The town of Eldrin Hollow had never known greatness.
It was a place of slow mornings and quiet skies, where people rose with the sun and worked fields that fed the cities beyond. Nestled at the border of the Kael Dominion, it had always been far from war, untouched by divine miracles or heroic deeds.
And that suited Arin Vale just fine.
At sixteen, Arin was a student at the modest North Hollow Academy, a school that taught farming math, basic sword forms, history, and the occasional priest-led lecture on divine laws. There were no warriors here. No mages. No chosen ones. Just children growing into simple lives.
Arin preferred it that way.
He sat at the back of class as Master Helbram scrawled something on the slateboard—"The Era of Divine Accord"—while the other students groaned.
Arin leaned on his hand and stared out the window. Beyond the glass, the wheat fields rolled like golden oceans, and the clouds drifted peacefully across a too-blue sky.
His mind drifted elsewhere. Not to battles or gods, but to a dream he'd had the night before.
A flower in a dead valley. A whisper in his chest. A thread of light floating through endless dark.
"Arin Vale."
He blinked.
Master Helbram stood at the front of the class, arms crossed. "The year the Accord was signed?"
"Uh… 1325 by the Dominion calendar?" Arin guessed.
A pause.
The teacher nodded once. "Correct. Lucky guess or not, keep your mind here."
Arin mumbled an apology as a few students smirked.
He didn't care. The dream felt more real than the chalk dust in the air. And lately… he'd been having more of them.
Later that day, Arin sat beneath the old whisperwood tree behind the schoolyard. It was his favorite spot—quiet, shaded, and mostly forgotten.
He opened his sketchbook and drew a faint spiral. He didn't know why—he just felt like the shape meant something.
As his pencil moved, a wind passed through the grass.
And then… the world stilled.
For a single heartbeat, the birds stopped chirping. The trees stopped rustling. Even the warmth of the sun paused, like time itself was holding its breath.
Arin looked up.
The spiral on his page began to glow.
Faint. Faint enough he thought he imagined it. But it shimmered—just once—before fading.
He stared at it, pulse quickening.
And in his chest, a soft hum, like something ancient had knocked once on a door inside him.
That night, Arin lay awake in bed, staring at the wooden ceiling.
His father snored in the other room. The wind howled softly through the shutters. Everything was normal.
But the hum had returned.
Faint.
Gentle.
Calling.
He placed a hand on his chest and whispered to no one, "What are you?"
And somewhere far above the clouds, far beyond the stars, something turned to look at him.