shimmer faintly when caught in certain angles.

  The hilt had been completed! A leather-wrapped grip, tight and dark, inlaid with subtle metal rivets. The pommel bore no crest, only a rough, stone-set core of the same duskiron. It wasn’t decorative. It felt... functional, like it belonged there, as though the blade had somehow told Garix how it wanted to be finished.

  “I wasn’t expecting it to come together so quickly,” Garix said in a low voice. “The forge’s heat felt like it responded to it. The grip…” he ran a finger along the hilt, “it practically shaped itself. That’s not normal. Not for any metal.”

  Vaan stared. The blade pulsed faintly again, and he felt that hum in his chest. The sword was complete.

  At that moment, Erik Veldrane pushed open the forge door without waiting for permission.

  Garix stiffened, but only slightly. His expression barely changed, but Vaan caught it—the minute flicker of irritation in his one good eye. He never let customers into his forge. But Erik was a noble. The rules bent around them and not the other way around.

  Garix feigned a smile as though his entrance was most welcome. “Sir Veldrane. The sword is finished. You’re welcome to inspect it.”

  Erik approached without hesitation. He reached for the sword.

  The moment his hands touched the hilt, the forge flared. Sparks burst from the coals behind them, and a loud metallic snap echoed through the space. Erik staggered back, his expression twisted in pain.

  “What… hell?!!” he shouted. “It’s draining me! My mana—it’s pulling it out!”

  A searing red welt was already forming on his palm where he’d gripped the hilt. He dropped the blade, eyes wide with fury.

  Vaan saw the notification flash before his eyes.

  Soulbound Duskiron Sword

  The blade landed flat on the table, humming softly like it had just taken a breath.

  Garix’s eye widened. “No…” he whispered.

  Vaan already knew.

  He felt the pull.

  Like the blade had found its other half. Like it had always been meant for him.

  A notification popped into his weave screen and Vaan was sure Garix and Erik saw it too.

  [Soulbound Duskiron Sword]

  Erik Veldrane turned sharply toward Garix, his voice laced with fury. “What trick is this?” he barked. “You...! You conned me! Was it the Sinclairs? Did they get to you? Paid you to forge this and tie it to their heir?”

  Garix raised his hands slowly, his voice calm but edged with caution. “No one paid me off. I swear it.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Erik snapped. “Then who is it bound to? Tell me now!”

  Garix hesitated. His good eye flicked to Vaan—just for a heartbeat. Sharp. Intent. A silent plea.

  Then he turned back to the noble, voice even. “It’s bound to me.”

  “To you?” Erik scoffed. “You’re telling me a common blacksmith-”

  “Swordsmith, and once a swordsman, as you know, my lord!” Garix corrected. “I don’t know how,” he said, his voice tight. “But yes. Maybe… maybe I can unbind it. Soulbound weapons are rare, but not impossible to reforge or cleanse.”

  Erik stared at him, suspicion boiling just beneath his noble bearing.

  Garix limped forward cautiously, hands still raised in a calming gesture. “If it’s about the coin… I’ll repay it. Every last copper.”

  That earned him a cruel laugh. Erik tilted his head, sneering. “Repay? You insult me. Do you think the House of Veldrane can be recompensed by a village forge and a few stacks of coppers and silvers? This is duskiron. Do you understand what that means? The Empire itself barely sees three of these blades in a decade.”

  Garix’s jaw tightened, but he bowed his head. “Still… I’ll find a way. I just need time.”

  Erik was silent for a moment. Then, almost thoughtfully, he said, “Soulbound swords can sometimes transfer. I’d be remiss not to try.”

  Garix’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thank you. I swear, I’ll make it right.”

  Erik nodded seriously. “Let us see.”

  And then, with no more ceremony than one would swat a fly, he stepped forward—and drove a dagger into Garix’s gut.

  Vaan’s scream tore through the forge. “Father!”

  Garix staggered back, one leg buckling beneath him. His mouth opened in shock as blood soaked through his tunic. He collapsed against the anvil, then slumped to the ground, unmoving.

  Brenda’s scream rang from the house. Then the pounding of footsteps.

  Vaan lunged forward, fury clouding his vision, his unwavering skill flaring with raw power—only for Erik to pivot smoothly, catching him with a backhanded strike that knocked him off his feet and slammed him to the ground.

  “Sword’s still bound,” Erik muttered, glancing at the weapon as if it had betrayed him. His voice was all calculation now. “Maybe it takes time.”

  Vaan lay gasping, vision swimming, his body aching with grief and pain.

  In the doorway, Priscilla appeared… her face pale, her expression stricken. Her eyes found Garix's body first… then Vaan.

  Their gazes locked.

  There was no smugness in her face. No aloof noble mask. Only shock. And something else… apology? Regret?

  Erik turned, impassive. “Priscilla. We’re leaving.”

  Then she turned and followed her father into the carriage.

  The forge stank of blood and steel. Of fire and grief.

  Vaan stared at Garix. His face held the same look of shock, frozen in time. His mouth was slightly open and trying to speak.

  “Garix?” Vaan whispered, half hoping Garix to sit down and answer calmly.

  The hearth was cold.

  Only Brenda's shattered sobs filled the stillness, soon joined by Marianne's wordless wails from the doorway.