Warmth.
It was the first thing Ravenn noticed as he stirred from unconsciousness. A strange, unfamiliar warmth wrapped around him, sinking into his skin and bones. He wasn't used to it. The cold had been his only companion for as long as he could remember—and not just the biting wind, the endless snowfall, the numbness that settled deep in his body, making it hard to move, to think. The cold he had felt in his own "home".
But now…
His fingers twitched against something soft. A bed? The sensation was foreign, too gentle, too stable. His breaths came slow and shallow as he forced his heavy eyelids open. Dim morning light filtered through a nearby window, casting long shadows across a quiet room. The ceiling above him was wooden, sturdy beams stretching across it. A far cry from the snowy planes and open sky he had last seen. His breath caught. Where was he?
"Awake, are you?"
The voice was deep, edged in gravel but seemed almost soft, laden with warmth.
Ravenn tried to sit up, but a dull ache ran through him. His movements were slow, delayed even, as if he had been frozen and was only now thawing. A heavy fur was draped over him, weighing him down. Ravenn's head turned, his neck protesting the movement.
An old man sat in a chair near the bed, his hands resting on a long wooden staff. His worn yet well-kept robes draped over him in flowing layers, and his white hair was neatly tied back. His face bore lines of age, but something was youthful in his expression—a quiet amusement, as if he had been waiting for this moment.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, the man smiled. "You've been asleep for quite some time. I was starting to wonder if you'd ever open those eyes."
Ravenn tried to speak, but his throat was dry, his voice barely a rasp. The man reached for a cup resting on a small table nearby and handed it to him. Ravenn hesitated before taking it, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into his fingertips.
"Drink," the man said. "It will help."
He did. The water was cool and soothing as it slid down his throat.
When he set the cup down, the man leaned back slightly, regarding him with quiet curiosity.
"Do you remember your name?"
"…Ravenn." His voice was hoarse but steady.
The man nodded approvingly. "Good. Memory intact." He studied Ravenn before continuing, "Do you remember how you got here?"
Ravenn frowned. Snow. Pain. A creeping cold that had gnawed at his very being. And then… something else. Something vast, something that had stirred within him, pulling him back from the abyss.
The abyss...
"I died," he murmured.
The man's expression didn't change. If anything, he looked unsurprised. "Yes."
Ravenn looked at him sharply. "Then… how?"
A slow exhale. The man's fingers tapped idly against the arm of his chair. "Because I felt it—you, in the snow, and so I came."
The word meant nothing to him. His confusion must have been evident because the man continued, his tone patient.
"Tell me, child. In the snow, what did you feel? Was it a pull? Towards life? As if something inside of you refused to die?"
Ravenn's stomach twisted. He had felt it. That pull from beyond, the echo of something greater, stirring in his veins. But this man spoke as if it was something expected. Something normal.
He clenched his fists. "…What does that mean?"
A small chuckle. "That remains to be seen."
Silence stretched between them. Then, the man rose.
"Come."
Ravenn hesitated, but something in him urged him forward. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing his strength. His muscles protested, but he pushed through the discomfort and followed the man into the crisp morning air.
They emerged into an open courtyard. The sky above was still a deep shade of blue, and the first hints of dawn were creeping along the horizon. The grounds were vast but empty, with stone training circles and worn dummies scattered throughout.
"This is the home of the Wardens," the man said as they walked. "A place where those who carry the echoes of the past come to learn what it means to wield them."
Ravenn listened in silence, his gaze drifting over the worn training dummies, the neatly lined weapons racks, and the distant silhouette of a temple-like structure at the far end of the grounds.
"So... are you a guild? A group of warriors, maybe?"
"The Wardens are more than warriors," the man said. "We are balance-keepers, mediators between the mortal world and the spirits that roam it."
"Long ago, the Keepers watched this land, all lands, beings who understood the flow of all things. They ensured that no force, be it mortal or spirit, tipped the scales too far in one direction. But time erodes all things—even them."
The man stopped and turned to face Ravenn directly. "Their power did not simply vanish, however. It passed to the Vessels, those chosen to inherit the remnants of what they left behind. The Wardens exist because we are needed—to uphold the balance that the Keepers once maintained. We stand between chaos and order, not to rule, but to ensure neither consumes the other."
Ravenn absorbed the words carefully. He had heard of spirits before—whispers in old tales, warnings from his mother and teachers—but never had he imagined they were real.
"You said you felt me," he said at last. "What does that mean?"
The man nodded. "I felt the energy of a Vessel stirring in the snow. That is not something easily ignored. Especially not by those of us who know what it means."
"Vessels are rare, boy. Unseen by most, unknown to even more. You would not have heard of them before now." He paused, then added, "Many of them awaken their true nature by dying… and returning."
"The Wardens are an old secret, much like the Vessels themselves. We are almost completely made up of Vessels. They, descendants of the peacekeepers of old, are the only ones who can truly live up to this burden."
Ravenn looked at him, bewildered for a moment. "Are you saying that-"
"Yes," the old man interrupted him. "You, Ravenn Vaedricourt, are a Vessel."
Ravenn's breath caught at the name.
Vaedricourt.
It was one of the first times in his life that someone had spoken it without scorn, without the weight of expectation pressing down on him. But before he could react, the man continued.
"I am Orin," he said, tapping his staff lightly against the stone ground. "Master of the Wardens."
Orin. The name was unknown to him, but there was something in how the old man carried himself—something vast and unshaken, like an ancient tree that had weathered countless storms.
Ravenn swallowed hard. "You said… the Wardens are made up of Vessels?"
Orin nodded. "Not all, but most. Our numbers are few, but we are strong. Strong because we must be." He studied Ravenn carefully. "You have awakened to something most do not understand. If you wish, I will train you—teach you what it means to be a Vessel and a Warden."
A choice.
Ravenn had never been given one before. Not when he had been cast out. Not when he had been left to die in the snow.
Now, for the first time, the path ahead was his to take.
He clenched his fists, feeling the faint stirrings of something within him—something vast, something echoing.
"…I'll need time to think."
Orin smiled as if he had expected that answer. "Good. Then rest. You will need your strength."
Ravenn hesitated. "Rest?"
Orin chuckled. "You'll meet the others at dinner. I imagine you have plenty of questions."
The others. The Wardens.
A strange tension settled in Ravenn's chest—anticipation, unease. He had spent so long alone that the thought of others like him, others who had died and returned, was… unsettling. But there was no turning back now.