Chapter One: The Man Who Saved Everyone

Nobody liked Aldren Vale. This was not an exaggeration. The baker disliked him because Aldren once returned a loaf of bread after discovering it had a stone baked inside. The blacksmith disliked him because Aldren had complained about the price of horseshoes. The mayor disliked him because Aldren had publicly pointed out that the mayor's statue had been made with stolen marble. The children disliked him because Aldren never let them play with his sword. Even the dogs disliked him. Nobody knew why. Perhaps dogs simply possessed excellent judgment. Aldren lived in the little village of Morrow's End, where the houses leaned toward one another as though whispering secrets and the church bell had not worked since the reign of King Osric the Unfortunate. He was thirty-seven years old, broad-shouldered, scarred across the left cheek, and permanently annoyed. He was also the greatest swordsman in Veyra. Nobody cared. For twelve years, Aldren had guarded the eastern road against the things that crawled out of the Black Sea. He had killed marsh-wolves. He had fought bone spiders. He had once spent three days inside a ruined watchtower fighting twelve glass demons with nothing but a broken chair leg. Nobody wrote songs about that. The closest he ever came to fame was when someone painted "ALDREN IS A JERK" on the side of his house. He left it there. It seemed accurate. Then, on the seventeenth morning of the Month of Ash, the ground began to shake. Aldren was eating breakfast when his spoon jumped out of his hand. The villagers ran outside. A crack appeared in the center of Morrow's End. It was not an ordinary crack. It was black. Not dark. Black. The sort of black that seemed to swallow the sunlight around it. Aldren stared at it. Then he whispered: "Well." The mayor stepped forward. "What's happening?" Aldren looked at him. "The Dread." Everyone went silent. Old stories spoke of the Dread. An ancient thing buried beneath Veyra before the first king had been crowned. It had slept beneath the world for ten thousand years. According to legend, if it ever awakened, it would consume every living creature in the kingdom. The mayor swallowed. "Can you stop it?" Aldren looked at the widening crack. "No." The mayor's face went pale. "Then we're doomed." "Probably." Aldren walked back toward his house. The mayor grabbed his arm. "Where are you going?" "To get my sword." "What good will a sword do?" Aldren stopped. "Against the Dread?" "Yes." "Probably none." "Then why are you getting it?" Aldren looked toward the village. Children were crying. Parents were shouting. People were packing carts. Everyone was trying to escape. He looked at the road leading west. Then he looked back at the crack. "If I don't go down there," he said, "everyone dies." The mayor stared at him. "And if you do?" Aldren shrugged. "Everyone might live." Nobody thanked him. Nobody cheered. Nobody called him brave. A woman shouted that Aldren should go first because he was probably responsible for waking the monster anyway. Someone else yelled that he had always been cursed. Aldren nodded. "Fair enough." He walked home. Inside his tiny house sat the only thing in the world he truly cared about. A wooden box. Inside it was a letter from his younger brother, Tomas. Tomas had died eight years earlier defending Crownfall. His final words had been: If Aldren is still being an idiot, tell him I said hello. Aldren smiled. He folded the letter carefully. Then he put on his armor. Outside, the sky had turned red. The crack beneath Morrow's End opened wider. Something enormous moved underneath the earth. Aldren walked toward it. The villagers watched from a distance. Nobody followed. At the edge of the crack, Aldren turned around. For one brief moment, he wondered whether someone would say something. Anything. Perhaps: Good luck. Perhaps: Thank you. Perhaps even: We're sorry. Nobody did. The mayor simply shouted: "Don't bring that thing back up here!" Aldren stared at him. Then he laughed. It was the first time anyone in Morrow's End had heard him laugh. "Don't worry," Aldren called. "I won't." He jumped. Down beneath the earth he fell. Past roots. Past ancient stone. Past the buried ruins of civilizations that had forgotten their own names. At last he reached the chamber beneath Veyra. There it was. The Dread. It was larger than a mountain. Its body was made of black bone and endless mouths. Its eyes opened. Thousands of them. Aldren drew his sword. The Dread spoke inside his mind. YOU CANNOT KILL ME. Aldren looked at his sword. It was cracked. The blade had been repaired nine times. He sighed. "Yeah." The Dread's mouths opened. THEN WHY HAVE YOU COME? Aldren thought about Morrow's End. The baker. The mayor. The children. The dogs. Everyone who hated him. Everyone who would never remember his name. Then he thought about Tomas. He smiled. "Because somebody has to." The Dread attacked. The battle lasted seven hours. Aldren lost his shield in the first minute. His helmet disappeared somewhere around the second hour. By the fourth hour, he could barely stand. By the sixth, his sword had broken. So he used the broken blade. When that broke, he used a stone. When the stone broke, he used his fists. And when his fists could no longer move, he crawled. In the final hour, Aldren discovered the Dread's heart. It was small. A glowing ember buried beneath layers of black bone. Aldren looked at it. Then he looked at the ancient rune carved around it. He understood. The Dread could not be destroyed. But it could be sealed. Someone had to remain behind. Someone had to hold the seal from inside. Forever. Aldren closed his eyes. "Of course." He placed his hand against the rune. The chamber began to collapse. The Dread screamed. Aldren screamed too. Then the earth became silent. Above him, Morrow's End stopped shaking. The crack closed. The red sky returned to blue. The Black Sea stopped boiling. Across Veyra, people stepped out of their homes. They looked around. They were alive. The kingdom was saved. Nobody knew why. For several days, people celebrated. There were enormous feasts in Crownfall. The king declared a national holiday. Minstrels wrote songs about the mysterious force that had defeated the Dread. One claimed it was the ancient gods. Another claimed it was the royal army. A third insisted a giant golden dragon had descended from the heavens. Nobody mentioned Aldren Vale. In Morrow's End, the mayor eventually ordered the crack in the earth covered with flowers. The baker reopened his shop. The blacksmith went back to work. The children returned to the streets. The dogs returned to barking at strangers. And Aldren's house remained empty. Weeks later, a little girl named Elia walked past it. She saw the words painted across the wall. ALDREN IS A JERK. She asked her mother: "Who was Aldren?" Her mother shrugged. "I don't know." Elia looked at the empty house. For some reason, she didn't believe her. She walked closer. Behind the house she found an old wooden sword. And beneath it, scratched into the dirt, were five words. SOMEONE HAS TO DO IT. Elia stared at them. Then she picked up the sword. Far beneath her feet, something moved. Only once. Then it was still. And for the first time in ten thousand years, the Dread was afraid. Not because Aldren had defeated it. But because somewhere above the earth, someone had finally remembered his name.