In the village of Nareth, dawn broke with a strange stillness. The roosters did not crow, the river did not sing, and even the wind seemed hesitant to stir the leaves. It was as if the world itself held its breath.
Inside a modest hut at the edge of the village, Kaelen stirred from uneasy sleep. His chest burned with a faint glow, veins pulsing like threads of silver beneath his skin. He gasped, clutching at his heart, but the light faded as quickly as it came, leaving only a whisper in his mind: You are chosen.
Kaelen stumbled to his feet, shaken. He was seventeen, a farmer's son, with no claim to greatness beyond the calluses on his hands. Yet the dreams had been growing stronger since the eclipse — visions of stars collapsing, crowns shattering, and a voice that spoke in riddles.
He stepped outside, blinking against the pale morning light. The villagers were gathered in hushed clusters, pointing toward the horizon. There, where the shard of Aureth had fallen, a column of smoke rose from the forest.
"Another omen," muttered Elder Ryn, his voice heavy with dread. "The heavens are restless."
Kaelen's gaze locked on the smoke. His pulse quickened, the burning in his veins returning. He knew — without reason, without proof — that whatever had fallen belonged to him.
As Kaelen moved toward the forest, a figure blocked his path. Cloaked in midnight blue, the stranger's eyes gleamed like polished obsidian.
"You feel it, don't you?" the stranger said softly. "The shard calls to you."
Kaelen froze. "Who are you?"
"A friend," the man replied, though his smile carried no warmth. "Or perhaps a rival. That depends on whether you accept what flows in your blood."
Kaelen's breath caught. "What do you mean?"
The stranger leaned closer, whispering: "You are Eclipseborn. The last heir of Aureth. And every clan in the realm will hunt you for what you carry."
Before Kaelen could speak, the stranger vanished into the crowd, leaving only the echo of his words.
That night, Kaelen dreamt again. He stood beneath a sky of broken constellations, stars bleeding into rivers of light. A crown of fire hovered above him, descending slowly until it touched his brow.
Pain seared through him. His veins blazed, his body lifted from the ground, and the voice returned — louder, clearer:
Kaelen awoke screaming, his hut trembling as if struck by thunder. The glow in his veins did not fade this time. It spread, illuminating the room with silver fire.
Outside, villagers gasped as beams of light pierced the roof, painting the sky with Aureth's dying brilliance.
And far away, in the citadel of the Bloodline Clans, the elders stirred.
"The heir has awakened," one whispered. "The war begins."