Chapter 1 – The Omen
The storm came without warning.
One moment the fields stretched quiet and golden beneath the afternoon sun, and the next, black clouds boiled over the hills, swallowing the light. The villagers of Windmere ran for cover, dragging carts into barns, slamming shutters, and praying the harvest would not be ruined.
But Aric stayed in the fields.
He stood ankle-deep in wheat, staring at the sky as if the storm had singled him out. At seventeen, he was broad-shouldered and restless, a boy with hands calloused by farm work but eyes that sought something beyond the plow and the furrow.
A spear of lightning split the heavens and struck the ancient stone standing at the hill's crest. The villagers called it the King's Fang, a jagged shard of rock said to be older than the kingdom itself. Few dared go near it.
When the thunder rolled, Aric swore he heard something within the stone answer back—a low, humming note that thrummed in his bones.
And then the wheat around him bent in a circle, as though the wind itself bowed.