Fade To Black, The Curseborn Saga, Book 1

Chapter 1 - To Whom Fate Smiles

7X535C – 535th Cycle of the Seventh Age

. . . 16 Cycles Later . . .

Storm stood atop a floating island in the sky, the dawn wind passing him by. Beyond the distant swirl of quiet clouds, the sun was just peeking her face into existence. He felt the warmth touch his cheeks as it rose higher, and for a long moment, he took in the beauty of a new day.

Turning his back to the rising sun, Storm walked over to a tree standing not far from the cliff. About thirty paces to the side of him was a quaint wooden cabin, fashioned in a rustic style. Faint traces of smoke rose from its chimney. It was his home, the only home he had ever known.

The little floating island he lived on wasn't much bigger than the cabin and their one tree. In fact, the cabin itself seemed to take up the majority of it. There was room to run and play, but less so as they had gotten older. Regardless, Storm was content and wished for nothing grander. Who could complain? Being surrounded by the beautiful sky, living on an island that the sun greeted before any other place in all of Soria. And even if he did get a little stir crazy in the small space, all it took was one look north to find Falia, his birthplace: an enormous nation of earth sitting amongst the clouds.

The cliffs infamously known as the Edge were only a rocks throw from where he stood, nestled beyond a blank stretch of dim lit sky. And not far beyond the Edge, he could see the dark trees of Neverend Forest, looming tall and mighty. Needless to say, he, his brother, and his grandfather, were the only ones that lived at the Edge. There wasn't a town for leagues and leagues. It was peaceful, though sometimes lonely.

Taking off his dark hooded jacket, Storm walked over and hung it on one of the branches of the tree. He wore simple black pants, and shards of black bone, native to all sorians, grew out of the skin over his ribs like an exoskeleton, along with certain parts of his wrists and shoulders. Hanging from his neck was a silver chain that held a rune, and etched onto the surface of it was his name, written in the language of the old.

"One day," he whispered, gently touching the rune. "I'll figure out where you came from . . . where we came from."

Leaning against the tree trunk was a leaden training sword with a wide guard; it was charcoal in color but had no edge to it. With a few deep breaths, Storm lifted the sword off the ground, wincing under its weight. He hadn't been able to lift the sword at all until he was fourteen cycles old, a triumph that still shined brightly in his memories.

A few feet to his right was a thin metal rod sticking out of the ground with a dozen steel rings slipped over the top of it. With the careful ease of someone lifting a heavy object, Storm picked up one of the rings and slid it over the tip of the training sword. It fell down to the guard with a thump, and he felt the weight of the sword rise significantly. Lifting another ring in the same fashion, Storm continued placing them onto his weapon until three of the rings had fallen down to the guard.

Storm walked to the side of the tree, then took a deep breath and raised the sword above his head. Closing his eyes, he brought the sword down slowly, stopping with it held out in front of him. Feeling the energy of his spirit pass into the training sword, the rings shook slightly, then one at a time separated from the guard and hovered up along the blade as if by magic, until they were evenly spaced apart from one another.

"See that old man," Storm felt his pride swell. "Told ya I could do it."

Exhaling in one steady movement, he brought the blade down, carefully doing his best to control the weight. Inhaling as he lifted it once again, Storm continued, each slash a perfect balance of breath and movement.