The world was not built by power.
It was built by sight.
Long before magic had names, before the first kingdoms rose, before mankind even grasped the nature of flame—there were those who could see. Not with their ordinary eyes, but through lenses that could not be forged, copied, or inherited. Ancient, round spectacles that clung only to the chosen.
They were called the First Seers.
They did not summon fire or bend the wind. They did not split the earth or raise mountains.
But they knew when storms would come. And more importantly—why.
They wrote in symbols no scholar could decipher. They spoke in patterns of light and silence.
They saw things others could not.
Cracks—not on walls or stones, but in reality itself.
A thin veil. A fracture in the world's design.
Something watching from the other side.
One by one, the Seers vanished.
Not in war. Not by age.
They simply disappeared, like ink washed from old parchment.
But before they vanished, they left behind three things:
1. Books that could not be opened,
2. Doors that could not be found,
3. And a single line carved into the stone of an unmarked land:
> "From the soil of the lowly shall rise the child of vision.
He shall wear the lens not forged, and through his eyes… the world shall remember."
Centuries passed.
The story became myth.
The myth became silence.
But far away from the capital, in a quiet village wrapped in mist and wheat,
a boy was reading a book left by his grandfather.
And on the wooden table beside him…
lay a pair of round spectacles—cracked on one side, dusty,
yet softly glowing as morning light touched the glass.