Nestled in the shadow of ancient hills and cloaked in dense, whispering woods, the village of Dareth had long been forgotten by the world beyond. It was a place the maps no longer marked, and even traders spoke of it in passing, as if afraid to stir whatever old magic slumbered there. To its people, that isolation was both curse and sanctuary.
The morning air hung thick with dew, and the mist crept along the worn stone paths that wove through the moss-covered homes. Birds cried from the trees, and a chill wind whispered through the leaves as if the forest itself was uneasy. Dareth's people rose with the dawn, lighting sacred braziers in silence, following old rites whose meanings had long been buried under layers of tradition.
Atop a gentle hill sat a boy, his knees pulled to his chest, golden eyes glazed as he watched the distant horizon. Cael. Twelve years of age, though his eyes often bore the weight of a thousand. His short black curls framed a thoughtful brow, and his hands were calloused, too young for such wear. He was silent, staring past the veil of morning fog, lost in something only he could see.
A flicker. A shadow of wings in the sky. A whisper not carried by any wind.
His heart skipped.
It was gone as soon as it came.
He blinked, unsure if he had truly seen it. The sensation lingered—like the aftertaste of a dream, bitter and beautiful.
"Cael!" a voice called up the hill.
He turned his head slowly. His grandmother, bent and strong, stood by the garden path, her staff tapping against the earth. Serah was a woman of ancient wisdom, her silver hair braided with dried vines, her robe marked with symbols of an older world. She eyed him carefully.
"You've been sitting there again," she said. "What did you see?"
"Nothing," Cael said too quickly.
She didn't believe him, but she nodded anyway. "Come down. We've got rootbread to shape and the wardings to renew."
Cael descended the hill. He hated the way the earth seemed to pulse beneath his feet lately, as if something in the land recognized him. It had started months ago—these strange sensations, dreams of cities of light, of flaming swords and ancient chants. He told no one. Not even her.
That day passed like many others. Chores, laughter, small quarrels among the children. The village's guardians, clad in faintly glowing cloaks and bearing weapons etched with ancestral runes, made their morning rounds. Some had the spark of power within them—divine echoes, his grandmother called it—but even they lived simple lives, believing Dareth too far from the conflict to worry.
They were wrong.
Just before dusk, the forest grew still. Not quiet—still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
A tremor shook the ground. Just once. Enough to cause the braziers to flicker and Cael to freeze in place.
From the treeline, they emerged.
Black-cloaked figures, faces hidden beneath twisted masks, stepped into the village. Behind them, beasts followed—grotesque creatures, their forms ever-shifting, limbs bending the wrong way, eyes glowing with sickly violet fire. The mark of sorcery born of something older than nightmares.
Alarms blared—bells enchanted with light sigils that pulsed as they rang. Guardians sprang into motion, calling out spells in the old tongue. Lines of warding flared across the village, forming barriers of golden light.
The attackers moved with impossible speed. One hurled a sphere of crackling red lightning, shattering the first ward in a burst of flame and dust. Another extended a hand, and from the soil rose tendrils of shadow that lashed out at the defenders.
A guardian retaliated, summoning a spear of searing white fire, hurling it toward the nearest invader. It struck true, exploding with a flash—but the creature it hit simply reformed, laughing in a voice that scraped against Cael's bones.
"Get inside!" Serah shouted, grabbing Cael's wrist.
But he couldn't move. His legs were rooted. His heart beat like a drum, yet he felt cold. One of the masked men looked at him—no, through him. As if recognizing something ancient buried deep within.
The moment broke when a nearby hut exploded into shards, sending a shockwave through the square. Screams erupted. Families fled toward the woods, some hurling weak blasts of fire or shards of ice behind them. The guardians held the line for as long as they could, falling one by one in blazes of resistance.
Serah dragged Cael behind the weaver's hut and knelt, muttering a chant he'd only heard once before—on the night his mother left.
The earth opened beneath them, revealing a hidden tunnel. She shoved him forward.
"Run, Cael."
"What about the others?" he cried.
"There's no time!" Her voice cracked. "This tunnel leads to the cliffs. Keep running until you see the riverlight trees. Do not stop. Do not turn back."
He hesitated.
"Your blood will sing when it's time," she whispered. "But not today."
Before he could speak, she pressed something into his hand—a pendant, shaped like a teardrop of stone, humming with a warmth that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Then she turned, staff raised, stepping back into the chaos.
Cael ran.
The tunnel was narrow and cold, the walls lit only by the faint glow of runes. Behind him, the muffled roars of battle continued. Above him, a life shattered.
When he emerged at the cliffside, the night had fully fallen. Smoke rose from Dareth, distant and dark. He watched until the lights died out.
And as he stood there, he felt it again.
A flicker of something ancient stirring within him.
His mother had always said his father was a great general—one who vanished in a battle no one could name, chasing down a threat that had no name. She had gone after him, refusing to believe he was gone. She had never returned.
And now, he was alone.
But not ordinary.
Something inside him had cracked. Not shattered—but awakened. Just a little.
The world had changed tonight.
And so had Cael.
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