Night after night, Aleron tossed restlessly beneath the warmth of his wool blanket, his small face contorted as dreams assaulted his mind. His sleep was rarely peaceful now, filled instead with vibrant flashes of color, strange whispers, and fragments of forgotten languages. Each morning, he'd wake exhausted but with an undeniable urge to remember and record everything.
He soon developed a habit of quietly slipping out of his bed, tiptoeing barefoot across the cool wooden floor to sit by the faint glow of dying embers in the fireplace. There, he'd open his leather-bound journal, painstakingly noting every image, every symbol, every cryptic message that echoed through his dreams.
God's Whisper gently guided his pen, helping him decode obscure runes, teaching him about mana flows, summoning circles, and the intricate balance between realms. The system became more active now, offering cryptic but increasingly helpful hints:
[Rune deciphered: Boundary – A seal separating worlds.]
[Insight Gained: Emotional resonance amplifies mana flow.]
[Partial Ritual Discovered: Invocation of the Unseen Guardian.]
Despite his young age, Aleron filled page after page, driven by the echoes of his past life's thirst for knowledge. He sensed the magnitude of the revelations—these weren't just dreams; they were messages, instructions whispered from somewhere far beyond his reach.
Meanwhile, Corvin began experiencing his own struggles. The boy had always been empathetic, but now he seemed unusually sensitive to the emotions around him. Sometimes, just being near someone angry or sad would make him dizzy or nauseous. Corvin didn't understand why it was happening, but he kept quiet about it, unwilling to burden his mother or Rina, who both had enough worries already.
Yet, around Aleron, he felt calm. Aleron's emotions, despite the intensity of his dreams, always felt clear, comforting, and steady to Corvin. Gradually, Corvin found himself gravitating toward his friend whenever the emotional weight of the village grew too much to bear.
Eira, observant as always, sensed the changes in both boys. She began to hover closer, her previously casual protectiveness sharpening into something more deliberate. When some older village children began whispering about Aleron being odd or Corvin acting strangely withdrawn, she fiercely confronted them, her dark eyes sparking with an intensity beyond her years.
"You don't know anything," she'd snap, her fists clenched at her sides. "Leave them alone."
Her determination grew, and she started secretly mimicking the movements she'd seen from a traveling martial artist who had passed through Whistlehollow. Every kick, punch, or defensive stance she learned felt like a promise—a vow she quietly made to herself and her friends. She wouldn't let anything hurt them, not as long as she stood beside them.
While the children struggled with these internal changes, Rina quietly strengthened Whistlehollow's security. Unknown to most villagers, she placed small enchantments along the boundaries of the village—subtle wards that gently nudged away unwelcome visitors and obscured outsiders' perceptions. She moved cautiously, knowing that any visible change could draw unwanted attention.
Yet she worried constantly about Aleron. Her keen eyes saw beyond his calm facade, noticing his exhaustion and the way he seemed to carry an invisible weight. Each night, she'd watch silently from the doorway, her heart heavy with a mix of pride and worry.
Far above, in realms unseen, divine eyes also watched. Figures of immense power observed Whistlehollow and its young inhabitants closely, their focus drawn particularly toward the child with two cores—the anomaly who walked unknowingly toward his fate.
Aleron, oblivious to this silent vigilance, turned another page in his journal. The pale moonlight traced gentle patterns through the windows as he scribbled another entry, determination etched into his tired eyes. He knew not where these dreams would lead him, but he was certain of one thing:
They were only the beginning.