Three years had passed since the goblin incursion.
Korazu had not only survived—it had flourished. With the dungeon sealed and the Ridge Wall reinforced, trade resumed. New families settled in, drawn by tales of a village that had stood without a single Awakened. Reivo had become something of a local legend, though he never asked for the attention.
He trained every day.
The village square was quieter than usual this morning, the sun barely cresting over the distant hills. Reivo's breaths came in steady rhythm as he moved through sword forms his father had drilled into him a hundred times. Steel cut the air with each precise motion, sweat tracing lines down his back.
He pivoted, ducked, struck.
Then paused, grounding himself.
Seventeen. One year away from Awakening.
That thought had started to haunt him. Every night, it slipped into his dreams. Would the Will of the World grant him a class? Would he be gifted—like the stories spoke of—or be passed over, as so many were?
He exhaled, lowering his sword.
"Better," his father said, stepping onto the training field. He leaned on a new cane—one he carved himself—but his presence hadn't dimmed with the injury. "Your stance is cleaner. You're thinking less and feeling more."
Reivo gave a slight nod. "Still not fast enough. If that had been a real fight, I'd have been dead."
His father gave a small smirk. "Then it's a good thing you're not fighting goblins today."
They sparred for a while, slow at first, then faster. Reivo's instincts had sharpened—his parries tighter, his footwork surer. But his father still bested him. Only barely, though.
Later, he sat at the well in the village square, shirt damp and blade resting across his knees. Children ran past, chasing each other with sticks, their laughter ringing out like wind chimes. It made him smile. Peace had become the new rhythm of Korazu.
Mira joined him shortly after, carrying a small basket of herbs. "Your mother says if you keep cutting your knuckles open, she'll stop healing them for you."
Reivo looked at his right hand. The wrap was already stained red.
"She says that every time."
"And yet she still patches you up."
He gave a tired chuckle. Mira sat beside him, offering a canteen. He took a long sip and leaned back, watching the clouds drift above.
"I keep thinking about it," he admitted. "About next year. About what's coming."
"Your Awakening?"
He nodded.
Mira paused. "Do you want to be Awakened?"
"I don't know," he said honestly. "Sometimes I think I do. I want to protect people. I want to be strong. But other times... I wonder what it'll cost."
Mira said nothing, letting the silence answer for her. Everyone knew someone who had changed after Awakening. Not all who received a class found peace. Power brought purpose—but sometimes, it also brought ruin.
"I guess," Reivo continued, "I'm afraid of what it'll make me."
"You'll still be you," Mira said softly. "Class or no class. The Will doesn't choose that part."
That stayed with him for the rest of the day.
He spent the afternoon helping reinforce the eastern wall. Tomas, now a militia captain, had organized weekly patrols and drills. There hadn't been a serious threat in years, but no one had forgotten how quickly peace could shatter.
The sun dipped low by the time Reivo returned home. The dinner table was warm, filled with laughter, roasted vegetables, and soft bread. His younger brother, barely old enough to walk when the goblins came, now tugged at his sleeve to show off a crude wooden dagger.
Reivo tousled his hair, pretending to be stabbed. The boy laughed until he choked on his drink.
It was simple. It was good.
That night, Reivo climbed the hill above the village—the same one where he used to watch the stars as a child. He lay back in the grass, arms folded behind his head, the sky awash in constellations.
And then he saw it.
A flicker of light on the horizon. But not a star. It pulsed, slow and red, like a heartbeat in the darkness.
He sat up, frowning.
The pulse grew brighter for a moment, then faded. No sound. No tremor. Just light—and then nothing.
Reivo stood, unease creeping through him like frost. Something felt wrong. The air was still, too still. Even the insects had gone quiet.
Behind him, the trees shuddered once—just once—and then fell still again.
Reivo stared toward the distant glow. He didn't know what it meant, but his gut twisted. He would remember this moment for the rest of his life. Later, he would think of it as the first warning.
The first breath before the storm.