Sword of the Forgotten Light

Chapter 1 — The Fall at Aetherlow Ridge

The morning sun painted Aetherlow Ridge in hues of gold and amber, its light filtering softly through the high, wispy branches of the ancient Aetherwood trees. Their silver-blue leaves shimmered faintly under the breeze, making it look as though the forest itself breathed in rhythm with the wind.

A wooden sword sliced through the air.

“Again.”

Eli exhaled and repeated the motion. His feet dug slightly into the packed dirt, legs wide, arms steady. Slash, pivot, turn, guard. He moved with the instinct of someone who had done this every day, not because he had to—but because something inside him begged him to be ready.

The soft chirps of morning birds provided rhythm. From the distant slope below, laughter echoed—village kids racing rune-tops, tiny magical toys that left light trails in their spin.

Eli slowed his breathing, sheathed the wooden blade into the makeshift holder he’d carved into a tree stump, and sat by the edge of the ridge. The valley spread out beneath him like a painted storybook. Aetherlow Village was small, barely more than a cluster of wooden homes and farmlands surrounded by soft green hills. At its center stood a cracked, vine-wrapped monument: the Shrine of the Ember Fang.

No one visited it anymore.

Eli's gaze drifted upward. The sky was cloudless. Still. Too perfect.

There’s something waiting for me out there, he thought.

Not just in the fields or the roads leading beyond the hills. Somewhere further. Deeper. His aunt always told him such thoughts were dangerous—that the world beyond Aetherlow was full of ruins and wars, that the Flame Wars left more scars than stories. But she didn’t understand. He wasn’t looking for stories.

He was looking for something to make him feel alive.

As if hearing his thoughts, a sudden chill danced through the air. The birds silenced. The wind shifted unnaturally.

He stood.

The leaves trembled against the direction of the breeze. His hand instinctively reached for the wooden sword—useless, yes, but comforting.

Then, the sky cracked.

A blinding streak of blue-white light tore across the sky like lightning turned sideways. It roared—louder than thunder, a deep, shuddering sound that made the ground quake beneath him.

Eli flinched, heart pounding.

Then—boom.

A burst of wind slammed against the ridge, almost knocking him back. Smoke rose in the distance beyond the treeline, somewhere between the forest and the edge of the cliffs.

For a breath, the world stood still.

Then Eli ran.

The woods were silent.

Eli sprinted through the narrow path, branches scraping against his arms, the smoke ahead curling higher into the sky. He didn’t shout for help. Something about the pressure in the air told him this wasn’t something the village could handle.

He passed the old rune stones—ancient markers carved with forgotten glyphs. They glowed faintly now, where they hadn’t in years. That made his stomach tighten.

“Almost there,” he whispered, half to himself, half to calm the racing in his chest.

A scorched smell hit him before he saw it.

He reached the clearing and stopped, boots skidding slightly on the dirt.

A perfect crater had been carved into the earth, its edges smoldering with steam. The grass around it was flattened outward, as if a wave of force had exploded from the center. The trees leaned unnaturally away from the point of impact, and heat still lingered, rising in waves.

At the center of the crater, someone lay curled on their side.

A boy.

Eli stepped forward cautiously, heart hammering in his chest. The boy wasn’t from Aetherlow. His clothes were strange—dark jacket, belts crossing his chest, odd fabric around his legs that shimmered faintly with lines. His boots had strange straps. And on his hip, tucked loosely into a cracked sheath, was a dagger—its hilt lined with symbols Eli couldn’t read.

The boy groaned.

Alive.

Eli dropped to one knee, brushing back some of the boy’s soot-streaked hair. It shimmered—only slightly—in the sunlight, like the silver of Aetherwood bark.

“Hey… hey, can you hear me?”

The boy didn’t respond, but his breathing quickened.

Suddenly, a hum rippled through the air.

Eli looked up toward the shrine. The Ember Fang Monument, cracked and forgotten, pulsed with faint light. For just a moment, a red rune shimmered across its base—then vanished, as if burned into the stone and gone.

The dagger on the boy’s hip glowed softly.

Eli’s fingers twitched.

He glanced down again. The boy’s hand, scraped and dirtied, twitched as if reaching toward something—maybe the sky.

What had he seen up there?

Who was he?

And why did Eli feel, in that moment, as though this—this exact moment—was the start of something he’d always been waiting for?

The boy stirred once more.

Eli reached down, grabbing his arm and pulling him up slowly, carefully.

“You’re heavy,” he muttered, forcing a small grin. “Hope you’re not a bandit or something. That’d be awkward.”

As he turned toward the ridge path, the shrine behind him gave one final flicker of light—and then went still.

From somewhere in the deep woods, a low growl echoed briefly, before silence returned.

Eli glanced over his shoulder.