He woke beneath a sky that had forgotten him.
Ash clung to the winds like snow, whispering through the burned remains of trees. The forest around him wasn't a forest anymore—just shadows and broken stumps and the smell of something ancient that had died screaming.
Kaelen sat up slowly, dirt falling from his fingers. His body ached like it had been struck by lightning. His breath came in short, panicked gasps, and for a moment he didn't know where—or who—he was.
But then he remembered the fire.
And the tower.
And the voice.
His name returned with the wind.
Kaelen. Sixteen. Fugitive. Orphan. And now—something else entirely.
He pulled back his sleeve.
The mark was still there.
A strange, glowing sigil etched into his skin—curved lines and sharp angles that pulsed like it was alive. It hadn't been there yesterday. Or maybe it had. Time was broken around the moment he'd heard the voice.
It had whispered from the ruins.
And it had changed everything.
The village was gone.
He found the edge of it by instinct, where the trees broke into a flat basin. There had been homes once. A well. A bell that rang for harvest festivals. Now, only charred foundations and scattered bones remained.
He didn't weep.
He didn't scream.
He watched.
And something inside him hardened.
Kaelen wasn't the sort of boy people noticed. He wasn't strong. Wasn't noble-born. He had a quick mind and a quicker mouth—both of which had nearly gotten him killed more than once.
But something had changed in him since the ruin.
Since the sigil.
When he touched the mark now, it hummed faintly under his skin. Not magic in the usual sense—he'd seen what magic looked like when the Tower's Wardens cast it. That was light and precision, runes flaring bright and obedient.
This wasn't that.
This was wild. Ancient.
And it felt like it was waking up.
He survived the next three days on berries and instinct.
The forest outside the village hadn't burned entirely, and Kaelen moved like a shadow, ducking low, stealing warmth from dying fires, sleeping under roots.
But dreams haunted him.
Flashes of flame. A woman with silver eyes and a voice that echoed across time.
"Find me."
He didn't know who she was.
He didn't know why she looked at him like she'd known him in another life.
He just knew that since the ruin, he wasn't the same boy anymore.
And someone—or something—was hunting him for it.
By the fourth night, the sky began to change.
Faint lights flickered beyond the treetops. Not stars. Watcher Orbs. Patrols from the Tower.
They were looking for survivors.
Or witnesses.
Or him.
Kaelen crouched behind a fallen log as one passed overhead. The orb moved in silence, scanning the woods with an amber glow. If it saw the mark on his arm, they'd come. They'd send the Wardens.
And the next time, there'd be no escaping.
He needed a plan.
A name.
A destination.
He found the answer in the ruins of an old chapel near the edge of the deadwood.
It had once been a place of prayer—one of the old faiths, before the Tower had branded them heresy. The gods of flame, wind, and truth.
Only one altar remained unbroken.
Truth.
Kaelen knelt before it, more from habit than belief. The air was thick here—thicker than it should've been. Like the stone remembered what had been done to it.
He touched the altar.
The mark on his arm flared.
And for the second time, the world vanished.
A vision tore through his mind.
He stood in a tower made of glass and starlight, surrounded by runes older than language. The silver-eyed woman was there again—closer this time.
Not smiling.
Not angry.
Waiting.
She reached toward him—
Then vanished.
Kaelen awoke gasping, heart pounding like a war drum. His fingers burned with heat, and the sigil on his arm had shifted slightly—lines that weren't there before.
Evolving.
Learning.
He didn't sleep again that night.
He couldn't.
Because something old had stirred inside him, and whatever it was—it wasn't going to let him stay hidden.
By dawn, he was walking toward the capital.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he had no choice.
If the Tower wanted to find him, let them come. He wouldn't run forever.
And somewhere—somewhere in the heart of that city—he would find her.
The woman with silver eyes.
The one who had whispered his name before he even remembered it himself.