Duskmire slept in its usual half-light — a city that never knew dawn or dusk, only the spaces between. Elarion's boots tapped softly against the cobblestones as he departed the academy grounds and wandered along the winding path home. Tonight the fog hung lighter, yet every shadow still pulsed with eerie vitality. He maintained a deliberate pace, savoring the solitude that matched his mood.
Upon reaching the narrow street where his modest dwelling stood, warm light seeped through the windows from lanterns within. For a fleeting moment, he contemplated entering, preparing a meal, pretending normalcy existed for him.
Instead, he chose otherwise.
He glided past the side gate, crossed the backyard, and vaulted over the low fence bordering the forest.
The trees at Duskmire's edge towered pale and spectral — birch and ash, their bark luminous beneath the ascending moon. He wove through the ghostly trunks until the city lights vanished behind him, replaced by leaves whispering ancient secrets to one another.
In a clearing where soft grass cushioned his feet and the air carried a faint metallic scent, Elarion halted. He lowered his bag, extracted the folded paper, and muttered, "This spot seems perfect to practice these movements I've written."
Unfolding the parchment, he examined the rough sketches — initial forms of a style he had somehow created without comprehension. The motions appeared deceptively simple. Elegant. Almost trivial.
"The first step comes easily," he remarked, placing the page aside.
He assumed his stance, following the suggested lines. Forward step. Wrist twist. Heel rotation.
He moved.
And tumbled.
The grass softened his fall but offered no protection for his wounded pride. "What the hell," he groaned, brushing dirt from his sleeve. "It looks effortless, but proves impossibly difficult!"
Rising again, he faced the forest wind that hissed through branches, seemingly mocking his efforts.
He attempted once more.
And again.
Each attempt ended in stumbling — sometimes from poor balance, sometimes because the movements demanded strength or precision his mortal frame hadn't yet developed. Perspiration streamed down his forehead. His lungs burned with exertion. His legs throbbed.
Yet he persisted.
Hours slipped away like water through cupped hands. The paper now lay at his feet, damp with evening dew. Elarion drew breath in rapid gasps.
"This challenge exceeds my expectations," he laughed weakly between labored breaths. "Still... I've made progress today."
He studied his trembling hands. The movements had begun feeling familiar — imperfect still, but instinctive. His body recalled something his mind couldn't grasp.
Glancing skyward, he noticed the shifting heavens. Clouds parted just enough to reveal the crimson moon — pale red bleeding through mist, bathing the forest floor in unsettling shades of rust and shadow.
The glyph-lamps along the distant road flickered to life, one after another, their glow uncertain and wavering.
"Time to return home before night deepens," Elarion said, wiping sweat from his brow with a faint smile.
He turned to leave but hesitated momentarily. The paper on the ground fluttered against the breeze — and for a heartbeat, beneath the moonlight, the ink emanated a subtle golden glow.
He blinked. The phenomenon vanished.
"Must be a trick of light," he muttered, his voice betraying his doubt.
Carefully retrieving the paper, he folded it and tucked it securely inside his coat.
As he journeyed homeward, his shadow stretched across the dirt path, moving slightly out of synchronization with his steps.
The forest behind him whispered softly — utterances not created by wind.
"Remember."
Elarion paused briefly, breath catching in his throat. The atmosphere thickened, chilled.
But he forced himself onward.
City lamps brightened as he approached home, yet their light brought no comfort. Pain pulsed faintly in his right eye again — dull but persistent, like something knocking from within.
He pushed the gate open, entered his backyard, and cast one final glance upward.
The crimson moon hung heavily above rooftops, veiled in cloud and shadow.
It seemed to observe him.
"Tomorrow... I'll master this," Elarion whispered, addressing himself more than any listener.
Then he entered, closing the door gently behind him.
But outside, in the quiet forest clearing where he had practiced, the grass remained bent, preserving the shape of his movements.
And faint golden lines etched themselves into the earth, as though reality itself remembered what he struggled to forget.
He placed his bag down, lit the lantern, and reheated his meager provisions — a bowl of broth and half a loaf of bread. Gentle bubbling filled the room, competing only with the distant hum of city life beyond his window.
He sat at the table, consuming his meal slowly. Tonight, food tasted like nothing at all.
Elarion's gaze drifted toward the small framed photograph on the cabinet — two figures standing proudly in Wanderer armor, their hands resting protectively on his shoulders. His father's sharp, confident grin. His mother's calm, penetrating eyes.
The day that photo captured remained vivid in his memory.
At seven years old, he watched them prepare for departure — a mission that would end in devastating silence.
They never returned.
The official report stated simply: "Mission incomplete. All operatives presumed deceased in contact with a Greater Nightwoomb."
He never viewed their remains. Only sealed letters and hollow sympathy from strangers.
Since then, the house became his alone — small, empty, eternally too quiet.
After finishing his meal, he washed his bowl and walked toward his bedroom. The walls creaked as night wind found passage through tiny cracks.
"Another day concludes," he murmured, pulling the blanket over his shoulders.
The paper containing sword diagrams rested folded on his desk. Momentarily, he regarded it — the ink still faintly shimmering under lantern light — before extinguishing the flame.
Darkness claimed the room.
He closed his eyes.
Almost immediately, the dream emerged.
Initially, it mirrored previous visions — endless void, cold atmosphere that wasn't truly air, the hum of something vast and patient.
But this time, clarity prevailed.
He stood within an underground chamber, walls carved from black stone that seemed to breathe, pulsing with golden veins. Chains hung from the ceiling — hundreds, thousands — disappearing into darkness above.
And there, at the abyss's center... floated the Eye.
Not a mere drawing. Not a symbol.
A living, observing entity.
Its golden iris spiraled endlessly, the pupil shifting and dividing as though attempting to mimic human expression.
Though no words were spoken, Elarion felt it — a voice impressed upon his mind like a hand against glass.
"You are not looking at me."
"You are remembering me."
These weren't sounds. They were undeniable truths.
He advanced, trembling. His reflection shimmered in the Eye's surface — not as himself, but as something taller, robed, radiant.
A being whose shadow touched everything.
Then — agony.
Searing light filled his skull, burning behind his left eye.
He screamed, clutching his face—and woke.
He sat upright, gasping, sweat coating his skin. Faint morning light spilled through the window, painting the room in pale gray. His sheets clung damply to his body, his heart thundering like war drums.
He massaged his temples, wincing as his left eye throbbed — a persistent ache refusing to subside.
"Just a dream," he whispered reassuringly. "Just... a dream."
But catching his reflection in the glass, he froze.
For a single instant, his left eye gleamed with golden light.
Then normalcy returned.
Elarion stared, heart racing. "No... that's impossible—"
He blinked forcefully, splashing cold water across his face. The glow didn't reappear.
Nevertheless, he couldn't dismiss the certainty that something fundamental had transformed within him.