The village of Eldar's Hollow lay cradled beneath the watchful gaze of the Silver Peaks, ancient mountains whose jagged silhouettes pierced the horizon like the teeth of forgotten giants. Cloaked in early morning mist, the hamlet stirred quietly, its cobblestone streets waking beneath the pale light of dawn. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the aroma of baking bread and woodsmoke, a fragile comfort amid the shadow of unspoken fears.
Serena stepped through the village square, her cloak trailing softly behind her. Though the Silver Maiden was revered as the temple's chosen, here, among her people, she was merely a girl burdened by secrets too heavy for her years. Whispers trailed her—hushed stories of the girl who communed with spirits and bore the mark of the moon. Some looked upon her with awe, others with quiet unease.
Her eyes drifted toward the ancient oak at the village's heart, its gnarled branches twisting like the fingers of time itself. Beneath its sprawling canopy, her guardians waited—three steadfast souls bound to protect her, not only by oath but by a shared history woven with loyalty and sacrifice.
First came Eamon, broad-shouldered and fierce, his gaze sharp as a falcon's. Once a warrior of the northern tribes, his scarred hands now tended to the village's needs with quiet strength. Next was Lysara, a healer with hair like liquid night and eyes that held both kindness and sorrow. And finally, the enigmatic Jorin—young, restless, and shrouded in a veil of secrets. He often vanished without explanation, returning with news or warnings from realms unseen.
"Serena," Eamon greeted, his voice low and steady, "the omens grow darker. The nights twist unnaturally, and the stars no longer sing their old songs."
Lysara's brow furrowed. "The village well ran dry last night. A warning, surely, from the earth itself."
Serena's heart tightened. Since the vision in the temple, the threads of destiny had tugged relentlessly, drawing her toward an uncertain fate. Doubts gnawed at her resolve—was she truly the bearer of salvation, or merely a pawn in a game older than memory?
As the sun climbed higher, Serena wandered toward the edge of Eldar's Hollow, where the forest loomed—a place whispered to be alive with ancient magic and restless spirits. She recalled the village legends: tales of cosmic tides that ebbed and flowed like the breath of the world, bringing both renewal and ruin.
The elders spoke of a prophecy etched in starfire—a celestial dance that would break the fragile balance and cast shadows upon the land. The Silver Maiden's journey was tied to these tides, a thread of light in the encroaching dark.
Her fingers brushed a weathered amulet at her throat, a gift from her mother long gone, said to hold the essence of the moon's blessing. In that moment, the winds shifted, carrying a faint melody—half song, half sigh—a summons from beyond.
Serena's eyes lifted to the sky, where clouds gathered like a brewing storm. Somewhere, beyond sight and time, destiny waited.
And so
did the shadows.
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