The Forsaken Seal

The morning mist clung to the forest like a heavy breath, curling between trees and pooling low over the river that slashed through the land like a jagged scar. Layron stood at its edge, bare feet pressing into cold mud, the current tugging downstream with relentless hunger.

The river was alive — cold, fast, uncaring.

And today, it was his first real opponent.

Falkren perched on a nearby branch, mechanical eye dimmed slightly to avoid blinding them in the morning gloom. Shion stood further back, a small satchel of thin iron darts clinking softly with every shift of his weight.

"Today's test is simple," Falkren said, his metallic voice slicing through the air. [[You'll run against the current.]]

Layron's brow furrowed. "That's it?"

[[While Shion tries to kill you.]] Falkren's beak curved into something resembling a cruel grin.

Shion gave a lazy wave. "Don't worry, I'll aim for your limbs. Mostly."

Layron's stomach knotted. "You're kidding, right?"

"No excuses," Shion said, voice losing all humor. "This isn't a game, boy."

Layron took a breath — then stepped into the water.

"This isn't just training anymore, is it?" he muttered.

Falkren's mechanical eye flickered.

[[It never was.]]

Shion stepped up beside Layron, tossing something at his feet. The clang of metal hitting stone echoed over the water.

Layron's eyes snapped down.

Iron darts — six of them, sharper than anything Shion had used before.

"Those aren't for me, are they?" Layron's voice came out tighter than he intended.

"They are," Shion said simply, not even looking at him. "No more painted tips. No more training wheels."

Layron's fingers twitched at his sides. "If one of those hits me—"

"It'll bleed," Shion cut him off. "A lot."

Layron swallowed hard.

"No excuses today, boy," Falkren said, perching on a low branch just beside the river.

[[You wanted serious training? Here it is.]]

The moment the water hit his thighs, it was like the earth itself tried to pull him under. The force of it slammed into his legs, stealing his balance, making each step feel like walking through a collapsing wall. His muscles screamed to fight back, to resist — but that was the wrong instinct.

Flow with it — but move against it.

It sounded impossible.

But impossibility wasn't an option anymore.

"Go!" Falkren's sharp cry cut through the air.

Layron drove forward.

The first step was chaos — his foot hit a submerged rock, the river tried to rip his leg out from under him, and the world tilted sideways. His hands shot out to steady himself, fingers scraping over wet stone.

A whistle cut through the air.

The first dart.

Layron saw it at the last second — but his body didn't flow fast enough. The iron tip slashed across his upper arm, burning white-hot before the cold water numbed it.

"Dammit—!" Layron hissed, forcing himself forward.

The river fought him every second, every step. He wasn't moving fast enough. The current dragged at his ankles, twisted his knees, threw his own weight against him at every angle. Each step forward felt like two steps back.

Another whistle — two darts this time.

Layron barely twisted in time, the first dart clipping his shoulder, the second grazing his thigh. Blood bloomed into the water around him, swirling red into the current before being carried downstream.

Falkren's voice was a razor in his ear.

[[Flow, Layron! Flow! You're fighting the water — that's why you're slow! Let it move you! Redirect, not resist!]]

Layron growled through clenched teeth, stumbling again, water up to his waist. The current nearly dragged him under.

Flow, not resist.

He took the next step — but this time, he didn't brace against the push of the water.

He leaned into it.

His foot slid, but his body didn't freeze. His weight shifted with the river's pull, not against it. When his left leg moved, the river tried to twist it — but instead of fighting back, Layron twisted with it, using the force to pivot into the next step.

The water stopped feeling like an enemy.

It started feeling like momentum.

A third dart came screaming through the air.

Layron bent — not ducked, bent — the current pulling his chest down just as the dart passed above him.

No impact.

The first dodge.

Shion's brows lifted slightly.

Another dart — Layron stepped with the water, his body angling sideways, the dart missing his ribs by a hair.

Two more.

Layron didn't even look at them. His body twisted, shifted, flowed — water and air moving him exactly where he needed to be.

The river carried him, but didn't control him.

He wasn't resisting.

He was part of it.

By the time Layron reached the far end of the training stretch, his chest heaved, clothes soaked, blood running from shallow cuts. But he was standing.

Shion lowered his throwing hand.

Falkren's mechanical eye gleamed.

[[Took you long enough.]]

Layron leaned against a tree, breath ragged but eyes bright with something close to pride. "That… was hell."

"And tomorrow," Shion said, grinning, "we do it blindfolded."

A Shattered Breath

Layron collapsed onto the riverbank, chest heaving, legs shaking violently. His body was dotted with thin, bleeding cuts, some shallow, some deeper than he wanted to admit. His breath hitched, but he was grinning.

He made it.

---

The Weight of a Falcon's Duty

Layron winced as Shion pressed the burning salve into the deeper cut on his side. His skin stung, but his mind was elsewhere — locked on the falcon perched nearby, its talons digging slightly into the wood, the faint click of metal beneath claw.

"Alright," Layron muttered through gritted teeth. "No more dodging. What the hell are you?"

Falkren's mechanical eye flickered, shifting from bright gold to a softer, more muted amber.

[[What am I?]] The falcon's tone was oddly patient. [[I'm what's left of something old. Something that was never supposed to exist anymore.]]

Layron's brow furrowed. "What does that even mean?"

The falcon's talons flexed, scratching faint grooves into the wood with an idle, rhythmic motion. [[Falcons like me—we don't just live. We cycle. One falcon is born each year. One falcon dies each year. That is how it's always been.]]

Layron's head jerked up. "What? One falcon dies—every year?"

Shion, still tending to the wounds, didn't even glance up. "It's called the Falcon Cycle, kid."

Layron's mind raced, the weight of the statement crashing down on him. "So, you're saying… there's never more than one falcon alive at a time?"

[[Two.]] Falkren's beak curved slightly. [[The one just born… and the one who will die.]]

Layron stared, trying to piece it together. "That's… insane. That's not natural."

[[It's survival.]] Falkren's mechanical eye narrowed. [[We don't spread. We don't breed for armies. Every falcon born inherits the memories of the one before it. One life ends. One life begins. No more. No less.]]

Layron's breath caught in his throat. "So you—"

[[I remember the falcon before me. And the one before that. And the one before that.]] Falkren's gaze locked onto Layron. [[I'm not just me. I'm every falcon that ever existed.]]

Layron felt the world tilt slightly beneath him. This wasn't some overgrown bird. This was a living archive. A walking bloodline compressed into a single feathered body.

"That's…" Layron swallowed. "That's insane."

Falkren's head tilted slightly, his voice quieter.

[[What's insane is the fact that I'm not free.]]

Layron blinked. "What?"

[[Most falcons, they cycle freely. Born in the wild. Die in the sky. But some—]] Falkren's eye dimmed, the mechanical lens rotating softly. [[—some of us are bound. Not to the sky. To a Protector.]]

Layron's skin prickled. "...Bound?"

[[My purpose isn't to die free, Layron. My purpose is to make sure you live long enough to fulfill yours.]]

Layron's stomach clenched. There was no pride in Falkren's voice, no glory — just cold, resigned duty, like a soldier sentenced to a war he couldn't escape.

"You're saying… you exist just to protect me?"

The falcon's feathers shifted slightly, almost ruffling with distaste.

[[I exist to make sure you survive.]]

Layron sat frozen, caught between disbelief and something heavier — guilt.

"You—" His voice cracked. "You're just… stuck with me?"

[[You're thinking about it wrong.]] Falkren's eye flickered back to gold. [[I'm not stuck with you. I'm assigned to you. And when you're done, my cycle ends.]]

Layron's breath felt tight in his chest. He wasn't just training with Falkren. He was training with a creature who would die the moment Layron's story ended.

"That's not fair," Layron whispered.

Falkren's head tilted. [[Fairness doesn't matter. Survival does.]]

Layron's fingers dug into the dirt beside him. For a second, he wanted to argue, to scream at the sky, at the world, at whoever made these rules — but there was no one to yell at.

The cycle had existed long before him.

But somehow — it all tied to him now.

"Does…" Layron's voice was smaller now. "Does it bother you?"

Falkren's beak clicked once. [[What bothers me is that you're still weak. And I can't die until you're not.]]

Layron let out a shaky breath — half a laugh, half a sigh — but the weight of it still sat heavy on his chest.

He wasn't just training for himself anymore.

He was training for a life — one that had lived hundreds of times before him — and one that would end when his story was over.

And suddenly, the weight of failing felt so much heavier.

---

The Birth of the Next Guardian Falcon

"Wait… if only one falcon is born each year, how does that even happen? Where does it come from?"

The falcon's beak opened slightly, almost like a grin. [[You think we hatch from eggs like common birds?]]

Layron frowned. "Don't you?"

[[No. We're not born. We're summoned.]]

Layron's brow furrowed. "Summoned? By who?"

[[Not who. What.]] Falkren's head turned toward the sky, feathers bristling slightly as if recalling something ancient, something no mortal had ever witnessed.

[[Each year, when the final breath leaves the body of the last falcon, the air itself calls for the next. It's called the Skybirth.]]

Layron's heart skipped a beat at the name.

[[A single feather from the dying falcon is carried by the wind — not by any breeze you can feel — but by the Veilwind, the invisible current that exists between life and death.]]

Layron swallowed hard. "And then?"

[[That feather drifts, guided by something older than fate itself. It finds a place — a high peak, a hidden glade, a storm-touched cliff — somewhere no living being can interfere. There, the feather burns.]]

"Burns?" Layron repeated, wide-eyed.

[[Not with fire. With memory.]]

Layron's stomach tightened. "What do you mean?"

[[The memory of every falcon before it — every sky it touched, every flight it took, every battle it fought, every death it suffered — it all pours into that feather until it collapses into light.]]

Layron was stunned into silence.

[[From that light, a new falcon rises — already knowing every flight pattern, every instinct, every enemy, every mistake.]] Falkren's voice grew softer, almost reverent. [[We are never newborns. We are never innocent. We are born old, heavy with the weight of a thousand lives, and we take flight before we even understand the sky.]]

Layron's heart pounded in his chest. A creature born fully aware, inheriting not just instincts but the entire legacy of its kind — no wonder Falkren felt so heavy, so ancient, even in his sharp words.

"That's…" Layron couldn't even find the words.

Falkren's eye locked onto him. [[It means I've already died a thousand times. And I'll die again when you're done with me.]]

Layron's throat went dry. The falcon wasn't just training him.

It was preparing to die — again — so the cycle could continue.

"Then why…" Layron's voice was barely a whisper. "Why waste that on me?"

The falcon's mechanical eye whirred, and its voice dropped to a whisper.

[[Because my duty isn't to the sky. It's to you.]]

And that, more than anything, made Layron's chest ache. He is confused.

Yet many questions are there in Layron's mind.

...

--- End of Part-1 ---