The warmth of the hearth filled the small, stone kitchen as the scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the sharpness of herbs drying in the corner. Celest sat at the wooden table, a simple bowl of stew before her, its steam curling into the air as she took a moment's rest. Her hands were rough from the morning's work in the fields, but the meal was a welcome pause before she had to return to tend the crops. It was early afternoon, and the sun was high, casting long beams of light through the single window of their humble farmhouse.

Elora, her mother bustled around the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up as she stirred a pot on the hearth. "Eat up, Celest," she said, without turning from her task. "The fields won't tend themselves."

Celest smiled, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I know, Mother. Just giving my hands a break." She took a spoonful of stew and glanced at her two younger brothers, who were preparing their bows near the door. "You boys going hunting again?"

"Just for a rabbit or two," Mathis, the elder of her brothers, said with a grin. "Won't be long before we bring back dinner." The younger one, Ren, was less chatty, but the eager way he fidgeted with his quiver said enough. They were always restless, always eager for the hunt.

"You two behave out there, and don't stray too far from the woods," Elora called, her back still turned. "We'll need you back before dark."

The boys exchanged a quick look of excitement, barely listening, as they slung their quivers over their shoulders and raced for the door. Their laughter echoed through the farmhouse as they left, the door creaking shut behind them.

Celest sighed contentedly, finishing her meal. It was a peaceful life, even if it was simple. Her mother had raised them all alone after her father had died, and despite the hardships, they made do with what little they had. Farming was hard work, but it was honest work. Celest stood, wiping her hands on her apron as she prepared to return to the fields.

Little did she know, these quiet days of routine would soon be shattered. Outside, dark clouds were already gathering on the horizon, creeping toward the Kingdom of Meliah, bringing with them the whispers of fate and an ancient power long forgotten.

∆ ∆ ∆

The sun hung high in the clear blue sky, casting long shadows over the vast fields of barley that stretched endlessly across the horizon. Sweat dripped down Celest's face as she leaned against her tiller, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. The land had been good to her family, as it had to many farmers in the Kingdom of Meliah. But the death of her father had left her and her younger brothers alone to tend it. Every day since, the weight of their survival had rested on her shoulders.

The wind carried the scent of the earth, fresh and fertile, but today something about the air felt different. It was heavier, charged with an unexplainable tension. The usual chorus of birds had fallen silent, and the breeze that once caressed her face now felt cold and unsettling. Celest straightened, scanning the horizon, her heart quickening as an unfamiliar chill snaked down her spine.

Her gaze fell upon the old oak tree that stood at the edge of her family's field. It was a tree her father had always told her never to go near, its twisted roots creeping out of the ground like ancient fingers gripping the soil. She had never questioned why; it had simply been an unspoken rule. But now, as she looked toward it, something caught her eye.

The ground beneath the tree trembled—just slightly at first, like the earth itself was sighing. Celest blinked, unsure if her mind was playing tricks on her, but then she saw it again. A faint crack, like a wound in the earth, began to open beneath the oak, splitting the ground with an ominous rumble.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She dropped her hoe, taking a few cautious steps toward the tree. The crack widened, and from the depths of the earth, something began to emerge—something dark and ancient. A chest, half-buried and wrapped in tangled roots, forced its way up through the soil as if the earth itself had grown tired of holding onto its secret.

Celest's breath caught in her throat. She was drawn to it, her body moving forward almost of its own will. The chest was old, far older than anything she had ever seen, its wood weathered and cracked, the metal hinges rusted from centuries of decay. But even in its broken state, there was something undeniably powerful about it.

She knelt beside it, her fingers trembling as she reached for the latch. The air around her grew thick, almost suffocating. Her mind screamed for her to stop, to turn back, but the pull of the chest was irresistible. She unlatched it with a single motion, and the lid creaked open with a sound that echoed unnaturally in the silence of the field.

Inside, nestled in a bed of crumbling cloth, lay a dagger. Its hilt was worn, the metal darkened as though it had absorbed the shadows of the ages. But the blade itself... it shimmered, not with light, but with something darker, something that seemed to pulse with the weight of forgotten power.

Celest's hand hovered over it, a voice whispering in her mind, soft but insistent. Take it. She gasped, pulling her hand back. Where had the voice come from? Her heart raced, but her feet remained frozen to the spot, her eyes locked on the blade.

Take it, the voice said again, louder this time. Her mind fought against the command, but her body betrayed her. Slowly, she reached for the dagger, her fingers brushing against the cold metal. In that moment, everything changed.

A surge of energy shot through her, so powerful it knocked the breath from her lungs. The field around her seemed to darken, the sky above shifting into something ominous and oppressive. The ground beneath her trembled again, but this time, it was no simple tremor. The very earth seemed to recoil at her touch, as if the world itself was protesting.

She gasped, stumbling back, the dagger still clutched in her hand. Her mind was spinning, her vision blurring as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. The whispers were louder now, insistent, filling her head with words she couldn't understand. She had to get away, had to tell someone. But the dagger's pull was undeniable.

You are the bearer now.

∆ ∆ ∆

The castle of Lionhold stood as a beacon of strength and tradition. It is the capital of Meliah, the greatest and largest kingdom of Ever-Realm in terms of land mass and military power. The kingdom's Lion sigil highlighted its towering stone walls, casting long shadows over the bustling city below. Within the labyrinthine halls of the royal library, Jethro, the First Prince of Meliah, sat in silence, his fingers stained with ink as he poured over ancient texts. The air in the room was thick with dust, the scent of parchment and leather-bound tomes filling his senses. It was his refuge—a place where the weight of his duties could be forgotten, if only for a while.

He stared at the faded manuscript before him, his brow furrowed in concentration. The Legend of the Five Daggers had consumed his thoughts for months now, ever since he'd first stumbled across a fragment of an ancient prophecy hidden deep in the archives. The power of those daggers—long believed to be mere myth—had fascinated him, and the Fifth Dagger, in particular, had become his obsession.

The Fifth Dagger shall bring ruin or salvation to Ever-Realm, and the fate of the world shall rest with the one who wields it.

The words were etched into his mind, their meaning both tantalizing and terrifying. What could this weapon be that it had the power to shape the very future of Ever-Realm? And why, after all these centuries, had it not been found?

The creaking of the library door interrupted his thoughts, and Jethro looked up to see his father, King Adron, standing in the doorway. The king's face was drawn, the lines of age and worry etched deeply into his features.

"You're here again," the king said, his voice a mix of weariness and frustration. "While the kingdom teeters on the edge of war, you bury yourself in these old stories."

Jethro closed the manuscript carefully, but his mind still lingered on its contents. "These aren't just stories, Father. The prophecies speak of the daggers—artifacts of great power. If we find the Fifth Dagger, we could use it to tip the balance in our favor."

"Balance?" The king scoffed, stepping into the room. "We are surrounded by enemies—Garibaldi, Yochri, Fri, Isslnor, Gon. The Ashen Five grows stronger by the day, and our allies in Aeneah and Qestor can only do so much. We need warriors, Jethro. Not myths."

Jethro rose from his seat, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "I understand the threat, Father. But this—this could be the answer we've been looking for. The power of the dagger might be the key to saving Meliah."

King Adron's eyes darkened, his voice lowering. "Power like that is dangerous. You of all people should know that."

Jethro's jaw clenched. "And yet you would rather fight without it?"

The king sighed deeply, the weight of his crown pressing down on him. "There are no easy answers in war. We face enemies on all sides, and you are my heir. Your place is here, preparing for the battles ahead—not chasing shadows."

"I am prepared," Jethro said, his voice firm. "But I will not ignore the past. The history of Ever-Realm holds secrets we have yet to uncover, and if the Fifth Dagger exists, we must find it."

The king studied his son for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Be careful, Jethro. History can be a dangerous thing."