The clinking of steel echoed through the narrow alley as Kael Veyrin tightened his grip on the battered sword in his hand. He wasn’t supposed to be here—not in the heart of Cindralis, the city where dreams and shadows danced hand in hand. Kael had always been a farmhand, destined to live a quiet life in the sunlit fields, far from the intrigue of mercenaries and whispered prophecies.

But that was before the night the stars turned crimson. Before the old blade hidden beneath his family’s hearth began to hum with an otherworldly resonance.

Now, standing amidst the chaos of the marketplace, Kael’s mind raced. The blade had drawn him here, pulling him toward an unseen fate. Around him, strangers watched warily, their eyes flicking to the sword as though it carried a curse.

“Boy,” came a gruff voice from the shadows, “you’ve no idea what you’re holding, do you?”

Kael turned to face the speaker—a scarred veteran cloaked in tattered armor. The man’s gaze was sharp, like he’d seen death and lived to tell the tale.

“That sword,” the man growled, stepping closer, “isn’t just a relic. It’s a key. And every fool in this city will kill you to claim it.”

Kael swallowed hard. The weight of the blade suddenly felt heavier, not just in his hands but in his soul.