It was a quiet morning in Eldraen Vale. Sunlight dripped through the canopy like liquid gold, dappling the forest floor in a mosaic of shadow and warmth. Birds called softly from the branches, and the wind carried a scent of dew, earth, and wildflowers—peaceful, untouched by war or whisper of darkness.
Beneath an ancient tree with silver-veined bark, a boy lay with one hand behind his head and the other resting on his chest. He looked no older than seventeen, though something in his stillness—his calm gaze and the way his body rested without tension—spoke of a mind far older than his face. His cloak was tattered at the edges, boots worn from countless miles. A curved blade rested beside him, clean and cared for. His name was Lyrius—a name not yet known to the world, but one that fate had long whispered to the stars.
For now, he was simply sleeping.
Further down the dirt path that cut through the forest, a creaking sound disrupted the morning calm. A wooden cart, pulled by two oxen, ambled slowly through the glade. Its wheels groaned beneath the weight of supplies—sacks of grain, wrapped tools, and sealed crates marked with the sigil of a merchant guild. Two men rode at the front, chatting in low voices, while a third dozed behind the cargo.
But danger had already found them.
From the undergrowth, five masked figures burst forward. Blades drawn, voices sharp. The merchants barely had time to scream. Steel clashed against wood, and sacks spilled open. One man fell with a cry. Another was thrown from the cart. The oxen panicked and bolted, vanishing into the forest as the robbers rifled through the cargo, searching for coin, gems—anything of value.
The sound carried.
Lyrius's eyes opened.
He sat up slowly, as if waking from a dream. His eyes—gray like storm clouds—glanced toward the road. For a long moment, he did nothing. Just listened. Then, without a word, he stood, picked up his blade, and began walking toward the sound.
By the time he arrived, the robbers were gone.
The cart lay overturned. Supplies were scattered, the crates torn open. One merchant was groaning beside a tree, blood staining his shirt. Another lay face-down, unmoving. The third sat dazed in the mud, staring at nothing. Lyrius knelt beside the injured man, checked his pulse, then moved to the others. He worked quickly, silently, helping the dazed one sit, propping up the wounded, and placing a water flask in their hands. His movements were precise, practiced.
As he stood to leave, one of the men called out behind him.
"Wait—aren't you going to ask why we were attacked?"
Lyrius paused. He didn't turn.
"I don't need to ask," he said quietly. "I already know."
Then he walked away, disappearing into the forest path, his figure swallowed by the trees.
But that path—unknown to him—was not ordinary.
As he passed beneath the roots of a twin-trunked tree, something stirred in the air. A faint glow shimmered around him, unseen to the eye. Symbols etched in the language of the Ancients pulsed on nearby stones. The forest grew silent.
He had crossed into Velmora's Breath, a forgotten boundary where the old world still whispered.
And somewhere, far beyond the veil of the known realms, a force stirred.
A voice like thunder on a distant mountain growled in a tongue lost to time:
"The Thread has moved. The Weave has shifted. The boy awakens."