They Mocked the Muddy Outcast Until His Hand Touched the Sacred Hilt

The Whispering Ravine

The air in the deep stone ravine was thick with a suffocating, icy fog. For centuries, the split rock had held the legendary blade, a weapon of myth that promised absolute sovereignty to whoever could draw it. High Commander Borin, a mountain of a man clad in charcoal-colored plate armor, stood before the stone. His massive blonde beard was slick with condensation. He gripped the leather-bound hilt, his muscles bulging like thick ropes as he pulled with all his might. The metal of his armor groaned under the immense strain, but the sword remained stubbornly frozen in the stone.

"If I couldn't pull it out, no one can," Borin grumbled, stumbling back in frustration.

The elite soldiers of the Vanguard murmured in agreement. If their strongest champion could not budge the weapon, then the legend was surely a lie. But from the back of the crowd, a lean, mud-stained young man stepped forward. It was Arthur, a mere servant who wore a frayed woolen vest and carried the squad's heavy gear. The soldiers laughed as the boy approached the sacred pedestal, but Arthur ignored their sneers. He gazed up at the ancient hilt, feeling a strange, magnetic pull in his chest.

"I am Arthur," he said with quiet, unwavering resolve. "And I am going to claim you."

Before Borin could grab his collar, Arthur reached out and tightly wrapped his dirt-covered hand around the leather-bound hilt. The moment his skin touched the steel, a low, resonant hum vibrated through the ravine, silencing the wind.