The night sky bled in crimson.
It was neither dusk nor dawn, and yet the horizon wept like a wounded god, the heavens streaked with shades of blood and fire. Villagers of Elenmere gathered at the cliffside, their heads bowed in awe and fear, as a rare celestial alignment crowned the sky—a blood eclipse, unrecorded in any annal or temple chart. The moon devoured the sun in eerie silence, and from that gaping wound in the firmament, destiny descended.
Among the terrified crowd, a child cried out—not in fear, but in birth.
The boy was born without pain or scream, his mother perishing quietly as if her life had been exchanged for his. His first breath stirred the wind, and the first thing he saw were the eyes of an old seer standing beside the dying mother—eyes clouded by age, yet sharpened with knowing.
However the child's eyes shone like melted gold.
They called the seer Maedren the Last, because none after him bore the sigil of prophecy. He draped in star-cloth and shadow, Maedren stepped forward, lifting the child before the stunned villagers. He spoke with a voice carved in thunder and dust:
"Under eclipsed heaven he is born from silence he cries a sword he shall raise when the world tears open, and from his golden eyes, light shall return. He shall stand where gods fear to walk—And bear the price of story."
A pause fell upon the world, so absolute that even the wind dared not move.
Maedren handed the child to a passing knight and vanished before dawn. None saw him again, and many doubted that he ever existed, save for the prophecy he left etched in runes upon the Temple of Ten Flames. And though the kingdom of Ashvale returned to its daily rhythm, the memory of the blood eclipse never faded from their minds, nor did the fear.
For in the far north, beyond frozen rivers and ruined towers, a darkness stirred. It did not march, nor roar, nor announce its arrival. It waited like a patient as rot.
The boy was named Aurin.
He was taken to the Monastery of Vael, a sacred sanctuary nestled high in the Windspine Mountains, where monks trained in the ancient disciplines of blade and balance, word and will. Though the monks were reluctant to raise a child whose birth was wrapped in omen and death, they obeyed the decree of King Elaran, who saw the prophecy as a divine sign—and an opportunity to unite the fractured realms under a single banner of hope.
Aurin grew in silence.
He spoke late, yet read early. He wielded training swords before his sixth name-day, mastering forms in days that others required seasons to learn. While the other novices played or prayed, Aurin sat beneath the Archives, studying old myths, learning of the Void—that ancient enemy which consumed entire nations before history began keeping score.
The monks loved him, feared him, revered him. His golden eyes reflected none of the cruelty of the world; instead, they held a steady, expectant stillness—like someone waiting for a page to turn.
Master Thalen, an old warrior-monk who'd once served in the Border Wars, took Aurin as his apprentice. In private, he confessed to the High Prior:
"The boy learns too quickly. It's not natural. He remembers everything—every word, every blade's stroke, every tactic. It's as if someone's feeding him the answers before the question is even asked."
"And would that not make him perfect?" the Prior said.
"Or predictable," Thalen muttered. "That frightens me more."
When Aurin turned fifteen, he was summoned by the King himself.
He journeyed down the mountain paths through three seasons, escorted by knights who told him stories of conquest and virtue. Aurin listened, but never contributed to the tales. He knew already how they ended. The virtuous are rewarded and wicked always fall. The hero always triumphs—at a cost.
He had read it too many times to be surprised.
At the gates of Elaranth, the capital city of Ashvale, thousands greeted him. Banners were unfurled, horns sounded, and flower petals rained like confetti from high towers. The people wept at the sight of him, for they had dreamed of the boy with golden eyes. Ballads were already written. Children wore cloaks stitched with his sigil: a sun partially eclipsed.
In the royal court, King Elaran bent a knee—not to honor the boy, but to bind him.
"Ashvale is yours to save," the King declared. "But know this, child. A nation is not a tale and It does not end with a hero's triumph. It continues—and burdens him forever."
Aurin nodded once.
That night, beneath the Silverwood Tree in the castle garden, the King presented him a blade that forged in dragonfire, quenched in moonlight, bound with runes no longer taught, the sword was said to have slain gods and spared none.
Its name was Sunpiercer.
The moment Aurin touched it, a voice echoed inside his mind.
"Page turned. Scene complete. Proceed."
He blinked. And the voice vanished, so did the stars.
The next morning, in the royal library, a monk placed scrolls upon dusty shelves. He moved mechanically, following a schedule not his own. The other scribes ignored him—he was just the librarian from the village of Kareth, transferred to assist during the season's scroll census. His hands moved expertly, arranging volumes of forgotten lore and court records.
Yet for a moment, he paused.
He reached into a leather satchel and pulled out a tome unlike the others. Its cover was worn, its title faded—but the glyphs on the spine pulsed faintly.
The Lives We Never Lived.
He placed it on a shelf by itself, between two thick law codices, and stepped back.
No one noticed the odd placement, also no one questioned the title, or why it hadn't been in the royal archives before.
The librarian stared at it a moment longer.
Then, very quietly, he said:
"…This isn't how it's supposed to be."
Far to the east, across haunted plains and dead rivers, the Void stirred.
In the Mirrorlands, where reflections whispered lies and truth traded faces, the darkness rose from its slumber. Black towers unfolded like broken ribs piercing the earth. A figure stood atop one of them—faceless, formless, yet watching.
It gazed toward Ashvale, toward the prophecy, toward the boy with golden eyes and smiled.
In the Temple of Ten Flames, the prophecy burned anew, its glyphs glowing crimson. Flames danced like quills writing unseen scripts, the air thick with dread and destiny. A priestess fell to her knees, screaming as her vision was filled with pages—endless pages—turning on their own.
Words bleeding into margins. Sentences rearranging themselves. A name appearing that was never part of the original text.
L—
Then it vanished then returned.
Loren.
Elsewhere, in a dusty tower library in Kareth, the librarian stood under a leaking roof. Rain tapped the ceiling like anxious fingers. He stared at the same page of a book for the fourth time. The words weren't the same as before.
"And from golden eyes, light shall return."
He closed the book but he didn't remember opening it.
To be continued…