Beneath the dawn’s mist, a boy stood alone in a field of purple and green. He gripped a wooden staff, still too large for his hands, its worn blade gleaming faintly with morning light. The silence was deep, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the wild grass. 

 

This place had been his mother’s favorite spot, a sacred grove where old trees twisted skyward like ancient guardians. She’d told him stories here once, of heroes and secrets buried beneath roots, of spirits bound to the earth by duty and love. 

 

Today, he had come alone. The village had whispered that he was too young to be a warrior, too small to protect anything. But as he watched the sunrise burn away the fog, he could feel something stir—a warmth like fire in his chest, a hum like an echo from the earth itself. 

 

A shadow flitted across the clearing, silent and watchful. He felt it rather than saw it, a familiar presence woven into the trees. *They* had been waiting, the spirits his mother had promised would come. 

 

With a steadying breath, he tightened his grip on the staff. His voice, small but certain, filled the morning air. 

 

“I’m ready.” 

 

And as the last shreds of mist lifted, he took his first step forward, into the stories he’d once been told, now ready to make his own.