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A spark from another life dies fast in Saeliryn’s dirt. Tareth Vael’s born under a cold sky, eyes sharp, hands itching for a blade. In a village of sweat and stone, he carves his own path—sword in grip. Whispers of old carvings stir the air, and an Empire’s shadow creeps closer, hungry for what’s buried. Tareth’s not here to bend—he’ll swing, bleed, and break before he kneels. In a world where steel speaks and secrets cut, one kid’s got to forge his name or burn out trying. Statistics Overall Score This fiction has not received enough ratings yet to have a score. Total Views : 8 Average Views : 8 Followers : 0 Favorites : 0 Ratings : 0 Pages : 8 Advertisement Go to Table of Contents Mark as Not Interested Follow Favorite Read Later Fiction breaking rules? Report Advertisement Author Mythmaker