The wind on the cliffs near the Sea of Butchers carried no warmth. It howled like a beast with no master, dragging salt and snow inland until the trees grew thin and crooked. Nothing flourished here. No cities. No farms. Only rock, sea, and death.
Riven Kaelstrid walked the coastal trail alone.
His cloak was torn from travel. His eyes sharp, cold, watching. He bore no banner, no brotherhood, no name carved in glory—only a sword and a memory of fire.
It had been weeks since Kaelstrid Hold burned.
Weeks since he last heard a voice not born from blood.
Now, he had come to the place whispered in soldier's songs. A lawless coast ruled by pirates, exiles, and beasts. The Sea of Butchers: where the wild devoured the weak, and the strong earned their name in the dark.
Riven had not come for safety.
He had come for war.
He found the raiders first.
A dozen of them, camped near the cliffs, their sails still slick with sea salt. They laughed over stolen meat and gold, their blades lying carelessly in the sand. One of them wore a Kaelstrid ring on a leather thong around his neck.
Riven struck before dawn.
Fast. Silent. Relentless.
He didn't announce himself. He didn't offer mercy. He came like the frost, and he left none breathing.
When it was done, he stood among the corpses, wind in his cloak, and took the ring from the dead man's throat.
He burned the bodies.
Not out of honor.
But so the next to come would see nothing but ash.
The storm rolled in that night—black clouds, sleet, wind that cracked trees at the root.
Riven sought shelter in the cliffs, half-blind through the snow and dark.
That's when he saw it: a narrow break in the stone, hidden behind pine roots and frost. A cave, nearly swallowed by the earth.
Something pulled him in.
Not warmth. Not safety.
Something older.
He stepped inside.
The cave sloped downward, deeper than it had any right to. The air was still. The walls pulsed with veins of crystal that shimmered green and blue like frozen forests. The silence was absolute.
At the bottom, half-buried in ice and stone, lay the sword.
It wasn't forged for display.
It wasn't adorned in jewels.
It was beautiful in the way a predator is beautiful.
The blade curved like the wind over a northern ridge. Its surface shimmered with hues of deep green and white—like ice bound in pine needles. Etched along its flat were lines—red, like dried blood—forming ancient markings Riven could not read.
But he felt their meaning.
He reached out.
The moment his hand closed around the hilt, the cold vanished from his skin.
Not warmth.
Power.
Not magic.
Purpose.
This was no cursed relic.
This was a weapon waiting for the one strong enough to wield it.
He left the cave as the storm broke, wind screaming behind him. The sword rested across his back. It had no name.
Not yet.
But one would be carved soon.
In blood.