In the land of Elarion, names were not chosen at birth.
They were given—by the world itself.
Mountains whispered names into the bones of children. Rivers hummed syllables into sleeping ears. And when a person turned sixteen, the name meant for them would rise to the surface of their heart like a forgotten memory returning all at once.
Except for Elowen.
On the morning of her Naming Day, the bells rang, the sky glowed pale gold, and the entire village gathered in the Circle of Stone. One by one, the children stepped forward, their names blooming from their lips—strong names, gentle names, warrior names, healer names.
When it was Elowen's turn, the wind stilled.
The stones waited.
The world was silent.
"I hear nothing," she whispered, panic creeping into her chest.
The elders exchanged glances. No name meant no place. No fate. No protection. In Elarion, an unnamed soul was said to be invisible to the world—and dangerously visible to darker things.
That night, Elowen dreamed of fire.
Not the kind that burned, but the kind that remembered.
A vast city of silver towers lay in ruins. A crown cracked in two. A woman stood at the center, her hair like starlight, her eyes full of grief.
"You were not forgotten," the woman said.
"You were hidden."
Elowen woke with her heart pounding—and a mark glowing faintly on her wrist. A sigil she had never seen before.
By dawn, the warding lights around the village had failed.
Creatures of shadow slipped through the forest, drawn by something ancient and powerful.
Drawn by her.