SWORD

The mastery of the sword is cardinal. I am the inimitable one, the matchless one. Thus, I choose to challenge eternity itself.

***

The sky was overcast, covering the humble little city of Fyrsta with an air of gloom. Alan adjusted his long grey cloak, carefully tucking his golden locks out of sight, something he had been doing for the entirety of the 10 years of his life. Both grandpa Joe and his mother, Layla were oddly adamant about him hiding his hair. He never received a straight answer when he questioned them so he gave up soon enough. He quickly made his way past the grimy roads of the slums and reached the cobbled streets of the western part of the city, his short stature allowing him to vanish into the teeming crowd.

It was nearly 5 in the morning, and the sun had yet to reveal itself in all its glory, yet Fyrsta's marketplace was as lively as ever. Vegetable and fruit sellers hollered at the people in the market, trying to get someone to buy their goods while manual laborers grunted under their heavy loads. Delicious scents wafted from food stalls, the steaming hot dishes calling to the poor souls that were turning red from the cold.

Alan squeezed past the bustling crowd before arriving at his mother's herb booth. She was wearing a simple black long-sleeved tunic that contrasted well with her red eyes which were of a much lighter shade than Alans, whose almost seemed to drip blood. They were nearly pink. Her jet-black hair fluttered in the cold wind, as she haggled with her customers. Her scarf failed in concealing her beauty while black gloves covered her dainty fingers protecting them from the stinging weather.

Her tired eyes instantly brightened when she spotted Alan, but her expression soon turned into one of alarm when she spotted his injured lip.

"Oh, dear! What happened? Did you fall? Does it hurt? When did this happen?", she panicked, dragging Alan into a warm hug, while at the same time hurling at him a barrage of questions.

Alan groaned, knowing this would happen. His mother always panicked even at the littlest of injuries.

"It's nothing mum. Just a small cut. I can handle it.", he mumbled, slowly extracting himself from his mother's comforting embrace.

"Are you sure?", his mother asked doubtfully, and he nodded his head firmly before proceeding to help with the booth. Layla smiled warmly and patted Alan's head, her kind eyes still retaining a hint of concern. She knew full well that Alan could take care of himself and that he was a boy who matured early. Yet, as a mother, she couldn't help but worry. She turned her attention back to the herbs, her face for a split-second betraying anxiety that seemed oddly foreign.

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully for Alan and Layla. Only the occasional annoying customer served to break up the boring monotony, yet the mother-son duo continued their tedious routine for they direly needed the money.

***

Around noon, the grey sky rumbled, letting loose a torrent of rain that was akin to a God's punishment. Alan and Layla quickly closed down the booth, carefully storing the remaining herbs, and hurried back home. Alan frowned as he and his mother made their way through the muddy roads.

Odd, winter is right around the corner. Rain at this time is certainly unusual.

His eyes flashed as he sunk into thought. His alarming nightmares, the unusual weather, his dark gold hair. Were they connected in any way? He pondered for a while and snorted shaking his head incredulously.

Surely not…right?

Although it was too ridiculous to say out loud, he did have an instinctual feeling that it was. It was a hunch, no a premonition. It was an invisible force that slowly tightened around his nape, not unlike the monster in his dreams. It was the chilling foreboding of impending doom.

He looked up at the dark sky, reveling in the endlessness it boasted, reveling in the boundless feeling of eternity. As the raindrops splattered against his pale skin, he whispered, "What is it you want to tell me?", his blood-red eyes piercing through the stormy clouds.

***

Meanwhile, in the city of Meginer, the territory of the Harald clan, a hooded figure knelt in a vast, lavish hall lit up by reddish, gold flames. Priceless chandeliers hung from the ceiling while paintings decorated the robust walls. The looming white pillars commanded a sense of majesty while also giving off an ancient aura. Everything in the hall could be described in one word.

Extravagant

But what commanded the most attention was not the chandeliers, not the large, colossal pillars, not the majestic, mammoth golden throne that seemed to be carved from the very sun, but the person who sat on it. A large, mountain of a man reclining on the giant throne, its metallic embrace giving him no visible discomfort. It was Aldrich Harald, Slaughterer of Sigle, Dragon of the East, and the current Patriarch of the Harald Clan, the family of the Djinn.

*Ting*

*Ting*

A large gold coin danced on his fingertips, the soft sounds deafening.

"Rise", he growled, his voice doing no disservice to his beastly image.

The hooded figure rose but kept his head bowed.

"We have found him, my Lord"

*Crunch*

The gold coin was crushed by a massive hand as though it were but mere clay.

"What is his name?", he boomed.

"Alan, My Lord", the hooded figure replied, its countenance indiscernible.

"Alan, huh", Aldrich mused, as though savoring the name in his mouth.

"Well, I guess it's high time I got to meet my son, Alan. Alan Harald.", he grinned, showing off two sets of pearly white teeth.