A boy. A sword. An inn. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, doesn't it? But it's the beginning of a story, written in blood.
The boy had no name.
Well, he had been named once. Eight years ago, probably, although he looked older. But it didn't matter anymore. The people who had named him were dead, the old life in which he still had a name – needed a name – reduced to ash.
The boy wore old rags that had been clothes, a lifetime ago. They wouldn't get him through the winter, but the boy didn't know or care. It was still summer.
And because it was summer, he dared to dive in the lake.
He didn't know why he stepped into the water, but he did. One small step after another, until the waterline met his chin and he began to swim to the middle of the lake. And then he put his head under.
The water was cold and clear, the ground was far away. Fish were swimming deep under the boy.
He didn't know why he dived down, or how he found the skeleton, or how he spotted the sword between the gigantic creature's ribs, but he did. His small hand closed around the hilt of the weapon, and something seemed to touch his soul. The air left his mouth in a stream of bubbles rising to the surface above him. His mind felt like it was torn apart and stretched and bent and thrown around and examined, and he would have screamed had he not been under water.
And then it was over. The boy swam up and greedily sucked air in his lungs. At the shore, he looked at the sword. It was a rather plain weapon, but extremely sharp and still shining like pure silver, untouched by the water it had rested in. It was probably worth a lot, the boy thought. He decided to sell it in the nearest city.
On his way along the road, he saw an inn, a lovely small building. When he entered, the innkeeper immediately served him a hot meal and asked him what he was named.
The boy hesitated at this question. What should he answer? Something in his soul, very deep inside him, seemed to sing a word. Was it a name?
Umbra.
He didn't realise that he had said it loud until the innkeeper smiled. A beautiful name!, she said, and: Enjoy your food.
He sat down and ate. A few minutes later, four strangers entered the inn. Had the boy had any experience with bandits, he would have recognized them immediately.
They occupied a table, bought food and talked in low voices, their eyes shifting through the inn, until one of them found the sword. The man smiled, and walked over, and told the boy to give him the weapon, quickly or he would receive a beating, that little mongrel.
Suddenly the boy was standing, and then he gripped the sword tightly, and then he was swinging it at the man, slicing through the wrist of his outstretched hand like it was made of thin air. The weapon seemed to tremble as it tasted the blood, like a predator.
The blade seemed weightless as the boy hit the man again, stabbing him straight through the heart. Something inside him woke and roared in delight at the kill. In the blink of an eye he was next to the other bandits, hacking and slashing and stabbing and killing, the blood covering him like a warm red coat. And when the three men lay dead at his feet, he turned around and looked at the innkeeper and the two other customers, and the core of his soul seemed to whisper: More.