I was told that the night I was born was not a normal night.
Even now, when I am older and understand far more about the world, I cannot escape that story. It follows me like a shadow—silent, cold, and always close.
People say the stars moved.
Some say the sky trembled like a thin sheet of silver.
Others claim they heard a soft ringing sound, like a bell made of light.
It was spring, warm enough that windows were left slightly open, letting the smell of wet soil and blooming flowers drift into every home of Old Lane. Yet, for a few moments, the air froze. People stopped mid-sentence. Dogs raised their heads and stared at the sky. Horses refused to walk forward.
And above the town—above our small wooden house—the stars spun slowly, unnaturally, like someone was turning them by hand.
Of course, I did not see any of this.
I had only just arrived in this world, crying in my mother's weak arms, wrapped in a cloth that smelled of soap and smoke.
But every person who saw the sky that night remembered it.
Some feared it.
Some worshipped it.
Some pretended it never happened.
And a very few… kept watching me.
But I did not know any of this when I was young.
All I knew was that I was Evan Ward—a boy from a weak, middle-class family in a dirty part of the Kingdom of Avarinth. A quiet boy who noticed too many things. A curious boy. A boy with strange dreams that didn't feel like dreams.
And, sometimes, I felt as if something was watching me back.
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I. The Forgotten Street of Old Lane
Old Lane was a place that the rich forgot and the poor couldn't escape.
The houses were small, built from dark wood that always creaked even on windless days. The roofs leaked during rain. The windows rattled whenever a railway engine passed nearby, even if it was far away.
I grew up in the last house of the street—small, crooked, and always cold in the morning. Our door had a crack near the bottom that never stayed fixed. The floor was uneven. And our chimney spit out more smoke inside the house than outside.
But it was my home.
And when I was young, I thought it was enough.
My father, Thomas Ward, worked in the railway workshop. He smelled like oil, coal dust, and metal every day. His hands were rough, strong, and always covered in tiny scars from tools and hot pipes.
My mother, Eliza Ward, taught reading and writing to children in a small room two streets away. She was gentle, always tired, but her smile made our home warmer than any lamp.
And then there was my sister, Liana—twelve years old, bright like the sun, and brave enough to punch any boy twice her size.
I was eight when everything began to change.
But the signs started much earlier.
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II. The Earliest Memory
My first memory is from when I was four.
I was standing outside the railway workshop, holding a toy train my father had made from leftover wood. It had no wheels. It didn't move. But I loved it more than anything I owned.
I remember the workshop gates opening, metal screeching as they pulled apart. Steam clouds rose from inside, warm and sharp. Workers shouted orders. Hammers rang against metal.
I shouldn't have wandered, but I did.
I walked close to a large engine being repaired. It looked like a giant sleeping animal, black and strong, with a belly full of fire.
And that's when I saw it.
A small metal box lying on the ground.
Its lid was half-open.
Something inside it glowed faintly.
The glow wasn't bright. It was soft, like the last spark of a dying ember—but colder, almost blue. It felt alive, like it was breathing.
I reached out.
I don't know why.
I didn't want it.
It wanted me.
Just before my fingers touched the box, a hand grabbed me and pulled me back so hard I almost fell.
It was my father.
"Evan, don't touch strange things," he whispered.
But his voice wasn't angry.
It was scared.
That was the first time I saw fear on my father's face.
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III. The Whisper in the Night
When I was seven, something strange happened—something I told no one for years.
It was a quiet night.
My sister was asleep.
The moonlight fell through the broken window in thin silver lines.
I woke up suddenly. Not because of a dream. Not because of a sound.
Because of a feeling.
I sat up slowly. The air smelled like cold metal.
Then I heard it.
A whisper.
Not in the room.
Not outside.
Inside me.
At first, it was only one word. I could not understand it. It sounded like a name but not in any language I had ever heard. It echoed softly, as if someone was standing behind me—but when I turned, nothing was there. Only darkness.
Then the whisper turned into something else.
Pages turning.
Soft, smooth, fast.
Like someone flipping through a massive book.
My heart pounded. I sat frozen, listening.
And then it stopped.
Leaving the room silent again.
I stayed awake until morning.
But I said nothing.
How could I explain something I didn't understand?
Yet deep inside, a small fear began to grow.
A fear that felt like the whisper would return.
And it did.
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IV. The Day the Man Appeared
The turning point of my life came one cold morning when I was eight.
I was walking with my father toward the workshop. It was a habit of mine. The air smelled of damp brick, horses, and burning coal from far away. People were waking up, pulling carts, opening shops, lighting lamps.
Something felt wrong in the air that day.
The sky was heavy.
The wind was slow.
Even the street dogs didn't bark.
Near the workshop, my father suddenly stopped and bent down.
"Evan," he said quietly, almost whispering, "go straight home today. Don't wait near the workshop."
"Why?"
His eyes shifted away.
"Just do as I say."
He walked inside quickly.
I stood alone at the gate. I was about to turn back when a voice called out softly:
"Evan Ward."
I froze.
The voice was calm, smooth, deeper than any voice I had heard.
I turned slowly.
A man stood in the shadow of a tall brick building. He wore a long black coat that brushed the ground. His collar covered half his face. His hat hid his eyes. I could not see his expression at all.
But I felt watched.
Not by him—but by something behind him.
"Who are you?" I whispered.
He didn't answer.
He stepped forward, only enough for me to see the sharpness of his jaw.
His voice was quiet but filled with weight.
"The stars moved the night you were born."
My breath stopped.
He continued:
"You do not understand this world yet. But the world… understands you."
My heartbeat echoed in my ears.
He raised a finger—slowly, as if pointing at a dangerous creature.
"You were marked, Evan. The sky remembers you. And soon, others will too."
I stepped back, my legs shaking.
The man's voice grew softer, colder.
"I will come again.
Be ready."
Then he turned and walked away.
Not fast. Not slow.
But with a presence so strong, the air seemed to bend around him.
I stood frozen until he disappeared.
That night, I did not sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him standing there—half in shadow, speaking truths I didn't understand.
I didn't know it then…
But that was the first moment the hidden world acknowledged me.
The world of secrets.
The world of forgotten paths.
The world of mysteries buried deeper than the foundations of the kingdom.
And whether I wanted it or not, I had already taken my first step into it.
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