"Where are you going? I need your help with the bouquets today, and a friend of mine will be visiting," Aunt Flora called out, her hands busy tying a bundle of fresh wildflowers.
Rowan paused at the doorway, gripping the wooden frame as if torn between duty and desire. "I'll help you later, Aunt Flora, I promise. But I can't waste any more time—I want to be a legendary hero, just like Rowan the Rising Sun. I need to train and get a Flux of my very own."
His aunt let out a weary sigh, wiping her hands on her apron as she turned to face him. "Rowan, dreams don't put food on the table. Flowers don't arrange themselves, and legends don't spring up overnight."
Rowan clenched his fists. "I know that. But if I don't start now, when will I? Rowan the Rising Sun didn't sit around making bouquets—he took destiny into his own hands. I have to do the same."
Aunt Flora studied him for a long moment before shaking her head with a small smile. "You've always been stubborn. Just like your mother."
Rowan's expression faltered briefly at the mention of her, but he quickly masked it with determination. "I'll be back before sunset. I promise."
Without waiting for a response, he dashed out into the open air, his heart pounding with anticipation. Today would be the first step toward his future—the day he began forging his own legend.
"Wait here," said Aunt Flora gently, her voice barely louder than the breeze rustling through the tall grasses. She wrapped her arms around him in a soft, protective embrace. Her flowing emerald-green hair shimmered like silk in the morning sun, and her eyes—green as the deepest forest—held a quiet sorrow.
"I wish you didn't have to go alone," she whispered, pulling back just enough to look into his face. "But the time has come. And you must be brave."
She reached into the folds of her robe and drew out a small, ornate key—old and bronze, its handle shaped like a twisting vine with a Single Emerald embedded in the center.
"Take this. You're going to need it."
He took the key in his palm. It was warm to the touch, as though it had been waiting just for him. He looked up at her, questions forming in his mind, but her expression stopped him. There was something final in her gaze—something that said she couldn't go with him this time.
"Thank you, Aunt," he said quietly. "I'll be back before sunset."
She gave a faint smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I know you will," she said, brushing a stray curl from his brow. "But remember: the forest watches, the village forgets, and the key opens more than just doors."
He nodded, though he didn't yet understand, and turned toward the winding path that led down the hill to the village. The wind picked up as he walked, and behind him, Aunt Flora stood in silence, her green hair dancing like leaves in a storm.
As he walked down the narrow path, the weight of the key in his pocket felt heavier than it should have. It knocked lightly against his leg with every step, a quiet reminder of the task ahead—though he still didn't know what, exactly, the key was meant to open.
The village below lay nestled between the trees like a secret, its rooftops just visible through the rising morning mist. Smoke curled from a few chimneys, and the scent of fresh bread and damp earth filled the air. It was peaceful, almost deceptively so.
But he wasn't here for peace.
At the edge of the village, past the market square and the old well, stood a crooked house of stone and timber, half-covered in ivy. Most villagers avoided it, whispering tales of ghosts and old wars. But Rowan knew better.
That house belonged to Sir Calder.
A knight once feared and respected across the land, Calder had long since traded his shining armor for dusty books, worn leather, and solitude. But beneath the quiet exterior still lived a warrior—sharp-eyed, scarred, and patient. And Rowan was his only student.
Rowan stepped through the rusted gate, its hinges groaning like some ancient creature waking from slumber. Weeds brushed against his legs as he walked the gravel path, each step crunching beneath his boots like brittle bones. The air was still, thick with a silence that felt unnatural. He hesitated at the door, the wood weathered and splintering at the edges, and raised his hand.
He knocked.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Then again.
"Sir Calder?" he called out, voice uncertain.
He leaned closer, pressing his ear to the door, straining to hear something—anything—but there was nothing beyond but the muffled hush of a house that no longer breathed.
Rowan knocked again. And again. His fist struck the door in a growing rhythm of desperation.
Still, no response.
A creeping dread coiled in his chest. Something was wrong. He knew it. He could feel it in his bones.
He stepped back and glanced around, eyes scanning the worn façade of the house. Then it hit him—the window. The one he'd broken the day before. Sir Calder had scolded him for it, though his tone hadn't carried real anger. Had he fixed it?
Rowan circled around the side of the house, boots brushing against wild, overgrown grass. When he reached the window, his breath caught. It was still broken. Shards of glass clung to the edges like jagged teeth, and a cold draft slipped through the opening.
He climbed up, hands finding purchase on the crumbling stone sill. He hoisted himself over and carefully slipped inside.
At first, nothing seemed out of place.
Then the smell hit him—burnt wood, scorched paper, and something darker beneath it all.
Ash.
The room was cloaked in shadows. Soot smeared the walls like fingerprints of some phantom fire. Furniture lay blackened and warped. Shelves had collapsed under the weight of charred books, their pages curled and illegible. The rug beneath his boots was nothing but a brittle layer of ash that crumbled with every step.
But what disturbed him most was that from the outside, none of this was visible. The house looked intact, undisturbed, like time had passed it over.
Rowan moved slowly through the ruins, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. No flames. No heat. Just the lingering memory of destruction.
He passed through the narrow hallway toward the back of the house. This was where Calder kept his table, where they'd shared meals and quiet conversations. Where Rowan had last seen him alive.
The room was in ruins.
The table was smashed, its legs splintered like broken bones. One chair lay on its side, another had been flung into the wall, leaving a deep gouge in the plaster. Scorch marks and deep slashes marred the floorboards, as though blades had been drawn in a struggle. A shattered lamp lay beneath the window, its pieces glinting in the weak afternoon light.
There had been a fight. No question.
Rowan's breath quickened. His chest tightened as he backed away, heart hammering with each step.
Then, through the broken window behind him, something caught his eye. A flicker. A glow.
He turned sharply, eyes widening.
Fire.
Not here—but further off. Toward the village.
Smoke twisted upward into the pale sky like a black serpent, curling above rooftops now bathed in orange and red. The wind carried the distant roar of flames, the faint crack of timbers giving way, and something else—screams.
Rowan didn't think. He ran.
He vaulted back out the window and landed hard on the grass, barely catching himself. Then he sprinted down the path, through the gate, and across the field that separated Calder's isolated home from the village.
The wind whipped at his cloak, carrying the sharp stench of burning that grew stronger with every step. His mind raced.
Who had attacked Calder's house?
Why hadn't he seen the fire sooner?
And most of all—was anyone still alive?
As Rowan crested the last hill, the village came into full view—and his stomach twisted into a knot.
Fire.
It was everywhere.
Flames consumed the thatched rooftops, licking hungrily at the wooden beams and dancing across the cobbled streets. Smoke billowed into the sky like stormclouds made of ash, blotting out the sun in a choking haze. The air was thick with the stench of burning wood, scorched flesh, and blood.
Screams pierced the air—raw, desperate. Villagers ran in every direction, some clutching crying children, others dragging buckets from the well, their eyes wide with terror. A few held rusted swords, hopelessly brandished against the shadows overtaking their home.
But Rowan's eyes were drawn to the horrors all around them.
A man ran from a burning hut, his body engulfed in flames. He collapsed in the dirt with a shriek that curdled Rowan's blood. Nearby, a woman tried to shield her children behind her, only for a dark figure to slash her down—her scream cut short, her body falling limp, eyes still open.
And there, nailed to the side of the inn, were the twisted remains of people—villagers he'd known—stuffed like grotesque puppets, their bodies broken and arranged in mockery of life. Smiles were carved into some of their faces. Others had their eyes sewn open, staring forever into the fire.
In the center of it all stood a man wreathed in shadow. His cloak fluttered like wings of black smoke. Flames of jet-black danced across his body, consuming but never harming him. The fire obeyed him. Bent to him.
And behind him—Rowan's heart stopped.
His aunt.
She was on her knees, arms bound, blood running down the side of her face. Her eyes locked onto his. There was no fear—only sorrow.
"Aunt Flora!" Rowan screamed, charging forward.
But before he could reach her—
Crack!
A white-hot pain exploded in the back of his skull. The world tilted, spun. He dropped to his knees. As darkness began to close in, he saw a blur of orange hair.
A figure knelt beside him, lifting him effortlessly. "Got him," the voice murmured. And then—nothing.
When Rowan awoke, his head throbbed. His arms were bound. Shadows danced across a cold stone wall.
And in front of him stood a woman, smiling like a snake.
"I should have known you'd come for me," said Flora, tilting her head. Her eyes shimmered with amusement. "Of course you would—after all, I killed everyone else. But who knew they'd give the key to you—the weakest of the Odyssey. The healer."
As she stepped forward, her entire body shimmered with an unnatural green glow, pulsing like a heartbeat. Her feet barely touched the ground.
"Come at me, Black Star!,"