Vale of Shadows, Narn
Year - 6999 NY
The storm had passed, leaving behind a stillness that felt almost sacred. Snowflakes drifted gently from the sky, slow and silent, falling over a land that had moments ago been twisted with fury and fire. The Vale of Shadows—once a realm of foreboding silence—now shimmered beneath a gentle hush, the field transformed by the clash of power and purpose. Flowers still bloomed where there had been ruin. A thousand petals whispered over the snow, as though the ground itself remembered something older, something holier than fear.
Adam stood still, the light of fading conflict glinting off the tips of his fur. A hush had fallen, not from exhaustion, but from something deeper: the feeling one gets after a miracle has passed overhead and left its shadow trailing behind. Behind him, Kon's words still lingered in the air like smoke:
"You gave him the Arya of Derision. Where did it come from, Adam?"
Adam didn't speak at first. His hand rose to his chest, brushing against the silver pendant beneath his cloak. A breeze stirred his mane. The glow on Trevor's brow had dimmed now, but its imprint remained—three spirals, ancient and patient, like the silent gaze of stars waiting for the right moment to blink.
"I've never told anyone this," Adam said at last, the weight in his voice drawing their eyes. "But I think it's time you knew."
He paused, not for drama, but because truth has a way of building inside the chest like thunder in distant hills—quiet at first, then rumbling with insistence until it must be spoken.
Kon's arms were still folded, but his stance had softened. Trevor, having only moments ago been gleaming with the giddiness of newfound strength, now looked uncertain, as though sensing that the true battle—the one that shaped destinies—was not fought with swords or staffs, but with what one chooses to reveal.
__________________________________
Three Years Ago – The Northern Hills of Ettinsmoor
The air in the far north of Narn had a kind of clarity that didn't belong to any other part of the world. It was sharper, purer—like the sky had been washed clean of all but the deepest blue. The wild hills of Ettinsmoor rolled in every direction, vast and undisturbed, as though even time itself moved slower there, too awed to press on in a hurry.
Adam stood knee-deep in the cold stream that fed into the River Shribble, his bare paws steady on the smooth stones beneath. The water gurgled around his legs with a calming rhythm, the sort of sound that made you forget about everything else. The light of the sun danced on the water's surface, scattering gold and silver in flickering mosaics.
Uncle Dirac had left earlier that morning—some urgent errand or business that Adam had not been invited to join—and so the boy had remained behind. It wasn't unusual. Dirac often left him alone, not out of neglect, but out of a kind of stern trust that Adam would know how to fend for himself. And indeed, he did. The hunt had gone well. Five fish now rested in a woven satchel on the riverbank, their silver scales still twitching faintly.
Adam wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his thoughts wandering to how they would cook the fish later when he saw it.
At first, it didn't seem real.
It perched on the edge of a delicate flower—though even calling it a flower seemed somehow unworthy. The petals shimmered like crystal, and upon it rested the butterfly.
It shimmered with iridescent light, each movement of its wings shifting through every hue of the spectrum and shades beyond. Gold bled into sapphire, sapphire into scarlet, scarlet into a color Adam could not name, only feel. And somehow, beneath the beauty, there was a music—not heard with the ears, but felt in the chest. As if the very sight of it was a note in some deeper, sacred song.
He couldn't look away.
In that moment, Adam felt as though the world around him had dimmed, as though reality itself had grown quiet to let this miracle speak—as though everything else was insignificant. Unbeknownst to him, it had. His heart beat louder, slower. He took a step forward. He didn't decide to; his feet simply moved. Something inside him—some deeper part, older than thought—reached out.
The butterfly lifted gently from the flower, its wings leaving trails of light in the air. And Adam followed. Not like a boy chasing a bug, but like a pilgrim drawn to the whisper of something divine.
They passed through low hollows and up rising slopes, weaving through the still trees, until the land evened out. And there it was.
A clearing.
A place untouched, unspoiled, sacred.
The ground was covered in lush, velvet-green grass that shimmered faintly in the sunlight, as if it remembered some enchantment long ago. Five towering stone pillars surrounded the space, each carved with a sigil older than language. The symbols were foreign to Adam, yet something in them felt familiar—as though part of his soul had always known them, had always waited for this moment.
At the center of it all stood a stone table. It looked as though it had grown from the very earth rather than been placed there. On the contrary, it did grow from the very earth. Its edges were carved with intricate runes, and the air around it thrummed faintly, like the space between moments.
The butterfly landed atop it.
Adam stopped at the edge of the clearing, his breath caught somewhere between awe and reverence. He stepped forward slowly, his every footfall muffled by the softness of the grass. His pulse thundered in his ears. He didn't know why—only that something was about to happen. Something that would change everything.
As he neared the stone table, the butterfly shimmered once more. Its body grew impossibly bright, radiant with golden fire, until its form dissolved into light—and reformed.
Adam's knees nearly buckled.
Standing where the butterfly had been was a being whose presence filled the world.
He was a Tracient, yet he was more than any Tracient Adam had ever heard of in stories. His fur shone like morning sunlight over dew-wet fields. His mane, wild and regal, moved not with wind but with something deeper—like the motion of starlight or ancient fire. His white and gold tunic was immaculate, yet not ornamental—it was as if every thread had been spun from purpose itself. He stood still, but it was not the stillness of waiting—it was the stillness of eternity, of something utterly complete.
And his eyes. Great heavens, his eyes.
They held galaxies. They held silence and song. They held fierce justice and boundless mercy. Looking into them, Adam felt small—not in a way that diminished him, but in a way that revealed how vast the world truly was, and how deeply he belonged in it.
There were no horns. No booming trumpets. No thunder. Only a stillness so deep it made the breath catch in one's throat.
And Adam knew. He knew.
This was Asalan.
The Great Lion. The Maker. The Breath and the Song.
He stood before Adam, not as a king in a palace, but as truth in a clearing. Not demanding worship, but simply being—in such fullness that even the grass bowed underfoot.
Adam's mouth was dry. His knees felt weak. He wanted to fall, to kneel, to weep. And yet, he felt something else stir within him too—some warmth, some strength, some echo of his truest self.
Here, in the presence of the One, Adam felt more alive than he ever had.
____________________________________
Adam's heart was pounding. Not like it did during battle, or when running from danger. This was not the sharp, cold fear of pain or death—it was something far deeper. It was awesome so immense it became terror. It was standing at the threshold of something so vast, so sacred, that his body simply could not hold it.
He had heard of fear that broke a person. He had read about it in tales whispered around fires. But this was a different breaking—gentle, unmaking, like a clay vessel realizing for the first time the potter's hand still held it.
He couldn't move.
His legs refused. His arms hung limp at his sides. His breath was shallow and trembling. And he dared not raise his eyes to meet the gaze of the great golden Tracient who stood before him.
I shouldn't be here.
That thought whispered in his mind over and over again, small and desperate. I'm not meant to see this. I'm not worthy. This is for heroes… for kings… not me.
And then—as if the breath of the world itself stirred the trees—Asalan spoke.
"Do not be afraid, my son. I mean you no harm."
His voice was like thunder woven with sunlight. Not loud, but vast. Deep. It didn't strike Adam's ears so much as his bones, his soul. And in that moment, the iron grip around his limbs began to loosen.
The fear didn't vanish entirely. I wouldn't. But it was softened by something stronger. The voice had carried no scorn, no judgment. Just… knowing. And love.
With great effort, Adam lifted his head.
"Are you…" he began, his voice cracking like old wood, "who I think you are?"
Asalan smiled—and oh, what a smile it was. Not merely an expression, but a sunrise made visible in the eyes of a lion.
"I am myself," Asalan said gently, "but you may call me by the name placed in the hearts of all Tracients."
Adam didn't need to ask further. That name had always been there, even if it had never passed his lips.
Asalan.
And when the Lion stepped forward and gently took Adam's arm, guiding him to the edge of the clearing, the boy did not resist. They walked in silence, side by side, their steps soft upon the hallowed grass. Before them lay the golden hills of Narn, the sun casting long rays over the valley below.
For a moment, Adam forgot everything—the stream, the fish, even his own questions.
Then Asalan spoke again.
"The time has come for the prophecy to be fulfilled."
Adam turned his head sharply, the word sinking into him like a stone in deep water.
Prophecy?
"For too long," Asalan continued, "Narn has been ruled by evil. Trapped in the shadow of a great wrong. But the time of deliverance is near. The light is stirring again, and with it, hope."
Adam stood still. His hands trembled at his sides. "Prophecy?" he repeated, his voice unsure, fragile.
Asalan's eyes, ancient and tender, regarded him with warmth. "It is written," he said, "that when the four Grand Lords of Narn gather at the Stone Table, the evil times will begin to be undone. The power of darkness will lose its grip, and the light will return."
The words echoed in Adam's chest, vibrating through the threads of his being. But with each echo, doubt began to rise.
"How am I involved?" he asked, more to himself than to the Lion.
Asalan's gaze didn't falter. "You, Adam Kurt, are the one chosen to bring the Grand Lords together. You will walk a path few have ever known, and fewer still have completed."
Adam's breath caught in his throat. Me?
He had no kingdom. No army. No great legacy of power. Just a guardian, a few skills, and a past scattered with questions.
"But I don't know where to start," he said helplessly. "I… I can't. I'm not ready."
And then Asalan leaned close. The Lion's breath, warm and sweet like springtime wind, swept over Adam's face. It wasn't fire—it was peace. And with it came a sudden clarity, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"Be courageous," Asalan whispered. "You will not be alone. There is help in Narn for those who seek it. And strength for those of pure soul who walk the path given them."
Adam closed his eyes. In that breath, the fears melted—not because they were false, but because they were no longer his to carry alone.
But then, something shifted in the air.
The Lion's mane stirred though there was no breeze, and his golden eyes dimmed with sadness.
"Our time here is ending," Asalan said, his voice touched now with finality. "You must seek the others, Adam. And speak to your guardian. Ask him… about the Great War."
Adam looked up, heart pounding once again. "The Great War?"
"It will illuminate your path."
The wind picked up then—not the wind of the forest, but something stranger, something unseen. Adam felt it pulling at him, not with force, but with inevitability. The pillars, the grass, the stone table—all of it was beginning to fade.
"No!" Adam cried. "Wait—will I see you again?"
The Lion gave him a look that felt like the answer to every question that had ever stirred in his soul.
"I am always with you, my son."
And then the world vanished.
Adam blinked—and found himself back at the stream. His hand still held the net. The fish flopped weakly in its mesh. The same breeze whispered across the water. Nothing had changed.
And yet, everything had changed.
The hilltop clearing, the glowing butterfly, the pillars and table, even Asalan himself—it all now lived behind his eyes, like a secret flame that would never go out.
He stood there for a long time, staring into the water, heart heavy not with sorrow, but with the weight of something far larger than himself.
Then a voice called through the trees.
Dirac.
The older Tracient emerged from the brush, his cloak dusted with pine needles. His expression was his usual stoic mask, but it softened a fraction when he saw Adam.
"You catch anything?" he asked casually.
Adam didn't answer immediately. He turned to face his guardian, the vision of the golden Lion still fresh behind his gaze.
"Uncle Dirac," he said quietly, "what happened to my parents?"
And this time, he asked not as a boy seeking comfort—but as one who had been called to purpose.
---
The tale Adam had told lingered like a breath on the winter wind, delicate but heavy with meaning. The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was sacred. No one rushed to speak, as if words might shatter something fragile and holy that still floated in the air between them.
Trevor, who usually filled silences with jokes and questions, was the first to find his voice, though it came quieter than usual—almost reverent.
"It was Asalan who brought me here," he said, not as a theory but as a truth he had only now realized. "From my world into yours. I know that now."
Adam turned to him slowly, his expression unreadable, though there was something almost like relief in his eyes.
Trevor's gaze didn't waver. "He chose me, didn't He? I didn't just fall through some cosmic crack. I was… called."
Kon let out a long, slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face. The golden stripes along his arm caught the light briefly as he spoke, his voice low. "So… where's the Arya of the Wolf?"
There was no hesitation. Adam closed his eyes for a moment, and then a shimmer of soft blue-white light flickered to life at his chest. From beneath his cloak, a silver chain appeared, bearing a pendant shaped like a crescent moon—delicate and bright, like a sliver of pure winter sky captured in crystal.
"My uncle told me it was entrusted to me by my father," he said, opening his eyes. "Passed down through our bloodline, as the tradition of Narn dictates. I… I carry the legacy of the Kurt Clan now. I am its Grand Lord."
His words were spoken without pride, but not without weight. He wasn't claiming a crown—he was accepting a burden.
Trevor stared at the pendant, blinking. "And that makes you… one of the four Grand Lords?"
Adam nodded.
He turned then to face Trevor fully, and though his voice remained steady, it softened with something like affection.
"And now, as the wielder of your Arya—the Arya of Derision—you are the Grand Lord of your clan as well."
Trevor's mouth opened, then closed again. He glanced up at the read cloth on his brow "Wait… me?" he asked, voice pitched in disbelief. "I'm a Grand Lord?"
There was an almost boyish hope in his eyes, as if he were afraid Adam might be mistaken.
Adam's lips twitched into the faintest smile. "Yes, Trevor. You are."
Kon folded his arms again, but this time the gesture wasn't defiant—it was thoughtful, cautious. "That leaves one Arya left. The Arya of Evolution."
Adam nodded once. "That's why we're going to Archen Land. To find its wielder."
"And that wielder is…?" Kon pressed.
Adam's gaze drifted to the horizon, where the snowy woods gave way to distant hills bathed in the faint blush of late afternoon. His voice was low but resolute when he answered.
"The King of Archen Land."
______________________________________
The snowstorm that had cloaked the Vale of Shadows began to ease as they descended from the forest's heart, though the wind still whispered through the trees and clung to the edges of their cloaks like cold fingers reluctant to let go.
Adam walked at the front now, cloak pulled tight, his steps steady. Behind him, Kon's stride was quiet, deliberate, his mind turning over every word Adam had spoken. And Trevor, ever curious, walked slightly to the side.
"So," Trevor asked after a long silence, "this King of Archen Land… you really think he's the guy we're looking for?"
Adam nodded without turning. "It's what my uncle told me. The King holds the last Arya. The power we need."
Trevor glanced back at Kon, whose expression remained unreadable. "And this King—what's he like? Brave and noble? Or more of a grumpy old lion type?"
"He's not a lion," Kon said flatly.
"Figure of speech."
Adam didn't respond at first. He seemed to be mulling something over—perhaps a memory, or a worry he hadn't voiced yet. Finally, he said, "I don't know what kind of man he is. But I do know that without him, we can't fulfill the prophecy."
That word again—prophecy. It seemed to carry more weight with every step they took. Trevor could almost feel it, like a rope tied around all their fates, pulling them onward toward something vast and ancient and dangerous.
Kon's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Razik won't let this go."
It wasn't a warning. It was a certainty.
"He knows we're gathering the Aryas," Kon continued, eyes narrowed against the wind. "He knows we're getting close to breaking the curse over Narn. He'll come for us again."
"I know," Adam replied, and his voice had a quiet heaviness to it. "But we have no choice. We move forward, or everything we've done so far will mean nothing."
For a few moments, no one spoke. Only the wind and the crunch of snow beneath their feet.
Then, with a dramatic twirl of his hand, Trevor broke the tension. "Well, at least we've got the upper hand now," he said with a grin. "Did you see Razik's face when I went full Grand Maymum? I think I even impressed myself."
Adam let out a soft chuckle.
Kon did not.
"This isn't a game, Trevor."
The tiger's tone was sharp, and for once, Trevor didn't snap back with a joke. He held Kon's gaze and gave a small nod.
"I know," he said quietly. "I just… sometimes I need to laugh. Otherwise, I might not keep going."
There was a pause—long, quiet, meaningful.
And then Kon looked away, his shoulders relaxing just slightly.
Adam's eyes stayed fixed ahead. "Whatever happens next, we stick together," he said. "The prophecy doesn't say we'll succeed. Just that we must try."
Trevor's voice was softer now. "Well then… let's try like our lives depend on it."
"Because they do," Kon said grimly.
And the three of them walked on—past the last reach of the Vale, into the unknown hills where snow gave way to mist, and where the borders of Archen Land, and perhaps destiny itself, waited.
_________________________________________
Meanwhile, in Archen Land
Location: Plains of Eldareth, Kingdom of Archen Land
Year: 6999 NY
The wind drifted softly over the vast plain of Eldareth, its fingers rustling the silver-blue grasses that bent like bowing courtiers beneath the sky. Here, on the threshold between wood and field, where twilight clung to the forest edge and the mountains stood like forgotten gods in the far distance, all things felt held in a hush—as if the land itself had drawn a breath and waited.
A deer Tracient darted through the trees—his slender limbs graceful, his hooves barely disturbing the mossy floor. His name was Kopa, and though he bore no crown or crest, he moved with a dignified urgency, for his errand was weighty. The kingdom itself seemed to lean forward, listening.
And there, just beyond the wood's border, stood a figure of imposing calm. Tall as an oak, broad as a gatehouse door, yet still as the roots beneath him, he watched the sun melt over the horizon. His back faced the trees, but his presence made the grove feel smaller somehow, as if even the sky took a step back when he stood tall.
The fur along his powerful frame was deep earthen brown, flecked with the white of age and wisdom. His hair and beard, thick and soft as snowfall, drifted with the breeze like frost on bark. And his eyes—those ancient, lemon-green eyes—seemed carved from the heartwood of the world: steady, clear, and full of the long memory of kings.
Kopa reached him at last and dropped to one knee, bowing with practiced grace.
"My King," he said, the reverence in his voice as natural as breath. "I bring news."
For a time, the tall figure did not speak. The wind rustled through the treetops above them, as if reluctant to interrupt the silence that stretched like an old friendship between earth and sky.
Then, at last, he answered. "Speak, Kopa."
The words, though few, were not hurried. They were the kind that settled into the bones.
Kopa lifted his head, though he kept his body low. "We have found the wolf Tracient," he said. "The one they call Adam Kurt."
The great figure turned.
It was as though the land turned with him.
His face was kind and solemn, carved in lines of patience and the burden of leadership, the sort of lines that speak of counsel given, battles weighed, and nights spent waking. He was no stranger to sorrow—but nor was he unfamiliar with hope. His name, though rarely spoken in jest, was Darius, King of Archen Land, Wielder of the Arya of Evolution.
His gaze, steady as the moon's tide, rested on the deer before him. But his thoughts were already far away.
"So," Darius said quietly, his lips curving into a faint, knowing smile. "The time has come."
There was no surprise in his tone—only inevitability.
Kopa nodded, ears flicking slightly. "Shall I send word for preparations, my King?"
Darius did not answer right away. Instead, he lifted one hand and let it rest upon the air, palm up, as though weighing something that could not be seen. At last, he lowered it with the solemnity of a vow.
"Yes, Kopa. Prepare the castle."
His voice did not rise in volume, but something in it gathered the wind around his words. They felt larger than the moment—meant not only for the ears of the deer before him, but for the hills, and the stones, and the stars waiting quietly above.
"We will welcome guests soon," he said. "And not only as king to prince—but as one Grand Lord to another."
There was a flicker in his eyes then, not of fire, but of prophecy fulfilled—a vision that had lived in the hidden corners of his dreams, now breathing life.
"We have much to discuss with them."
Kopa bowed again, this time deeper, and then vanished into the grove like a whisper, his footsteps already forgotten by the grass he left behind.
But Darius did not move.
He remained where he was, tall and unmoving, his cloak gently brushing the backs of his legs, his arms folded behind him in stillness. He stared toward the far mountains—black and brooding on the horizon—where Narn lay cloaked in the last remnants of winter and shadow. There, behind veils of ice and war, the fate of the world stirred like a storm not yet loosed.
The breeze pressed against him as though in search of comfort.
And then, as if offering answer, he spoke—not loudly, but with the gentle gravity of one who knew what was coming, and had long accepted it.
"The winds of change are here."
He breathed in deeply, the cold air filling his lungs like ancient wine.
"Narn's fate," he said, more to the earth than to himself, "will soon be decided."
And in that moment, as dusk unfurled her shawl across the plains of Archen Land, a new chapter in the story of the Aryas began—quietly, patiently, and with the kind of promise that even darkness dares not ignore.