Tovan ran.
The forest behind him slowly thinned, trees giving way to dirt paths, then stone roads. His feet, bloodied and calloused, barely registered the shift beneath him. He was breathless, eyes wide with the weight of grief, hunger, and wonder. And then—he saw it.
A vast town lay ahead, far larger than anything he had imagined. Stone towers crowned with green-tinged copper rose into the air like jagged fingers. The town was surrounded by high walls of gray slate and guarded at the entrance by twin statues of boars in mid-charge, tusks gleaming in the sunlight. Beyond the gates, the world opened.
Tovan stumbled forward, stunned. He stepped into something new, something alive. A world that moved with noise and chaos.
The roads were paved in patterned bricks, arranged in spirals that pulsed underfoot like a quiet heartbeat. Smoke curled from the chimneys of smithies and bakeries. The air was thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts, burning coal, and fermented mead. A dozen languages sang through the streets, each stranger than the last. Tovan felt as if he'd stepped into the pages of a book he couldn't yet read.
He had never seen such people—tall men in long woven coats, women adorned in bone necklaces and stitched linen robes, children chasing each other with wooden blades. Some wore iron bracers and hoods dyed in shades of blue or green. A man passed, draped in a wolf pelt, with a mask that resembled a lizard's skull. Another wore layered black leather with rings of silver around his sleeves, a sword at his hip that glowed faintly with red runes.
There were no uniforms. Only clans, cultures, and creeds—woven into the very fabric of their clothes. It was as if each soul carried a story, stitched into their cloaks and scarves.
It overwhelmed him.
His stomach growled. Tovan clutched his gut.
He wandered into a bustling square. Market stalls overflowed with grapes, dried fish, steaming buns, and woven trinkets. A baker's table caught his eye—rows of fresh, round loaves dusted with flour. Without thinking, Tovan reached out and grabbed one.
He devoured it like a starved animal. His teeth tore into the soft crust, warmth spreading through his throat and belly. He didn't notice the shouting at first.
"You! Thief!"
A thick voice thundered across the square.
Tovan turned mid-bite. A heavyset man with flour-dusted arms pointed straight at him. "Thief! He stole bread!"
People turned. Their expressions twisted into confusion, then scorn.
Thief?
Tovan froze.
He had never heard that word used like venom. In Ehlor's village, no one owned anything. The sheep, the food, the land—it was all shared, offerings for Ehlor.
"Thief! That's silver-worth bread!" the man bellowed.
Silver?
Tovan's eyes darted, and for the first time, he noticed the glint of gold and silver in people's hands. Small discs exchanged in trade, tucked into purses and belts. He'd never seen anything like it.
A whistle pierced the air.
Armored figures emerged from the crowd, parting it like a wave. There were four of them—clad in segmented gray plate armor etched with lines of blue crystal. Their pauldrons bore the sigil of a boar with wings. Their boots struck the ground in unison.
Each carried a polearm slung across their back and a short sword at their waist.
"City Guard!" someone whispered.
Tovan's breath caught.
City Guard. Warriors of order. Protectors of law. But to him, they looked like iron giants.
"Stop him!" the baker cried. "Stole from me!"
Tovan backed away slowly. His instinct screamed. Something terrible would happen if they reached him.
Then he turned.
And ran.
Through the crowd, past shouting traders and startled children. He ducked beneath a cloth canopy, knocking over baskets of fruit. Apples rolled into the street. A vendor cursed. Someone tried to grab his arm, but Tovan slipped away like a shadow.
The guards shouted. Their armor clanged.
He kept running.
More shouts. More faces. Everything blurred.
He dashed through an alleyway, then a narrow corridor between two inns. Stone turned to wood. The smell of horse dung and steam filled his lungs. Somewhere behind him, the clank of armor faded.
But Tovan didn't stop.
He ran until his legs burned, until his heart begged for rest. Then—
He slammed into someone.
Both bodies hit the ground. Tovan tumbled, still clutching the half-eaten loaf of bread.
"Ah—!"
He looked up.
The boy he had collided with groaned and rubbed his head. He looked Tovan's age—maybe a year older. His skin was pale, almost like polished marble, and his hair a tousled mess of dark brown strands that stuck out in all directions like he had been running through storms. His eyes were soft gray, like clouds before a snowstorm.
He wore a dark gray tunic with a high collar and buckled sleeves, a belt lined with small tools and pouches, and tall boots stained with ash. A scarf of deep green was draped loosely around his neck, and a wooden pendant hung beneath it—a crescent shape carved from obsidian.
The boy blinked, sitting up.
"You all right?" he asked.
Tovan tried to stand.
The boy tilted his head. "You're not from around here."
Tovan froze.
The boy's eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but curiosity. "Are you from another continent?"
Tovan turned slowly. "…Continent?"
The boy stood, brushing dust off his trousers. "You don't know the word?"
Tovan stayed silent.
The boy smiled gently. "You really don't, huh."
He reached out a hand. "I'm Renil. What's your name, friend?"
"…Tovan."
"Well met, Tovan."
Renil tilted his head. "Where are you from?"
Tovan hesitated.
He couldn't say Ehlor's village. Couldn't say the gods slaughtered everyone he knew. He imagined the image of his sister—her smile, then her blood.
"I was born in the forest," he said slowly. "Just me and my father. A bear… killed him. So I left."
Renil's expression softened.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I lost mine too. Never knew them. Grew up in the orphan rings."
Tovan held the bread tighter.
Renil gestured with his thumb. "Come with me. You're alone. I've got some coin, and I could use company."
Tovan nodded slowly.
They walked. Renil held a cloth bag full of fruit and vegetables. Tovan clung to the bread like a lifeline.
After a pause, Tovan asked, "What is a… continent?"
Renil smiled. "Let me ask you this first. Do you know the name of our world?"
Tovan's eyes widened. "What?"
"You really don't know anything, do you?"
He turned his eyes to the sky. "It's called Thal'mire."
Tovan whispered the name to himself.
Renil continued, "Thal'mire has thirteen continents. Thirteen lands ruled by the Aeclipsar."
Tovan's head tilted. "Aeclipsar?"
Renil's voice dropped, reverent. "They are the Divine. The ones who made the lands. Each continent was formed by their power. They don't walk among us. If they ever did, we'd all die just from the weight of their presence."
Tovan's breath caught. He remembered the figure who descended upon his village. The one cloaked in shifting symbols, who turned prayers into ash.
"Do they kill people?" he asked.
Renil laughed, a bitter sound. "No. No one sees them. No one dares. Just being near them would melt your bones. No one knows their gender. Or if they even have one. They are... beyond."
Tovan swallowed.
"So what land is this?" he asked.
"Ashvalar," Renil replied proudly. "Home of the Forgeblooded. Where the world's greatest blacksmiths are born. Where steel speaks louder than gold."
They walked deeper into the city, past bell towers, under bridges lined with banners. And though the sun shone overhead, Tovan felt the shadows deepen around him.
He was in a new world.
And it was watching.