The village of Arlen lay cradled between green hills and silver-threaded streams, a place the rest of the world barely remembered. Cobbled roads twisted through clusters of stone houses, their windows glowing with evening firelight. The air smelled of fresh bread cooling on sills and woodsmoke drifting from chimneys, carrying the promise of supper and safety. Life here rarely changed. It was the sort of place where the seasons felt slower, where days stretched long and untroubled.
Kiran leaned against the worn railing near the marketplace well, watching villagers wind down from the day's labor. A baker swept the last crumbs from his counter while children tore through the square, shrieking with laughter. Old Harven, the blacksmith, sat on a stool outside his forge, sipping from a clay mug as if the world could not possibly hold surprises anymore.
Yet something was off tonight.
The wind had stilled. Not a leaf stirred on the ancient oaks ringing the square. Shadows gathered thick beneath their branches, stretching longer than they should have in the fading light. Kiran's fingers tingled faintly, as though the air itself carried a hidden current meant only for him. He rubbed his palms against his tunic, frowning, but the sensation remained—a soft, pulsing thrum beneath his skin, almost like the beat of another heart.
"Kiran! Supper's on the table!" his mother called from their small house at the square's edge. Her voice, warm and steady, pulled him back from his thoughts.
He turned, lifting a hand to wave. "Coming!"
For a heartbeat, the world felt whole again. Ordinary. Safe.
Then came the sound.
It began as a low groan, like the earth stretching in its sleep. Cobblestones shivered underfoot. Chickens scattered, wings beating frantically. Dogs barked and howled. The groan rose to a cracking roar that split the evening in two. Windows rattled. A clay jug tumbled from a sill and shattered. Someone screamed.
The ground heaved once, violently.
"Earthquake!" a man shouted, but even as the word left his mouth, the air itself warped, shuddering with a power far older than shifting stone.
On the horizon, a surge of light blazed skyward—dark and bright all at once, like lightning trapped inside smoke. It pulsed, rolled, and spread. The crowd fell silent as the unnatural glow crawled along the earth in jagged veins.
"The Ley Lines," whispered Harven, his mug slipping from numb fingers. "By the gods… they're breaking."
The words chilled Kiran more than the shaking ground. Everyone knew the stories—how invisible rivers of magic ran beneath the world, keeping life in balance. They powered the harvest charms, the village wards, even the great city spires far beyond Arlen. No one truly understood them. No one thought they could break.
Yet cracks snaked through the square, splitting cobblestones apart. From the wounds in the earth leaked a blue fire that did not burn like ordinary flame. It twisted upward in writhing shapes, hissing as though alive.
Panic erupted. Mothers grabbed children. Merchants abandoned their stalls. Someone rang the old warning bell, its frantic clang swallowed by the growing roar beneath their feet.
Kiran stumbled toward his house, heart pounding. His mother stood frozen in the doorway, his younger sister clutching her skirts. "Inside!" he shouted, but the air around them quivered like a drumskin struck too hard.
And then… silence.
The wind returned, carrying a strange cold. The blue flames guttered low, leaving the square scorched and cracked. People huddled together, whispering prayers.
Through the fading smoke, a figure approached.
He wore a tattered cloak the color of storm clouds, the hood thrown back to reveal hair silvered with age yet untouched by frailty. His eyes glowed faintly, not with heat, but with the pale light of distant stars. Power clung to him like a second skin.
Villagers shrank back as he passed. Even the blue fire seemed to recoil from his steps.
His gaze found Kiran. Held it.
"Kiran," he said, his voice carrying like wind through a canyon—soft, yet impossible to ignore. "Your life is bound to the magic breaking beneath us. Come with me… or watch everything you love fall to ruin."
The square held its breath.
Kiran's pulse thundered in his ears. This stranger spoke as though they had met before, as though destiny itself had sent him. Behind them, the cracks in the earth glowed faintly, whispering with voices no one else seemed to hear.
His mother's face swam in his vision. The trembling ground. The cold air. The stranger's outstretched hand.
"Who are you?" Kiran demanded, though his voice shook.
"A guide," the man said simply. "Or the only chance you have left."
Kiran hesitated, torn between fear and the strange pull in his chest answering the man's words.
Smoke stung his eyes. He thought of his sister clinging to their mother. Of neighbors staring wide-eyed at the broken earth.
And then, slowly, he reached for the man's hand.
The moment their palms met, the air cracked like thunder. Light swallowed the square.
When it faded, Kiran was gone.