Red and gold streaks ran along the polished floors of the Goldstone family mansion, reflecting the early morning sunlight in a blaze of color. The halls were quiet, almost eerily so, except for the soft scrape of Riven's duster against the windowsills. He moved with mechanical precision, dusting the ornate woodwork with an almost ritualistic care.
A housekeeper. That was all he was. Nothing remarkable.
No extraordinary strength.
No dazzling intellect.
No spark of talent that would make anyone remember his name.
If life were a play, he would be the extra in the background. A shadow that walked through scenes, noticed only if he stumbled or made a mistake.
And yet, he moved through the mansion like he belonged, or at least, like he had grown used to pretending that he did.
"Riven! Hey!"
The voice shattered the quiet like sunlight piercing clouds. Light, warm, almost musical. Riven froze, duster in mid-air. The voice was familiar. Playful. Teasing. It carried a weight of affection he wasn't used to.
He turned.
Luna, one of the housemaids, moved down the corridor with a bounce in her step and a wide grin. Her brown hair swayed like a pendulum, catching the light, and her eyes were brighter than any jewel in the mansion's treasury.
"Oh, Luna! What's u—"
Before he could finish, she was on him, wrapping him in a hug so tight it felt as if he might be crushed into a single shape. Riven stiffened, unsure of what to do. Pull away? Laugh? Cry? Instead, he remained still, letting her warmth envelop him.
To him, Luna was more than a coworker, more than just another face in the mansion. In the two months he had worked here, she had been the only one to speak to him as if he were something more than a housekeeper. Something human. Something worth noticing.
"It's your birthday! You turn sixteen!" she exclaimed, finally letting him breathe. Her eyes sparkled like fireworks, bright and unrestrained.
Riven blinked. His birthday had… almost completely slipped his mind. He had never celebrated it before, never had anyone to celebrate with. He had almost forgotten it existed.
And tomorrow… tomorrow, he was supposed to awaken.
A spark of excitement should have stirred in his chest. But instead, it was replaced with a pit of dread, hollow and cold.
The hell's the point of awakening? I have no talent…
He had survived for sixteen years on luck, wit, and persistence. He had fought goblins, hunted nano rabbits, scavenged for food, and avoided trouble. He had survived by becoming nothing, blending into the shadows, doing his work, and never drawing attention. Awakening wasn't going to change that.
"Oh—yeah! It is, isn't it?" he said, forcing a smile that sounded brittle even to his own ears.
Luna's smile softened, but she did not let her joy fade. "Don't tell me you forgot your own birthday. We can celebrate later, though. Prince Michael said he wants to see you at the training grounds."
Riven froze.
Him? The Prince?
"Prince… Michael?" he asked cautiously. His voice was barely a whisper.
"Don't keep him waiting!" Luna said with a nudge, no hint of hesitation. She stepped back and clapped her hands lightly. "Go on, Riven. Don't make him wait."
Riven's legs moved almost automatically as he trotted down the hall, leaving the mansion behind. The sun hit him with unexpected intensity as he stepped into the courtyard. He raised the back of his hand to shield his eyes. The training grounds stretched before him like a world of its own: wooden dummies lined the grass, some split and scarred, others riddled with gashes from long-practiced strikes.
"Over here."
The voice was calm, commanding, and effortless. Riven's gaze lifted and fell on Michael. The sunlight caught the strands of his blonde hair, making him shine like spun gold. His red eyes, sharp and unyielding, rested on Riven with a quiet intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.
Even standing at a distance, the gap between them was undeniable. Riven's chest tightened. His own presence felt fragile in comparison, as if he had wandered into a realm that wasn't meant for him.
He approached, careful, his hands at his sides, trying to mask the nervousness that twisted his stomach.
"I need you to polish my sword," Michael said, his tone calm but firm. His gaze never left Riven's.
A simple task for anyone else, perhaps. But to Riven, it felt like a blessing. Michael's sword was legendary, a blade that had been bestowed upon him by the King of Ironreach himself. Its name alone carried weight: Fatebinder.
"I—I… yeah. Yes!" Riven stammered. He wanted to believe it was a joke, but Michael's unyielding eyes told him otherwise.
With a motion fluid from years of practice, Michael unsheathed the sword and handed it to Riven. The blade was larger than he expected, yet surprisingly light in his hands. The diamond embedded in the hilt caught the sunlight, scattering tiny sparks like stars. The blade itself was near perfect, but the edge needed attention—a chance for Riven to prove himself.
Blades had always been his life. When he wasn't cleaning, he studied them; Swords, daggers, axes, and every weapon he could get his hands on. Orphaned and alone, he had survived by fighting monsters, scavenging, and sharpening not just his skills, but his instincts. Polishing a weapon was a task he knew well.
But this… this was different.
The metal of Fatebinder had been forged from the horn of a Warcrest Bison, an S-Rank dungeon boss. Even reading its name made lesser hunters shiver. To hold a weapon made from such a creature was to hold a fragment of history, of power, of legacy.
"I'll have it as good as new," he said, bowing deeply. His voice was calm, but his hands trembled slightly under the weight of the sword. It was instinct, a gesture of respect.
Michael gave a faint nod, acknowledgment flickering in his eyes. Riven felt a spark he hadn't felt in years: purpose.
He knelt on the soft grass, unfolding the cloth and oil from his satchel. He ran his fingers along the blade, careful, almost reverent. The texture of the metal was cool, smooth, and yet alive in a way he hadn't expected. Each pass of the cloth seemed to sing softly in his hands, a vibration that was almost imperceptible.
Michael watched silently, arms crossed, his gaze sharp but unreadable. "You've handled blades before," he said finally, his tone even, almost casual, yet filled with quiet scrutiny.
Riven swallowed. "I… I've had to survive," he said, his words blunt but honest. "I know how to care for them."
The prince's gaze lingered, assessing, measuring his skill and resolve. Riven could feel it, an invisible weight pressing down, pushing him to be better, to not falter.
Time seemed to stretch as he worked, the hum of the blade and the swish of cloth forming a rhythm. For the first time in a long while, Riven's mind wasn't consumed by doubt or despair. His thoughts were clear, focused on each motion, each imperfection he corrected.
Luna, hidden just beyond the tree line, watched him from a distance. Her hands were clasped tightly, worry and pride mixing in her expression. She had seen him struggle, survive, and disappear into shadows unnoticed. But now… seeing him handle Fatebinder, a sword meant for kings and heroes, she allowed herself a small smile. Maybe he wasn't just a background character after all.
The sun rose higher, catching the diamonds in the hilt and sending splintered light across the ground. Riven paused for a moment, studying the reflection on the polished blade. It was almost as if the sword itself were testing him, waiting for him to prove he was worthy of holding it.
A memory flickered in his mind: a goblin ambush in the forest outside the city, his hands slick with blood, the cold bite of steel against flesh. A nano rabbit lunging from the shadows, its teeth sharp, its speed unmatched. And always, the quiet fear that if he stopped moving, he would disappear into nothingness.
He shook his head and returned to the task. He couldn't let the sword sense hesitation.
Hours seemed to pass in silence. Sweat dotted his brow as he worked tirelessly, adjusting the angle, buffing the blade to a sheen that rivaled the sunlight itself. Michael remained, a silent figure of authority, occasionally shifting his weight but never offering advice or praise.
Finally, Riven stepped back, wiping his hands on his trousers. He held the blade carefully, almost reverently, and turned it in the light. Fatebinder gleamed, sharper and brighter than it had when he had first taken it.
Michael's expression softened just a fraction. "Not bad," he said, voice calm but with a hint of approval. "You've got skill. More than I expected."
Riven's chest tightened. Praise from Michael… it was almost unreal. He had survived on shadows and scraps, never daring to think he could be more than invisible.
And yet, something stirred inside him. A faint, fragile hope that tomorrow's awakening might finally give him the edge he had always lacked. That maybe, just maybe, he was meant for more than being forgotten.
Luna stepped out from the tree line then, clapping lightly. "See? I told you. You're not invisible. Not today."
Riven managed a small smile, his gaze lingering on the blade in his hands. Fatebinder wasn't just a sword. It was an opportunity. A promise.