Golden rays of the setting sun poured through the arched windows of the monastery, casting long, gentle shadows along the stone corridor. The air was still, warm, and thick with the scent of old parchment, herbs, and the quiet peace that only a place of worship could hold.
At the rear garden of the monastery, Elwin sat alone on a worn stone bench, one hand propping up his chin, the other holding a polished silver emblem. The emblem glinted in the sunlight, reflecting the boy's thoughtful eyes. Though only seventeen, there was a quiet sharpness in his gaze—like a blade still in its sheath, waiting for purpose.
"You're spacing out again."
A melodic voice interrupted his thoughts. Elwin turned his head slightly, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Aymelle stood nearby, her golden hair catching the sunlight like threads of silk, swaying gently in the breeze. She wore her simple white cleric robe, her arms full with a basket of herbs and fresh-picked flowers.
"I wasn't spacing out," Elwin said, slipping the emblem into his coat. "Just... thinking."
"About what?"
He looked out at the horizon—the mountains silhouetted against the burning sky. "The world beyond these hills. Don't you ever wonder what's out there?"
Aymelle tilted her head, then sat beside him. "Not really. I like it here. We have everything we need—this garden, the chapel, the others... and you."
Elwin chuckled softly. "That's just like you. But someday, we'll have to leave. Life won't always stay this peaceful."
She was quiet for a moment, her fingers brushing the petals of a white lily. "Maybe. But for now, I want to believe it can last a little longer."
The monastery bell rang out in the distance—deep, slow, and solemn. The sun dipped further behind the hills, and the garden slowly darkened. Birds rustled in the trees above, preparing for nightfall.
Just then, a loud voice echoed from the main courtyard.
"Elwin! Training time! Get your lazy butt over here!"
Elwin looked up and sighed. A young man in a brown tunic ran toward them, a wide grin on his face. His name was Mael—older than Elwin by a year, but far less serious.
"Mael, could you not yell like that in the monastery?" Aymelle scolded, standing up.
"Oops, sorry! Habit!" Mael scratched his head. "But seriously, Elwin, if you don't train soon, you'll be rusty before you even leave the garden!"
Elwin laughed and stood. "Alright, alright. I'm coming."
Aymelle watched them go, her smile gentle but fleeting.
---
The training ground behind the chapel was modest—just a cleared yard surrounded by wooden fencing. Old training dummies lined one side, and a small weapons rack stood nearby. The scent of sweat, wood, and metal lingered in the air.
Standing to the side was a tall man in a long robe, silver hair tied behind his head. His eyes were sharp, though age had placed faint lines on his face. This was Remulus, the monastery's head cleric and Elwin's mentor.
"You're late," he said, voice calm.
"Blame Mael," Elwin replied, drawing his wooden training sword.
Mael scoffed, already stretching. "Hey!"
"Enough talk," Remulus interrupted. "Begin."
The two boys squared off. Elwin took a breath, shifted his weight, and moved. Wood clashed against wood, quick and sharp. Mael was fast and aggressive, swinging hard and pressing forward. But Elwin was precise—his footwork steady, his parries controlled.
Remulus observed in silence. This was not just training. For Elwin, it was purpose. For someone who remembered nothing before arriving at the monastery as a child, the sword gave him a sense of direction—of control over an uncertain fate.
After a dozen exchanges, Remulus raised his hand. "Enough. You're improving."
Elwin nodded, panting lightly. Sweat clung to his forehead.
Remulus glanced at the mountains in the distance, expression unreadable. "Be cautious, Elwin. The world beyond is not as kind as this place. And I fear... change is coming."
Elwin frowned. "You feel something?"
"A storm," the old man murmured. "Not of wind. But of fate."
---
That night, the monastery was quiet. After evening prayers, most had retired to their rooms. The air grew colder, wind whispering through the halls like unseen voices.
Aymelle stood by her window, holding a candle in one hand and her prayer book in the other. Outside, the forest rustled softly. She didn't know why, but her heart was uneasy.
A knock sounded at her door.
"Elwin?" she called softly.
No answer.
She set down the candle and stepped out into the corridor. The oil lamps along the hallway flickered as she moved. Down the corridor, one door stood ajar—Elwin's.
---
Elwin couldn't sleep.
There was something wrong with the air—he could feel it in his chest, a dull throb of instinct. He walked to the window, slowly drawing it open.
A strange red glow shimmered faintly on the far side of the forest.
He leaned forward, squinting. Was it a fire?
And then... the wind shifted.
A scent.
Smoke. And blood.
His heart dropped.
Without hesitation, he grabbed his sword, strapped on his coat, and burst through the door.
"Aymelle," he whispered. Something deep within told him—she's not safe.
As he ran through the corridor, shadows danced against the walls. In the distance, a scream echoed. Then another. A roar followed—deep and inhuman.
The night was no longer silent.
It was the beginning of something far worse.
The gears of fate had begun to turn.