The chill of early dawn crept beneath Aria's skin as she stumbled through the morning mist, her bare feet brushing against dew-kissed grass. The forest—silent, ancient, and laced with shadow—loomed around her, its trees tall like guardians of an age long forgotten. She wasn't entirely sure how she had ended up there. The last thing she remembered was the blinding pulse of light, the strange stone gate, and a sensation like her very soul being pulled through the thread of reality.
Now, the world smelled different.
Sharper.
Alive.
She stopped beside a gnarled oak with a trunk so wide it might have taken six people to wrap around it. Moss clung to its roots, glowing faintly in the gloom. Aria reached out a trembling hand, running her fingers over the bark. Warm. The tree was warm.
A voice—faint and almost melodic—slipped into her ears.
"The heart of one not born here... yet bound by fate."
Aria jerked her hand back, pulse racing. "Who's there?"
The forest did not answer.
Only the rustle of leaves stirred in reply.
She looked around. No creatures. No people. Just her, the mist, and that ancient tree. She pressed her palm to her chest, trying to calm her breathing. This isn't Earth, she thought, and I'm not dreaming.
Her gaze drifted upward. The sky, pale lavender and streaked with silver clouds, hinted at an alien sun. The colors felt... off. Beautiful, but not quite right. Like someone had repainted the sky with brushes from another world.
A soft sound, like footsteps on moss, caught her attention.
She spun around.
There, just beyond the trees, a figure stood watching.
He was cloaked in deep forest green, the hood casting his face in shadows. But she could make out pieces—silver-blond hair that fell in wild waves to his shoulders, a slender but tall frame, and eyes that glinted like sunlit water through the darkness of his hood.
Neither of them spoke for several long, breathless moments.
Then he stepped forward.
"You don't belong here," he said, voice low and tinged with something between awe and suspicion.
"I… I don't know how I got here," Aria replied. "There was a portal, or something. A gate. I was in the woods behind my house. Then—"
"The Gate of Wyrmhold," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "It opened again…"
His voice trailed off, and she felt the weight of centuries in that silence. He seemed young—no older than his mid-twenties—but something about his presence suggested a deeper age, a wisdom born not of books, but of time.
He finally looked her in the eyes.
Aria's breath caught.
His irises were not a single color but a swirl—emerald and sapphire, gold and storm-grey—shifting like the ocean beneath moonlight.
"Who are you?" she asked.
His lips twitched into something almost like a smile.
"Call me Kael."
"Kael," she echoed. "Do you know what this place is? Why I'm here?"
He tilted his head slightly, studying her. "This is Aetherwen. A realm separated from your world by threads most mortals cannot see—let alone cross. The fact that you're here means something has changed. Something that should not have."
Aria looked around again, her anxiety returning like a rising tide. "I need to go back. I don't belong here."
Kael's gaze hardened. "Perhaps not. But returning won't be simple. The gates only open by force of prophecy—or catastrophe. Which of those do you bring?"
Her throat tightened. "I didn't choose this. I was just… walking. And the gate pulled me in. There's no catastrophe."
He stepped closer again. His presence felt like stormwind—controlled, powerful, and just barely restrained. "Portals don't open without cause. You may not know it yet, but your arrival is not by accident. Something ancient stirs."
Aria's hands curled into fists. "You're not helping. I'm not part of any of this. I'm just a girl who reads too many books and stays up too late. I want to go home."
"Wanting," Kael said softly, "and being able to, are different things here."
He turned, walking toward the oak tree.
She followed, reluctant but with no other choice. He knelt before the moss-covered roots and whispered something she didn't catch. A shimmer passed through the tree, and from its side emerged a soft pulse of light. It twisted upward, forming a faint sigil in the air—a spiral with interlocking circles and lines, beautiful and unreadable.
"What is that?" Aria whispered.
"A mark," Kael replied. "The tree recognizes you."
"Recognizes me?"
"Your presence… your soul's pattern. You're not the first human to pass through, but none have been acknowledged this quickly. It means the land knows something we do not."
She didn't know how to respond. The concept was so foreign, so fantastical, it teetered between wonder and fear.
Kael rose again, brushing moss from his glove. "Come. There are others who must see you. The Luminary Circle must be informed."
"Wait—who? What is that?"
He didn't answer directly. "They'll want to test you. For signs. For power. For knowledge."
"I don't have any of that!"
Kael looked at her again, and for the first time, she thought she saw a flicker of sympathy in his ever-shifting eyes.
"That may be what you believe," he said quietly. "But belief and truth are rarely the same."
Without another word, he began to walk deeper into the forest. A path unfolded beneath his feet, as if the forest itself bent to let him through. Aria hesitated, heart thundering in her chest. She looked once more at the glowing sigil floating beside the oak.
It pulsed once.
Twice.
Then faded into nothing.
With a breath that tasted like fear and wonder, she followed him into the unknown.