The village of Elowen slept beneath a quilt of mist, the morning sun filtering dimly through the shrouded forest. Smoke curled from chimney tops, lazy and content, as though the world had not yet decided whether to wake. Birds whispered half-hearted greetings from the trees, and dew shimmered on cobblestone and leaf alike. It was, to most eyes, a peaceful morning. But Orien Vale knew better.
He sat alone by the river's edge, legs folded beneath him, eyes fixed on the soft current that wound its way through Elowen like a silver thread. The river never stopped moving, never paused for breath or rest. It reminded him of the dreams—strange, vivid dreams—that had haunted his sleep for weeks now. In them, he stood on crumbling cliffs and walked burning paths. He heard names whispered on the wind, names he didn't recognize but somehow felt etched into his very soul.
Orien was sixteen. Gangly, with a mop of ash-brown hair that never quite lay flat, and eyes like storm clouds—grey, deep, always watching. The village thought him quiet. Some thought him odd. He didn't mind. There was a rhythm to solitude, and the woods always welcomed him without judgment.
"Still brooding by the river, dreamer?"
Orien looked up. A girl with a halo of red curls and a crooked grin stood over him, hands on her hips. Lira, his closest—perhaps only—friend. She wore a loose tunic and carried her satchel slung over one shoulder, full of herbs and dried flowers.
"I'm not brooding," he said.
"You're not not brooding." She flopped down beside him and tossed a pebble into the water. "Mother says there's something strange in the air. The birds are quieter. Even the goats are skittish. You feel it, don't you?"
He hesitated. "I've been dreaming again."
Lira's face softened. "Same ones?"
He nodded. "But last night, there was a stone. Floating in the air. It pulsed like it was alive. And then it shattered."
She didn't laugh. She never laughed at him.
Instead, she leaned forward. "Maybe it means something. Maybe you're meant to go somewhere. Do something."
He snorted. "Like what? Become a goat herder in a bigger village?"
Lira grinned. "Maybe the best goat herder."
A bell tolled from the village square—three low chimes. Market day.
The two stood, brushing off their clothes.
"You coming?" she asked.
"In a moment. I'll catch up."
She nodded and jogged off, boots kicking up dew from the grass.
Orien waited until she vanished around a bend, then pulled something from his pocket. A smooth stone, dark as slate. Cold to the touch, yet somehow warm inside. He hadn't told Lira about it. It had appeared in his palm the night before, just after the dream. He hadn't found it—it had found him.
It pulsed once. A faint glow, like starlight trapped inside. Then still.
He didn't know why, but he felt like something had begun.
---
Elowen's market square bustled with the low thrum of trade and chatter. Stalls lined the square, draped in colorful cloths and crowded with goods—jars of honey, bundles of herbs, woven baskets, wooden toys. Villagers moved from stall to stall, exchanging gossip as eagerly as coin.
Orien wandered through the crowd, stone tucked safely in his pouch. He kept one eye on Lira, who bartered with a merchant over the price of bitterroot.
"Ten coppers for wilted leaves? I should be charging you," she said.
The merchant laughed. "You drive a hard bargain, girl. Seven, then."
"Five."
"Six and I throw in a candied plum."
Lira pretended to consider. "Deal."
Orien smiled to himself. She always won.
Then he heard it.
A sharp crack, like a tree splitting in two. Silence fell over the square, sudden and absolute.
Then came the wind.
It swept in from the north, a wall of force that knocked over carts and sent baskets tumbling. People shouted, stumbled, grabbed at cloaks and hats.
Orien turned toward the source—and saw fire.
Not flames from a hearth or torch. This fire was wrong. Blue-white, alive, devouring the sky itself. It surged from the forest's edge, spiraling upward like a burning serpent.
And from its heart stepped a figure.
Tall, robed in black and gold, face hidden beneath a hood. The wind died as he entered the square, and every eye turned toward him. Even the birds stopped singing.
The figure raised a hand.
"The Trial begins."
His voice echoed—not just through the square, but inside every mind. Orien clutched his head, staggered. Around him, villagers collapsed to their knees.
Then the figure turned—to him.
"You are chosen, Orien Vale. The First Trial awaits."
The stone in Orien's pouch burned. He cried out, fell to his knees. Light exploded from the pouch, rising into the air in a spiral. The villagers backed away, shielding their eyes.
Lira ran to him. "Orien! What's happening?!"
He couldn't answer. The world tilted. He felt the ground vanish beneath him, the sky spinning above.
Then—
Darkness.
---
He woke to silence.
No birds. No wind. No Lira.
Just a vast, empty forest—mist coiling around gnarled trees, sky a sheet of silver.
The air felt thick, like the breath of something ancient.
He stood slowly. The stone lay in the grass at his feet, its light dimmed but steady.
Then a voice, soft and distant, whispered through the trees:
"Trial One: The Forest of Echoes."
Orien took a breath, heart pounding.
He had no map. No guide. No way back.
Only forward.
And so, he stepped into the mist.