Aren Callum was tired of the quiet.
It wasn't peaceful. Not the kind that lulled you to sleep or made the world feel gentle. This was the other kind. The kind that lingered. That crept into your bones. That followed you like breath in the cold.
He stood in the training yard behind the village barracks, sweat soaking through the back of his tunic, his practice sword limp in his grip. The sun hung low in the sky, washing everything in a dusty orange haze. A few of the town guards sparred lazily nearby, their laughter ringing hollow in the open air.
Aren didn't laugh. Not anymore.
"Guard up," barked Toren, the training officer—an aging soldier with a limp and a permanent scowl.
Aren snapped his blade up just in time to block the wooden sword descending toward his head. The force jolted through his arms, stinging his already-bruised wrists.
"Too slow," Toren growled. "Again."
Aren didn't respond. He just reset his stance, raised the blade, and waited.
They'd been at it for an hour. Maybe more. He didn't count the time. He counted the bruises. The ache in his ribs. The way his fingers trembled every time he clenched the sword tighter.
Pain meant he was still here.
He'd started coming to the yard three weeks ago, ever since the merchant caravan passed through. He hadn't meant to spar that day. But there'd been a ring—ropes staked into the dirt, cheers echoing from townsfolk—and he'd stepped in.
Not for coin. Not even for pride.
Just to hurt. Just to feel.
The mercenary he faced had been twice his size and three times his speed. Aren had gone down in seconds. But something had shifted in that moment. He hadn't cried. He hadn't quit.
He wanted more.
Toren barked another order, and Aren stepped forward, slashing low. It was deflected. He tried to spin, but his foot slipped, and the butt of the practice sword struck him hard in the ribs.
The world tilted. Aren stumbled to the ground, gasping.
The silence returned.
But not around him—inside.
That stillness—he knew it now. It came just before it all made sense.
He saw the movement before it happened. The subtle shift in Toren's foot. The twist in his shoulders. The way the sword angled mid-swing.
He's going to—
Aren rolled aside, narrowly avoiding the next strike, and came up on his knees. His blade moved without thinking. Not a perfect move, but fast enough. Sharp enough. He slashed upward.
The wooden sword in Toren's hand snapped in two.
The yard went silent.
Toren stared at the broken haft, blinking.
Aren didn't smile. He didn't speak. He just stood there, chest heaving, eyes wide.
What was that?
That night, Aren sat alone near the edge of the village, Garron's training manual resting in his lap. The mercenary had given it to him a week ago before leaving with the caravan—just a thin book of notes, diagrams, and short phrases written in a rough hand.
Initiate.
Adept.
Disciple.
Warden.
Exemplar
Each title came with its own descriptions, its own symbols. He didn't understand most of it yet, but one phrase stuck in his mind:
"Pain is a door. Open it the right way, and you'll see more than blood."
He traced the words with his finger, then looked down at his own bruised hands.
"What… did I see?" he whispered.
No one answered. The wind stirred the trees. The stars blinked coldly above.
The next morning, Aren returned to the yard before anyone else. He moved through stances on his own, remembering the flow of motion—the twitch, the shift, the imbalance.
He could feel it again. A faint echo just beneath the surface of thought.
Wound Reader. He didn't know the name yet. But it was there. Watching. Whispering.
Later that week, when Toren paired him against two guards at once, Aren dodged cleanly for the first time. He ducked, twisted, struck—and one of the guards dropped, stunned.
Aren didn't celebrate. He just exhaled and stepped back into place.
Toren didn't speak. But the next day, Aren wasn't just part of the drills. He was helping lead them.
His father didn't notice.
Or if he did, he said nothing.
The man was a blacksmith—strong, broad, and silent. Since the day Aren's mother died, he had barely spoken more than a few words at a time.
Dinner was quiet. Mornings were quieter.
Aren tried once, two weeks after the funeral.
"Did she ever say… anything?" he'd asked. "About me? About where I—"
"No," was the reply.
And that was the end of it.
But the silence wasn't empty. It was full of echoes.
Aren remembered the way his mother used to hum when she worked. The way her fingers always smelled faintly of crushed herbs and honey. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed.
She had apologized on her deathbed. Reaching for him with trembling hands. Whispering words between fits of coughing.
"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you… everything…"
He never got the rest.
He never got to say goodbye.
And now he trained.
On the edge of town, strange things began to happen.
A farmer swore his crops grew taller overnight—unseasonal, unnatural.
A child in the village square laughed as a spark of light danced between his fingers, flickering like a firefly.
A traveling tinker claimed her compass spun endlessly, pointing neither north nor south, but downward.
The elders murmured about old stories—wild tales of mana and magic. Of ancient races that once bent storms and stone.
But the people of Elaris had lived without magic for generations. Such stories were bedtime fancies. Forgotten myths.
Until the night the sky fell.
Two days later, Aren was called to the edge of the village to help track a missing hunting party.
Three men had gone out before sunrise to scout for game in the northern thickets. None had returned. Normally, this wouldn't cause panic—hunters often stayed out overnight. But something felt wrong this time. The wind was sharper. The animals in the woods had gone quiet.
Aren joined a small group of guards. Toren led them, with a long knife strapped across his back and a worn expression in his eyes. They moved silently into the trees.
The forest was different now.
The air shimmered faintly when they passed certain roots. Leaves had grown in strange patterns—knotted like runes, veins glowing ever so faintly. Moss hummed with low, imperceptible sound.
And in Aren's gut, something coiled. The silence wasn't just quiet—it was listening.
They found the first body at midday. Half-buried in a bush, eyes open and glassy. His torso was shredded—not by claws, but something sharp and jagged, almost surgical.
The second man was nearby, bent backwards against a tree in an unnatural arch. Bones cracked from the tension.
The third… wasn't found.
Aren felt the pulse before he saw anything.
A low thrum behind his eyes—like his blood had begun to vibrate. He knelt near the first body. Toren stood over him, watching, but said nothing.
When Aren touched the man's shoulder, something clicked.
A heat flooded through his fingers, and for a split second, he saw a vision—a slashing blur of movement, teeth and smoke, a blade raised in desperation—
Then nothing.
He pulled back, gasping. His hand shook. His eyes darted to his forearm, where a faint, ghostly sigil pulsed once, then faded.
Grave Mark.
But he didn't know that yet.
He only knew this: the man had been terrified. And whatever killed him… wasn't natural.
They buried the bodies. Toren didn't question Aren's reaction. He merely grunted and told the others to stay sharp.
On the walk back, Aren said nothing. He watched the trees. Listened to the wind. Felt it press against him, like a wave curling just before it breaks.
Something was coming.
That night, Aren dreamed.
He stood in a ruined battlefield, ash swirling around him. Shadows moved at the edge of vision—twisted figures of bone and smoke, too distant to see clearly. He was alone, barefoot, holding a sword that dripped not blood, but memory—images falling in slow motion, like water off a blade.
A voice echoed in the dark:
"You cannot run from the echo."
He turned.
And there she was.
His mother—whole, radiant, but standing with eyes full of sorrow. She raised one hand toward him, and a second sigil burned across her palm.
Before he could reach her, the battlefield cracked. Shadows surged. And he fell—
Aren woke with a gasp.
Sweat soaked his shirt. His hands trembled.
He looked down. His arm—bare in the moonlight—still held the faint shimmer of a mark.
But only for a second.
Then it was gone.
The next day passed in quiet tension. People spoke in whispers. Stories spread about the hunters. No one laughed in the village square. Even the children played more softly.
And then the sky changed.
It happened just before dusk.
A streak of fire lit the horizon—fast, furious, glowing like a second sun.
People spilled out of homes. Farmers pointed. The town elder dropped his walking stick.
The streak curved, dipped, and vanished behind the distant southern forest with a dull, thunderous crack.
No one spoke for a full minute.
Then came the second sign: the wind reversed.
Leaves swirled backward. Smoke from chimneys curled the wrong way. Animals howled—low, panicked sounds—and the village dogs began to bark in unison.
Aren stood in the yard, hand clenched around the hilt of a wooden training blade, and felt his breath catch.
Something had landed.
And the world would never be the same again.
That night, Aren didn't sleep.
He sharpened a rusted dagger his father had left hanging near the forge. He packed a cloth satchel with dried bread, a waterskin, and Garron's manual.
He didn't know why. But he knew.
He wouldn't be staying in the village much longer.
And somewhere, deep beneath the roots of the forest, the seed pulsed.
Mana thickened. Dreams twisted.
And the world of Elaris took its first step toward awakening.