The morning light filtered through the thin curtains of Aethren's room, painting golden streaks across the wooden floor. Yet the warmth of the sun did little to dispel the chill that lingered in his chest. The dream—or was it a vision?—still haunted him, vivid and unrelenting.
The image of the shadowy figure and the burning throne was etched into his mind. Even the wolf's glowing eyes seemed to linger in the corners of his vision, as if it might emerge from the shadows at any moment.
“Aethren!” His mother’s voice jolted him upright. “You’ll be late for the market!”
Rubbing his temples, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The wooden floor creaked under his weight, as familiar as the rhythm of his life in Wynthall. He pulled on his worn tunic and boots, the fabric coarse against his skin, and descended the narrow staircase to the kitchen.
His mother, Mirra Valis, was already bustling about, her hands deftly weaving between a basket of herbs and a simmering pot. She paused just long enough to give him a knowing look.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.
“I didn’t sleep well,” Aethren mumbled, grabbing a piece of bread from the table.
Mirra frowned. “Those dreams again?”
He nodded but said nothing more. His mother’s concern was evident, but he couldn’t explain what he didn’t fully understand.
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The village of Wynthall was alive with the usual morning hustle. Merchants set up their stalls, hawking goods ranging from fresh produce to handcrafted trinkets. Children darted between the carts, their laughter mingling with the distant hammering of the blacksmith’s forge.
Aethren made his way to the baker’s stall, a small pouch of coins jingling at his side. As he waited in line, the strange pull he’d felt the night before returned. It wasn’t the vivid urgency of his dream, but a faint tug, as if the air itself was guiding him.
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He turned, his eyes scanning the crowd. That’s when he saw her—a woman draped in a dark cloak, her hood casting her face in shadow. She stood perfectly still, watching him.
“Something wrong?” asked Callen, the baker’s apprentice, breaking Aethren’s trance.
“No,” Aethren muttered, shaking his head. When he glanced back, the woman was gone.
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By the time Aethren finished his errands, the sun hung high in the sky, casting sharp shadows across the village. He decided to take the long way home, cutting through the edge of the forest where the trees offered a reprieve from the heat.
The forest had always been a place of comfort for him, its silence a welcome escape from the noise of village life. But today, the air felt different—heavier.
His steps slowed as he reached the clearing from his dream. He recognized it immediately: the ancient oak in the center, its branches twisted like gnarled fingers; the moss-covered stones scattered like forgotten relics.
And there, at the base of the oak, lay a shimmering object half-buried in the dirt.
Curiosity overrode caution as he approached. It was a shard of crystal, glowing faintly with an inner light that pulsed like a heartbeat. As his fingers brushed its surface, the world around him seemed to ripple.
“Aethren Valis.”
The voice came from behind him, deep and resonant. Aethren whirled around to find the hooded man from his dream standing at the edge of the clearing.
“You,” Aethren breathed.
The man nodded. “You’ve taken your first step, boy. The shard has chosen you.”
“What are you talking about?” Aethren asked, his grip tightening around the crystal.
The man stepped closer, his golden eyes burning like molten fire. “You are the Key. The Veil has shattered, and the forces of the Abyss are already moving. If you do not act, this world—and many others—will fall.”
Aethren took a step back, his heart pounding. “You’ve got the wrong person. I’m just a villager.”
The man’s smile was grim. “That’s what they all say, at first.”
Before Aethren could respond, the forest erupted in chaos. A deafening roar split the air as the monstrous wolf from his dream burst into the clearing, its fangs bared and its eyes glowing with malice.
The hooded man drew a sword from beneath his cloak, its blade gleaming with an otherworldly light. “Hold the shard, and do not run,” he commanded.
Aethren wanted to protest, to flee, but his feet refused to move. The wolf lunged, and time seemed to slow. The shard in his hand grew warm, then searing hot, as its light engulfed him.
The last thing he saw before the world turned to blinding white was the hooded man locking eyes with him, his voice echoing in his mind.
“Awaken, Aethren Valis. Your destiny begins now.”