The Forsaken Seal

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 events of the day—the fight, the rush of 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. The words slithered into him, wrapping around the 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 lingering whispers about Layron's match.

"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, he felt something stir.

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 called, his sharp gaze locking 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. "Tell me—where did you really learn to fight like that?"

A test.

A trap.

Layron forced a neutral expression. "I've been paying attention. Watching others fight. Noticing patterns."

Ordan's stare didn't waver.

Layron's heartbeat thudded.

"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 found himself standing in an endless void. The air felt heavy, thick like a presence was 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 glows appeared, flickering like dying embers.

He stepped forward, drawn by an unseen force. The glows grew stronger, revealing themselves as six floating stones, each pulsating with an eerie energy. They were massive, ancient, and cracked as if barely holding together. Faint symbols were etched onto their surfaces—runes that shifted and twisted as he tried to focus on them.

Layron tried to speak, but his voice refused to come out. He felt as if he knew these stones—no, not knew them, but recognized them. Something deep inside whispered that they were important, but why? What were they?

Then, a voice—a low, rumbling whisper that crawled into his bones—spoke from the void.

"Six things… Six things that once were whole… Six things that must return…"

Layron's breath hitched. He turned, searching for the source, but the voice came from everywhere and nowhere. The stones vibrated as if responding to the words, their glow intensifying. Suddenly, a shadow stretched from beneath them, growing taller and taller until it took shape—a monstrous figure standing behind them, its form shrouded in an unseen mist. Its eyes—no, not eyes, but something deeper, something watching—locked onto him.

A surge of terror struck 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 his mind, wrapping around his thoughts like chains.

Layron gasped, trying to back away, but the darkness collapsed inward, swallowing him whole.

He woke up with a sharp breath, his heart pounding like a war drum. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His hands trembled.

"What was that…?"

The dream lingered, refusing to fade. Six things. What six things? The words made no sense, yet they felt real—as if they mattered more than anything he had ever known.

And in the back of his mind, a voice—fainter now, but still there—laughed.

---

The morning sun spilled through the small window, casting streaks of golden light across Layron's room. He sat up, still breathing heavily, his mind replaying the dream over and over. The six glowing stones. The whispering voice. That presence watching him from the darkness.

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 things that must return…"

Layron swallowed hard. Were they just meaningless words? Or… were they something more? He couldn't shake the feeling that they meant something important.

He needed answers.

As he swung his legs over the bed, a knock came at the door.

"Layron?" A familiar voice. Anya.

Layron hesitated for a second 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 didn't say anything. 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. "I'm not going today."

Anya raised an eyebrow. "Not going?"

"I… I need to talk to Grandpa." His voice was firm, but a flicker of uncertainty lurked beneath it. "I need to know something."

She 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.

Layron didn't waste time. He quickly got dressed and left the room, his heart pounding as he headed toward the training grounds where his grandfather, Gramps, usually spent his mornings.

But when he arrived, the place was empty.

The training dummies stood still, untouched. The wooden swords leaned against the rack, untouched. Gramps was nowhere to be seen.

Layron frowned. His grandfather was always here at this time, training even before sunrise.

Something wasn't right.

He turned, scanning the area, and that's when he saw one of the elders walking by.

"Excuse me!" Layron ran up to him. "Do you know where my grandfather is?"

The elder looked at him with a puzzled expression. "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."

Layron felt a chill crawl down his spine. Why? Why would his grandfather leave without telling him?

Something wasn't right.

And for the first time, he wondered—

Did Gramps already know something about his dream?