The village of Mirevale didn’t appear on most maps—tucked between jagged hills and forgotten woods where shadows lingered longer than sunlight. It was a place for those who didn’t want to be found. People like Kael.

Before the first light touched the treetops, Kael was already awake.

He dropped from his modest wooden cot, landing silently. No boots, no armor. Just breath and bare skin against the cold stone floor. The morning chill bit at him, but he welcomed it. It meant he was alive. Still fighting.

Outside, the clearing was shrouded in fog. Mist clung to the earth like memory. Kael’s cloak hung on a low branch, damp from the night dew. He ignored it.

His regimen began in silence.

Push-ups. Sit-ups. Burpees. A hundred each, timed by breath. Then stance drills—low crouches, sudden lunges, muscle-burning holds. Sweat beaded on his skin, mixing with dirt and dew, until his body moved without thought. Only will.

Then came the breathwork—rhythmic, controlled. Inhale. Hold. Release. Aligning pulse with focus. Slowing the world down to a beat.

Only then did he draw the blade.

It wasn’t ornate. No shimmering runes or blessed steel—just old iron, weathered and worn. Scarred, like him. But it was enough. The sword was memory. Discipline. Anchor.

He moved through the forms—each strike and block seared into his muscles from years of repetition. Blade swept through mist, cutting silence with purpose. Again. And again.

The mark on his back pulsed faintly. A steady rhythm. A whisper.

Then—footsteps.

“You forgot your boots,” a gravelly voice called.

Kael didn’t stop. “Didn’t need them.”

From the tree line, a figure emerged. Cloaked in rough leather and fur, beard streaked with silver, eyes sharper than most swords. One arm ended in an old iron prosthetic. Senn.

The Hollow Fang. A name whispered in war songs and tavern tales. Now just a ghost in a forgotten village—and Kael’s teacher.

“You’re slow,” Senn said, circling him. “And you’re favoring your left side again.”

“Muscle strain,” Kael replied between breaths.

“Excuse,” Senn snapped. “Pain is a lesson. Ignore it and you’ll forget what your body’s trying to teach you.”

Kael dropped into a lower stance.

“Better,” Senn grunted. “But remember—your blade isn’t your strength. It’s a question. Every strike asks, Are you ready to die for this moment?”

Kael exhaled.

“I am,” he muttered.

Senn’s eyes narrowed. “Good. Because when the Wraithborn return, hesitation kills.”

Kael hesitated—for a breath. A flicker. The mark on his back flared, unseen but felt. He steadied himself.

“Again,” Senn barked.

And Kael moved.

Because the fire in his chest wouldn’t let him stop. And in the silence of steel, Kael knew—he wasn’t just training to survive.

He was preparing to remember.