The sun had barely begun its ascent over the Emberdepth Range, spilling amber light across the quiet village of Mistgrove. The warmth painted long shadows behind the stone houses and rooftops of obsidian tile, turning the ever-present mist into swirling gold. Mistgrove nestled gently between the volcanic foothills of Pyravelle Kingdom and the wild edges of the Greenfold Expanse—half-forged by fire, half-touched by forest.
It was the kind of village that didn't change much. And yet, on this day, the mist shimmered with something new—expectation.
Arin Vale, just seven years old, sprinted barefoot across the dew-damp ground, his ash-grey hair bouncing lightly with each step, soft and straight like his father's. His small frame, slim but wiry with energy, darted past the garden paths and across mossy stones with the reckless speed only children and wind dared possess. His tunic—stitched from soot-grey and teal cloth—flapped behind him like a cape, and his golden-flecked eyes glimmered with excitement.
"Arin!" came the voice behind him, warm but edged with warning. "You'll trip over your own legs if you don't slow down!"
He skidded to a halt, turning with a sheepish grin.
"Sorry, Mama! I just—today's the day!"
Lyra Vale stood with a basket of blooming herbs cradled in one arm, the other wiping damp soil from her fingers. Tall and lean, she had the long-limbed grace of a woman who knew both hardship and healing. Her dark-blue hair, tied into a single flowing braid, shimmered with streaks of sky-silver in the light. Years of herbal work had left her hands gentle but skilled, her touch as calming as her presence. Her forest-green eyes, however, betrayed a quiet weariness beneath their shine.
"Yes," she said, giving him a tired but knowing smile. "Today is the day. Come inside, little storm."
Arin's excitement boiled over again as he bounded toward the cottage. Their home sat at the edge of Mistgrove, its windows framed by woven vines and a herb-drying rack hanging just under the eaves. Inside, the scent of crushed mint, burning wood, and dried ink filled the air. The walls bore shelves packed with clay jars, scrolls, and books—remnants of a time before, when his father still walked these halls.
A sketch hung above the fireplace. Faded but lovingly preserved, it showed a man with the same ash-grey hair as Arin, though the eyes were soft brown, not gold. Arin stared at it often. He never really knew the man beyond stories. A traveling scholar, his mother said. One who had studied at the Grand Academy in the south, then vanished on a journey before Arin turned three.
"Sit here," Lyra said, placing a woven cushion on the wooden floor in the center of the room.
Arin plopped down immediately, cross-legged and eager.
"Are you ready to try the Awakening Technique?"
He nodded. "Will it hurt?"
"No," she assured, kneeling opposite him. "It's only mana. But your Soul Mark... it might feel strange when it stirs. It's been asleep a long time."
"What if I don't have one?"
She smiled gently. "Everyone has a Soul Mark, Arin. But not everyone listens long enough to hear it wake."
He puffed out his cheeks in thought, then exhaled. "Okay. I'll listen."
She guided him through the technique: breathe in, hold, release... feel. Again. And again.
The world narrowed to the sound of crackling fire, the scent of herbs, and the slow, calm rhythm of his own breath. The cottage seemed to hold its breath alongside him. And then—
A ripple.
Somewhere deep inside, beyond thought and bone, something shifted. Not a sound exactly, but a sensation like a whisper brushing the back of his mind. He gasped as warmth surged across his back.
Lyra leaned forward quickly. "Arin?"
"It tickles!" he giggled, then froze. "Wait—it's glowing!"
She helped him tug the collar of his tunic down.
There, across the smooth skin of his upper back, was a glowing mark—soft white, like a broken shard of light, sharp-edged and delicate, yet thrumming with quiet power.
Lyra blinked.
"A Soul Mark... And bright," she whispered in awe. "Very bright."
Arin twisted to see it, failing entirely, but his smile widened. "I did it?"
"You did more than that. You awakened." Her voice was soft, reverent even, as she touched the mark with careful fingers. "This is your beginning."
---
Later that morning, mother and son walked hand-in-hand through Mistgrove's winding paths.
The village was alive now. Smiths hammered steel at the forge pit, their arms glistening with sweat. Traders barked prices for salted fish and carved trinkets. Herbalists gathered high on rooftops to clip sky-blossoms for sun remedies. The stone streets, though damp, felt warm underfoot.
Children ran laughing past Arin, some older and already showing signs of early cultivation. Others, like him, were just now being drawn into the village's secret rhythm—learning that Mistgrove, quiet though it was, had its own kind of power.
They stopped at a building older than most: the Elder's Hall. It was carved directly into the blackened rock of a cliffside, as though nature itself had been shaped to serve. Vines crept up its sides, and between the stones, one could glimpse veins of cooled lava, red-black and ancient.
Lyra gave Arin's hand a squeeze before letting go. "You're ready."
Inside, five children already sat cross-legged on circular mats woven from golden reeds. Each bore a faint mark on their exposed back or shoulder, glowing dimly in different colors—blue for water, red for fire, green for wind or growth...
"Sit," came a voice. Elder Marn stood at the front, tall and lean, with iron-grey hair pulled into a knot and a scar that split his left brow. His robes were simple, ash-brown and gold, yet he carried the authority of a mountain.
Arin hurried to the last mat.
Elder Marn surveyed the group with piercing eyes. "You have awakened your Soul Marks. That is your first step. Now begins your second: control."
He paced slowly. "Mana flows through you now, but like a wild river, it can drown if you do not learn to shape it. You will fumble. You will fail. That is good. All true strength is built from failure."
The children sat straight, some swallowing nervously. Arin leaned forward, golden eyes wide, absorbing every word.
"In the weeks ahead, you will learn to channel. To breathe and shape aura. To understand your own mark and—eventually—your affinity."
Arin blinked. "Affinity?"
Marn turned to him. "Your element, child. The natural alignment your soul has with the forces of the world. Water, Fire, Earth, Air... or more rare ones. We'll test yours when the time comes."
Arin's heart thumped. Something stirred inside him again—faint, distant... almost like that whisper earlier, except colder now. Quieter. Waiting.
"Some of you," Marn continued, "will one day leave Mistgrove. You will travel south to the Pyrahold Academy. You will see cities and libraries and things even your parents have not dreamed of. But for now... kneel. We begin."
As the children lowered their heads, and Marn began the first chant of mana alignment, Arin felt something shift again deep within.
His Soul Mark pulsed.
His journey had begun.
And far beneath the shelves of the forbidden section of a library, an ancient book stirred -- it's whispers just faint enough to miss.
For now.