Chapter 1: The Prophecy in Ruins

The heavy wooden door groaned as Callen shoved it open, sending a cloud of dust swirling through the musty air. His lantern flickered, casting dancing shadows along the stone walls of the ancient library. The forgotten sanctuary stretched out before him, its endless shelves groaning under the weight of scrolls and tomes that hadn’t been touched in centuries.

"This has to be it," Callen muttered to himself, adjusting his spectacles and stepping forward into the forgotten archive. His fingers itched with anticipation. Weeks of research, endless nights poring over half-remembered legends, had all led him here. The Library of Veyl. The last remnant of the Old Kingdom—and, if the rumors were true, home to the prophecy.

He set the lantern down on a rickety table, scanning the shelves with a mixture of reverence and nervous energy. His studies at the University of Elandria had made him skeptical of the old myths. They were stories, little more than fables used to explain the world when humanity was young and ignorant. But something was happening. Strange sightings in the north, unexplained storms in the west, and the inexplicable feeling that something was wrong, that the world was on the verge of breaking. And the old stories were no longer so easy to dismiss.

"Third row, second column..." he whispered, recalling the vague directions from the map he'd bought from the street peddler. He weaved his way through the aisles of crumbling knowledge until his eyes landed on a small, unassuming leather-bound tome.

It didn’t look like much. The spine was cracked, and the gold leaf on its cover had long since faded, but Callen felt a pull, a quiet hum beneath his skin, urging him forward. With a deep breath, he slid the book from the shelf and returned to the lantern’s light.

As he carefully opened the fragile pages, his heart pounded in his chest. The script was written in the Old Tongue, difficult but not impossible to decipher after years of study. His fingers traced the faded ink as he murmured the words aloud.

"‘And when the veil shatters, the world will tremble...’"

His breath caught. This was it—the prophecy of the Shattering. His fingers moved faster now, flipping through the pages as the cryptic lines unraveled. The ancient text spoke of the barrier between realms, once thin, now growing weaker. A great disaster that would bring forth forgotten creatures, gods, and magic long thought to be extinguished.

But as Callen continued reading, a shiver crept down his spine. It wasn't just a prophecy about the past, about the Shattering that had thrown the world into chaos decades ago—it was a warning. There was to be a second Shattering, a final event that would tear apart not just the veil between realms but the world itself.

The lantern’s flame flickered, casting eerie shadows across the page. Callen’s eyes darted over the final lines. There was hope. The text spoke of three individuals—"the scholar, the warrior, and the lost one"—who would stand at the edge of the abyss and decide the fate of the world.

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A cold draft swept through the library, sending a chill through his bones. Callen shut the book quickly and looked around, suddenly aware of how alone he was in this ancient place.

Or maybe... not alone.

He heard the soft scrape of footsteps echoing down the hall.

"Who’s there?" Callen called out, his voice steadier than he felt.

No response.

He grabbed the lantern and the book, shoving the tome into his satchel as he backed away from the table. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Whoever it was, they were coming closer.

Heart pounding, Callen slipped into the shadows, pressing himself against the cold stone wall. The footsteps grew louder, methodical, as though whoever—or whatever—was following him knew exactly where to find him.

His mind raced. Could it be a guardian of the library? He’d heard tales of magic lingering in these old places, warding off those who sought to steal its secrets. Or was it something worse? One of the creatures from the other realm, slipped through the veil before its time?

A figure emerged into the dim light of the room, cloaked in shadow. For a moment, Callen thought it might be a scholar, someone from the University, but there was something... wrong. The figure moved with a strange, fluid grace, too silent, too smooth.

"Come out," the voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried a weight that made Callen’s blood run cold.

He pressed tighter against the wall, holding his breath.

The figure stepped closer to the table, their hand grazing the wood where the book had been just moments ago. "You’ve found it, haven’t you?" the voice asked, calm, but filled with menace. "The prophecy."

Callen’s heart pounded in his chest. How could they know?

He had to get out. Whoever this was, they weren’t friendly.

With a deep breath, Callen tightened his grip on the lantern and took a cautious step backward. The soft scrape of his boot against stone was enough. The figure turned sharply, and for the briefest moment, their eyes gleamed in the darkness—cold, unsettling, and not quite human.

Callen didn’t wait. He bolted.

The sound of his boots pounding against the stone echoed through the ancient library as he sprinted down the narrow aisles, weaving between shelves and toppling stacks of old scrolls in his wake. The figure behind him moved too quickly—unnaturally so. Callen could hear it gaining, each footstep eerily soft yet impossibly close.

He clutched the strap of his satchel, feeling the weight of the tome inside. He had been in possession of the prophecy for mere minutes, but already it felt like a curse, binding him to something larger than he could comprehend.

Up ahead, the stone corridor branched off in two directions. Without thinking, Callen darted left, heart hammering in his chest. His lantern flickered dangerously as he stumbled over the uneven floor. His breath caught in his throat when he saw what lay before him—a dead end.

Desperation clawed at him. There, half-buried beneath the rubble, was a small, narrow passage just large enough for him to squeeze through. Without a second thought, he dropped to the ground and crawled inside.

Dust filled his lungs as he pulled himself through the cramped space, hearing the figure's footsteps pause just beyond the gap. Callen held his breath, frozen in the darkness, waiting for the inevitable.

But the footsteps didn’t move.

"You can’t run forever," the voice whispered, low and haunting, sending a chill down his spine.

For a long moment, the world was still, only the sound of his ragged breathing filling the silence. Finally, he heard the soft retreat of footsteps, fading into the distance.

Callen remained motionless, heart still racing. He didn't know who—or what—that was, but he knew one thing: the prophecy in his possession had just placed him in more danger than he could have ever imagined.