Chapter 3: Rayn Al Myst
The boy walked for hours.
His blood had dried into his clothes. His muscles screamed with every step. The sword strapped to his back—Valteris—was heavy, too heavy. But he couldn't let it go. Every time he touched it, he felt alive.
And watched.
The wind shifted. The air felt colder.
He stopped.
Something was near.
Not a beast. Not a man.
Something else.
From the fog ahead, a voice drifted—clear and soft, like it didn't belong in a dead land.
> "You walk like someone carrying a throne on his back."
The boy turned.
A figure stepped out from the haze.
He wore a long coat, high boots, and gloves stitched with silver thread. His hair was white—not from age, but by nature—and tied back. His face was hidden behind a smooth white mask, broken down one side, revealing a sharp mouth and one violet eye.
The man looked at him like someone looks at an old painting—familiar, yet forgotten.
> "So. You're the one."
The boy didn't move. "Who are you?"
The man bowed slightly, as if greeting a king.
> "Rayn Al Myst. Third Warden of the Hollow Tower. Once servant to a god who bled too easily."
He straightened. "And now… I'm just a man who knows how stories like yours end."
The boy stepped back. His fingers reached for the sword.
Rayn chuckled, soft and dry.
> "Ah. Good instinct. Not good enough."
He drew his weapon.
It was thin and curved, glowing faint blue—like it had drunk moonlight.
> "I didn't come to kill you," Rayn said. "But I will test you."
The boy drew Valteris. The red runes flared.
Rayn smiled.
Then moved.
The air cracked.
Rayn was in front of him in a blink. His blade came down. The boy blocked—barely. The blow sent him sliding back, feet digging furrows in the ash.
Fast. Too fast.
The sword pulsed in his hands. Power surged.
He swung wildly—Rayn stepped aside.
Slash—miss.
Turn—blocked.
Strike—parried.
Rayn's movements were smooth, flowing. Not just fast—perfect.
"You're not fighting," Rayn said calmly. "You're surviving."
The boy gritted his teeth. "I'm still standing."
"Barely."
Rayn vanished again.
The boy twisted just in time—Rayn's blade grazed his side.
He dropped to one knee, panting. Blood welled up again. The wound from before reopened.
Rayn stepped back. Didn't press.
Instead, he planted his blade in the ground and watched.
"You're raw," he said. "Untamed. But not hollow."
The boy didn't answer.
Rayn's tone shifted. Softer. Curious.
> "Do you know what that sword is?"
"It called itself Valteris."
Rayn's one visible eye darkened.
"That's not its name. That's its title. Valteris isn't a blade. It's a being. A sliver of ruin given form."
The boy stared at the weapon.
"You're saying it's alive?"
Rayn nodded. "More than you. Older than this land. It once served the Ruin Lord himself. Now it clings to you."
He tilted his head.
"Which means you're either chosen… or cursed."
The boy sheathed the sword. Slowly.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
Rayn didn't answer right away.
He looked up at the broken sky, hands behind his back.
"I've followed signs. Dreams. Dead things whispering. They all pointed here. To this valley. To you."
He turned.
> "The world will hunt you. The kingdoms. The cults. The stars themselves. You will need more than power. You'll need control. Purpose."
He paused.
"I can teach you both. If you can survive me."
The boy didn't hesitate.
"I accept."
Rayn's smile was small. Cold. Almost kind.
"Then follow me."
He turned and walked into the mist.
The boy followed, sword heavy at his back, blood still dripping from his side.
And behind them, the dust began to rise.
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