In the crumbling village of Ervenholt, tucked between a dead forest and a glassy, cursed lake, a boy named Orin drew stars on the walls of his house.
He had never seen the real ones.
"Orin," called his sister, Mira, "you're wasting chalk again!"
He ignored her, etching another pattern onto the stone. His drawings weren't random—they came to him in dreams. Spirals. Glyphs. Maps of the sky as it might have once been.
That night, a stranger arrived in Ervenholt.
He wore robes marked with old symbols, his eyes flickering with blue light. The villagers feared outsiders, especially ones like him.
But he came for Orin.
"You've seen it," he said to the boy. "The sky before it shattered. The real sky."
Orin stared back, heart pounding. He didn't know how he knew the man was right—only that he was.
And so began Orin's journey—one that would lead him to gods buried beneath the sea, forgotten machines inside the mountains, and a war to restore the sky.