The wind danced softly through the tall golden grass of Eldhollow Valley, carrying with it the scent of autumn and the distant murmur of celebration. Lanterns hung from tree branches like stars caught between worlds, flickering in the early dusk. It was Festival Night in the kingdom of Aerilon—a time of joy, of harvest, and old stories retold.
Among the laughter and music, no one noticed the sudden hush of the forest's edge. No one, except the old man sitting alone by the fire near the village gate.
He was wrapped in a deep green cloak, his face half-hidden beneath a silver-hooded cowl. To most, he was just a traveler—perhaps a harmless hermit who sold trinkets and whispered riddles to the children. But beneath the cloak, long pointed ears twitched at the tremor in the air. His eyes, ancient and silver as the moon, turned toward the mountains far beyond the valley.
It begins, he thought grimly.
At that very moment, in the royal city of Virendale, a young scribe named Kael was deep in the archives, where he wasn't supposed to be. Dust clung to the sleeves of his robes as he flipped through brittle scrolls with trembling fingers. He had followed a dream—or perhaps a calling—that led him to a sealed door below the lowest floor of the Grand Library. No key had opened it, but somehow, this night, it had simply... unlocked.
There, he found it: a scroll sealed with golden wax bearing the mark of the Ancients. The same mark he had seen in his dreams.
As Kael read the first line aloud, a shiver ran down his spine. The candle beside him flickered wildly.
"When the Token shatters, so too shall the veil..."
In the shadows behind him, something moved. It did not breathe. It did not speak. It only watched.
Kael spun around, heart pounding. "Who's there?" he called into the gloom.
Silence.
Only the soft hiss of the candle and the rustle of parchment. He took a shaky breath and turned back to the scroll, now slightly glowing with a faint golden hue, as if responding to his presence. He read on.
"Bound are the realms by will and light,
Four corners held in ancient might.
But should the Token break in war,
The worlds shall bleed, forevermore."
Kael stepped back. The words burned into his mind, as though they had been written just for him. The candle's flame shot up, then extinguished in an instant, plunging the room into darkness.
Far above him, high in the mountains of Theralorne, thunder rolled across a sky with no clouds. A deep crack echoed through the earth—one that none could hear, yet all would feel.
In the hidden chamber of a ruined temple long swallowed by time, a pedestal trembled. Upon it sat the Token—an artifact of crystal and obsidian, etched with runes no one alive could translate. It had rested untouched for over a thousand years.
Now, a black fissure spread through its center like a jagged scar.
The shadow that watched Kael in the archives appeared beside the pedestal, formless yet somehow aware. It did not touch the Token. It only watched… and waited.
The fissure grew.
Back in Eldhollow Valley, the music faltered. Birds erupted from the treetops with panicked screeches. The sky, once twilight-blue, dimmed unnaturally.
The cloaked elf rose to his feet. "It's too soon," he whispered. "They are not ready."
Children cried. The fire flickered. Then came the first sign—the veil tearing ever so slightly.
A towering figure stepped from the trees. Eight feet tall, gray-skinned, eyes glowing amber. It wore no armor, but its muscles rippled like stone, and its jagged teeth gleamed under the lanternlight.
A troll.
Panic exploded through the crowd.
Screams pierced the night as villagers scattered, knocking over stalls and trampling festival decorations. The troll stepped forward, sniffing the air like a hound. It roared—a deep, thunderous sound that shook the lanterns and silenced the music forever.
The guards rushed in, swords drawn, but they were farmers more than fighters. The first swung wildly, and his blade bounced harmlessly off the troll's thick hide. A second was swatted aside like a leaf in the wind.
The cloaked elf moved faster than any eye could follow.
His cloak dropped, revealing silver armor laced with glowing runes. In one fluid motion, he drew a curved blade from beneath his robes. It shimmered like moonlight on water.
He stood between the beast and the children frozen in terror behind him.
"You do not belong here," he said, voice like thunder wrapped in calm.
The troll growled, taking a step forward.
The elf narrowed his eyes. "Then be gone."
With a flash, the blade sang through the air.