The night air was heavy, thick with an eerie stillness.
Layron sat at his desk, fingers tracing the wooden grain. His mind churned with the day's events—the fight, the sudden clarity, the way Zorthaal's voice had guided him like an unseen master.
He wasn't imagining it.
He had seen things differently.
Felt differently.
And it exhilarated him.
Across the room, Anya lay in bed, her breathing slow and steady. Asleep. Unaware.
Layron hesitated before whispering, "Are you still there?"
The silence stretched.
Then—
"Always."
The response was smooth, composed. Almost amused.
Layron swallowed. "What's happening to me?"
"You are learning."
He frowned. That wasn't an answer. "Learning what?"
A pause. Then—
"The truth."
Layron's fingers curled into a fist. "What truth?"
Zorthaal chuckled. "That you were never weak to begin with."
Layron's pulse quickened. "But I was—"
"No." The voice cut through his doubt. "You were unfocused. Misguided. Taught to see strength in the wrong places."
Layron exhaled slowly. The words slithered into him, wrapping around thoughts that had plagued him for years.
Hadn't he always been told he wasn't good enough? That he was lesser?
And yet, today… he had changed that.
Not by brute strength.
By clarity.
By control.
A slow, creeping sensation spread through his chest.
It felt right.
"Would you like to continue?" Zorthaal asked, his tone almost gentle.
Layron hesitated.
Then, he nodded.
"Yes."
The darkness hummed with satisfaction.
"Then listen."
---
The Hidden Test
The following day, the academy halls buzzed with whispers.
"Did you see him against Saren?"
"It wasn't luck—he actually predicted the attack."
"No way that was normal. He was different."
Layron kept his head down, but inside, something stirred.
They had noticed.
He wanted them to notice.
As he entered the training hall, a familiar figure leaned against the far wall—Master Ordan, one of the academy's instructors.
Older. Stern. His presence alone commanded respect.
"Layron." Ordan's sharp gaze locked onto him. "A word."
Layron tensed but approached.
The training hall was empty now. Just the two of them.
Ordan crossed his arms. "Yesterday, your improvement was… impressive."
Layron said nothing.
"But it was also unnatural."
His stomach twisted.
Ordan studied him carefully. "Tell me—where did you really learn to fight like that?"
A test.
A trap.
Layron forced his expression to remain neutral. "I've been paying attention. Watching others fight. Noticing patterns."
Ordan's stare didn't waver.
Layron's heartbeat thudded in his ears.
"Do not waver," Zorthaal murmured. "He is seeking hesitation. Do not give it to him."
Layron inhaled slowly. "Isn't that what we're supposed to do? Learn?"
Ordan's lips pressed into a thin line. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then—he smirked.
"You're sharper than I thought."
Layron blinked.
"Most students don't think about the mind as much as the blade." Ordan stepped closer. "You've started to understand something rare."
Layron swallowed. "And what's that?"
"That real power isn't just in your hands. It's in your perception."
A shiver ran down his spine.
Ordan's gaze was unreadable. "Keep training. But know this—if you're hiding something, it won't stay hidden forever."
Layron clenched his fists.
Ordan walked away, leaving him standing alone in the empty hall.
A slow chuckle echoed in his mind.
"He sees potential in you," Zorthaal murmured. "But he does not understand."
Layron exhaled sharply.
"Do you?"
Silence. Then—
"Yes."
And he was ready for more.
---
The Weight of a Dream
Layron stood in an endless void. The air felt heavy, thick with an unseen presence pressing down on him. He looked around, but there was nothing—no ground beneath his feet, no sky above, only an abyss stretching in all directions.
Then, from the darkness, six faint shadows emerged, flickering like dying embers.
They weren't ordinary shadows. They shifted and twisted unnaturally, moving as if they had a will of their own. Layron stepped forward, drawn by an unseen force. As he neared them, they grew darker, deeper—pools of endless night that pulsed with an eerie energy. Strange symbols rippled across their forms, shifting and distorting the more he tried to focus on them.
Layron tried to speak, but no sound came out. He didn't know why, but he recognized these shadows. Not by memory, but by something deeper—an instinctive, primal knowing. They were important. Vital. But why?
Then, a voice—a low, rumbling whisper that crawled into his bones—spoke from the void.
"Six things… Six that once were whole… Six that must return…"
Layron's breath hitched. He turned, searching for the source, but the voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once. The shadows trembled at its words, their edges writhing like living things.
Then, something shifted.
A darkness stretched from beneath the shadows, growing taller and taller until it took shape—a towering figure shrouded in mist. It loomed behind them, its form formless yet terrifyingly present. Its eyes—no, not eyes, but something worse—locked onto him.
Terror surged through Layron, but his feet refused to move.
The figure took a step forward, and the void trembled.
"You are not ready."
The voice was no longer distant. It was inside him, curling around his thoughts like chains.
Layron gasped, trying to step back—
But the darkness collapsed inward, swallowing him whole.
He woke with a sharp breath, heart pounding like a war drum. Sweat clung to his skin, his hands trembling.
"What was that…?"
The dream refused to fade. The six shadows. The whispering voice. That presence watching him from the abyss.
The words still echoed in his mind.
"Six things… Six that must return…"
Layron swallowed hard. Was it just a nightmare? Or something more?
He couldn't shake the feeling that it mattered.
That it was real.
And in the back of his mind, a voice—fainter now, but still there—laughed.
---
The Morning After
The morning sun spilled through the small window, streaking Layron's room with golden light. He sat up, breathing heavily, his mind still replaying the dream. The six shifting shadows. The voice. That presence watching him from the abyss.
His hands were clammy, his shirt damp with sweat. He had never had a dream so vivid—so real. The words still echoed in his head.
"Six things… Six that must return…"
Layron ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. Was it just meaningless? Or did it mean something deeper? He couldn't shake the feeling that it mattered—more than anything he had ever known.
A knock at the door broke his thoughts.
"Layron?" A familiar voice. Anya.
Layron hesitated before standing up and opening the door. Anya stood there, her silver-white hair slightly tousled from the morning breeze. She gave him a small, knowing smile, her deep blue eyes scanning his face.
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
Layron exhaled, rubbing his face. "I… didn't sleep well."
Anya tilted her head. "Another bad dream?"
Layron nodded slowly but said nothing. He wasn't sure how to explain it. It didn't feel like just a dream.
Anya sighed, crossing her arms. "Well, get ready. You don't want to be late for the academy again, do you?"
Layron hesitated. He wasn't going.
"I need to talk to Grandpa." His voice was firm, but a flicker of uncertainty lurked beneath it. "I need to know something."
Anya studied him for a moment before stepping aside. "Fine. But if this is just an excuse to skip class—"
"It's not." Layron interrupted, more serious than usual. "This is different."
Anya frowned slightly but didn't argue. She could tell something was bothering him—really bothering him.
Without another word, Layron quickly got dressed and left the room, his heart pounding as he headed toward the training grounds. His grandfather, Gramps, was always there at this time. Always training before sunrise.
But when he arrived—
The place was empty.
The training dummies stood untouched. The wooden swords leaned against the rack, undisturbed.
Gramps was nowhere to be seen.
Layron's stomach twisted. His grandfather was never late.
His gaze darted around, searching for anything unusual. That's when he spotted one of the village elders walking nearby.
"Excuse me!" Layron ran up to him. "Do you know where my grandfather is?"
The elder gave him a puzzled look. "Tensuke? He left early this morning. Didn't say where he was going."
Layron's stomach tightened. "Did he say when he'd be back?"
The elder shook his head. "No. Just took his sword and left."
A chill crawled up Layron's spine.
Why?
Why would his grandfather leave without telling him?
Did Gramps already know something about his dream?
Behind him, the wind stirred, rustling the leaves.
And in the back of his mind—deep, deep within—Zorthaal chuckled.