The mortal world knew nothing of torn pages or eternal wars. To them, history was merely history empires rising, kings falling, and names fading into dust.
But beneath the ordinary, something stirred.
Darian woke in the middle of the night, gasping and saying "The dream had returned again."
A board of black and gold stretched endlessly before him. Strange pieces moved across it, not carved wood, but living, breathing figures. A king bled. A queen screamed. A soldier fell only to rise again in another place.
And always, the same voice whispered behind him.
Move, child. Move the piece. Take what should be yours.
His hand trembled as he pulled the blanket over his head, willing the sound away. Yet even awake, the voice lingered, low and tempting.
Darian had never spoken of it. Who would believe him? He was a simple apprentice in the city of Armathis, struggling to earn coin enough to eat. But in his chest, a darkness pulsed, as if something inside him waited.
Far across the same city, another dream unfolded.
Elira, a healer's daughter, stood in a field of light. She had never seen such a place, yet it felt... familiar. Golden grass swayed beneath a sky with no sun, no moon.
And then a voice came, clear as bells.
Child of breath, you are chosen.
Her heart raced. "Chosen... for what?"
The game has begun. And you must stand against the shadow when it comes.
Before she could ask more, a figure of blinding light placed something in her hands a small crystal, humming with warmth. She woke clutching empty air, her palm still tingling.
The following morning, the streets of Armathis bustled as usual merchants shouting, children darting through alleys, guards clattering down stone roads. Yet both Darian and Elira walked among the crowd with the weight of dreams still heavy in their minds.
Neither saw the robed figure watching from the shadows. His eyes glowed faintly as he whispered into the wind.
"The page stirs."
He melted into the crowd, unseen.
That night, Darian dreamt again. Only this time, the board wasn't endless. It was small, carved, familiar. The pieces had faces he recognized. His neighbors. His friends. His enemies.
And when he reached out to move a piece, he felt it a rush of power, thrilling and terrible.
The voice whispered once more, closer than ever.
Good... good. Play the game, child. And win.
Darian awoke, breathless, the taste of ash on his tongue.
Somewhere in the city, Elira woke at the same moment, her hand burning with sudden light.
The first move had been made.