A brittle silence hung over the frozen clearing where the old swordmaster had trained. For as long as anyone could remember, each dawn had been punctuated by the sharp hiss of steel slicing through frigid air and the ragged rasp of his breath. But this morning, only the soft creak of frost-laden grass stirred beneath Old Jerren's boots.
Jerren had come to fetch firewood, expecting to find the master still pacing his familiar two-handed stance—knees bent, shoulders squared, sword tip buried a foot into the frozen earth. Instead, the blade lay motionless, its edge chipped and dulled. The master stood frozen behind it, body rigid as the pines that loomed in silent witness.
He knelt slowly, each joint cracking beneath layers of time. Face drawn and pale, framed by hair the color of ash, the master's eyes stared past Jerren into something unseen. His gaunt chest had stopped its rise and fall; a thin wisp of breath had vanished into the morning mist.
"By the gods…" Jerren muttered, voice barely louder than wind through skeletal branches. He pressed a gloved hand against the master's chest, feeling only cold stillness. Snow crunched as his foot slid backward—an unsteady retreat from the empty shell that once labored under steel and sweat.
Instinct prickled at his spine. Even as he stared, a faint glow shimmered at the master's back—a pale, silver-green pulse that hovered like a dying ember. Jerren blinked, certain his eyes deceived him. But the glow persisted: a small orb of light that drifted upward, humming with a quiet warmth that seeped into the air.
"Old man…?" Jerren whispered, stepping closer. A tiny shiver danced across the clearance as the orb drifted past him, brushing his shoulder with a ghost of heat. In that instant, Jerren thought he saw the master's lips twitch, as if trying to speak—but no sound came. Then the orb vanished beyond the treetops, leaving only the scent of pine and snow.
Jerren remained motionless until the tremor in his limbs forced him away. He stood, wiping a hand across his mouth, leaving a smear of frost and ash upon his lips. The clearing—once alive with clangor and the snap of practice—was now still. Only the sword remained, its tip in frozen soil, as though waiting for a hand that would never return.
Spring's thaw arrived slowly. By the time the chapel bell tolled its first crack of sunlight, the master's body had long since been carried away. But the villagers still spoke in hushed tones of that morning when the air—once sharp with steel—had turned oddly warm.
Mara knelt beside the cradle in her smoke-darkened hut, shrouded in incense that curled like ghostly fingers around rafters blackened by years of hearth fire. The midwife—stooped and gray—turned from wrapping a swaddling cloth. Outside, pale beams of dawn filtered through narrow windows, illuminating motes of ash dancing above the hearth.
With a final cough, the midwife set the crying baby into Mara's arms. Mara felt the child's tiny fists clench as though gripping the air itself. The crying ceased, dagger-sharp one moment and suddenly gone.
"What ails you, little one?" Mara whispered. Her breath puffed in front of her—white against woven cloth. The baby's eyes, dark as midnight pools, tracked an unseen point beyond the flickering brazier. Mara turned her head, expecting to catch sight of a stray beam or a shadow that might hold the infant's gaze. Instead, she saw only the rough floorboards and a battered chest in the corner, covered in coils of ragged rope.
Inside that chest lay a faded tapestry: the village crest stitched into rotting linen, two broken swords crossed above a dark chapel entrance. Even as Mara watched, the infant's gaze flickered toward the chapel steeple that stood across the frozen fields, half-hidden behind budding willow trees.
His tiny hand shot forward, as if to touch something invisible. Mara's throat burned. She wanted to hush the baby, but the moment she lifted him closer to her face, his gaze sharpened. He seemed to stare through her, into the cold dawn.
A mile away, the chapel doors stood ajar. Inside, cracks of candlelight danced across a single relic: a half-rusted sword, its dragon-etched hilt chipped and worn. The villagers still treated it like a holy object—proof that some nameless master had once defended them from slaughter. That morning, it warmed in its cradle of velvet. So faint a heat that any ordinary worshipper would miss it. But something in the air—an echo of loss—stirred the blade's spirit.
Back in her hut, Mara laid the baby against her chest, cloth brushing his chin. He unfurled his tiny fingers and pressed them against Mara's cheek. A faint tremor ran through her—like a pulse of emerald light beneath her skin.
"Who are you?" she whispered, heart pounding. The midwife placed a gentle hand on Mara's shoulder, her eyes narrowing with recognition. "There are tales," she rasped, "of souls returning… of infants born under strange omens. Keep close watch."
Mara nodded, though her mind roiled with questions. The baby cooed softly, nuzzling against Mara's collarbone. Outside, a fresh breeze rattled the rafters, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and steel.
In the silent tableau, dawn gave way to day. But in every flicker of candle flame, in each breath of the newborn, lay a promise: that a life once ended beneath ice and steel was now beginning again—tied to an ancient blade and the whisper of memories yet to awaken.