The Hidden Door
The village where Elias lived had always seemed ordinary. Its cobbled streets wound between cottages with thatched roofs and crooked chimneys, smoke curling lazily into skies that were neither too bright nor too dark. People here spoke of weather, harvests, and small gossip. They knew each other's names, and every corner was familiar.
But for Elias, the ordinary never felt like home.
From the time he was a boy, he noticed cracks in the world that no one else seemed to see—glistening seams in the air when dusk settled, patterns in the ivy that grew over the stones, echoes that lingered longer than sound should. The villagers said he daydreamed too much. His mother used to ruffle his hair and tell him it was just imagination, a harmless fancy. Yet the feeling remained: the world was not whole, not finished. Something hid beneath its skin.
On the day everything changed, Elias wandered beyond the edge of the village to a forgotten path that led into the woods. The trees grew thick there, old oaks and beeches pressing close together, their roots twisting like knotted ropes. It was a place children were warned away from, said to be haunted with strange lights and whispers. Elias had always half-believed those stories. Half-believed, and half-hoped.
The air shifted as he entered the grove. A hush fell over the world, though no bird had stopped singing and no wind had stilled the branches. It was a hush deeper than silence, as if sound itself had gone into hiding. Elias's heart beat faster.
He came upon a crumbling stone wall, almost swallowed by moss. Vines tangled across its surface, and at its center was something that should not have been there: a door.
It wasn't made of wood or iron but of carved stone, its surface etched with whorls and spirals that seemed to move when Elias looked too long. At first he thought it was just another ruin, a relic from forgotten builders, until his fingers brushed its cold surface. The spirals glowed faintly beneath his touch, like embers stirred back to life.
Elias stumbled back, breath caught in his throat. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see someone watching, but the woods were empty.
"Impossible," he whispered.
Yet the glow did not fade.
A voice—quiet, almost like his own thoughts—rose within him: Not impossible. Hidden.
Elias pressed his palm against the door again. The carvings brightened, forming patterns that curved into something resembling threads woven across stone. The sensation beneath his hand was not stone at all, but something softer, like fabric pulled taut.
And then, with a shuddering sigh, the door opened.
It didn't swing or creak. It simply yielded, as though the wall itself had softened. A breath of cold air swept out, carrying the scent of iron, old rain, and wild earth untouched by sun.
Elias hesitated. His whole body urged him to run back to the safety of the village, to pretend he had never seen this. But another part—the part that always noticed the cracks and seams—leaned forward.
One step, then another, and he crossed the threshold.
The world on the other side was not darkness, as he feared, but a forest unlike any he had known. Trees rose higher than spires, their leaves shimmering with faint light, as if the moon had become tangled in their branches. The ground was carpeted in moss that glowed softly underfoot. Everywhere he looked, shadows shifted with intention, like animals half-seen.
Elias gasped. The air hummed around him, charged with a presence he could not name.
He reached out to touch a nearby trunk, and the bark was warm, pulsing faintly, as if alive in more than the ordinary way. When he withdrew his hand, it left a faint trace of golden dust.
"This is…" He could not finish the thought.
The sound of footsteps behind him froze him in place.
Elias spun, heart leaping, but it was not another villager. A tall figure emerged from the trees, clad in dark leathers and a cloak the color of stormclouds. A sword hung at their side, its hilt bound with silver thread that caught the forest's glow. The figure's hair was dark, their eyes sharp as cut stone, and they moved with the grace of one who had fought battles Elias could not imagine.
"Step carefully," the stranger said, their voice low and steady. "This place does not welcome the uninvited."
Elias tried to speak, but the words tangled. "I—I didn't mean to. The door, it—it opened."
The stranger studied him for a long moment. Then they sighed, as if this explained something troublesome.
"So it begins," they murmured.
Elias blinked. "What begins?"
The figure stepped closer. Though their stance was watchful, not hostile, Elias sensed danger coiled within them, like a blade half-drawn.
"My name is Kaelen," they said. "And you should not be here."
"I didn't mean to," Elias said again, his voice rising with nervousness. "I just—there was this pull, and I—"
Kaelen held up a hand. "The door does not open for accident. If you crossed, it is because the threads have chosen you."
"The threads?"
Kaelen's gaze flicked to the trees above, where faint strands of light shimmered in the branches, weaving patterns Elias could not follow. "This world is not apart from yours. It is beneath it. Woven under every step you take. Few ever glimpse it. Fewer still are allowed to pass through."
Elias's skin prickled. "Then why me?"
"That," Kaelen said grimly, "is the question we must both answer."
They moved through the forest together, Kaelen walking with quiet certainty, Elias stumbling after, wide-eyed at every flicker of light and shadow. He wanted to ask a thousand questions—why the air thrummed with energy, why the leaves seemed to whisper when he passed—but each time he opened his mouth, Kaelen's sharp glance silenced him.
Finally, Elias could not hold back. "Are you going to send me back?"
Kaelen did not answer immediately. Their eyes swept the trees, wary. When they finally spoke, their voice was heavy. "If the door opened, your path has already left your world. Whether you wish it or not, you are part of this one now."
Elias's stomach sank. "But I'm not… I'm not anyone. I don't fight. I don't…" He trailed off, ashamed.
Kaelen's eyes softened, just slightly. "The threads do not choose heroes. They choose what the weave requires."
Elias didn't understand, but the words settled into him like a stone into water, sending ripples he couldn't yet name.
They walked on. In the distance, faint bells echoed—not made by hands, but by the trembling of the forest itself. The sound was beautiful, haunting, and filled Elias with both awe and dread.
He glanced once more at Kaelen, who strode ahead, every movement deliberate, watchful. For the first time, Elias wondered if stepping through the door had not been the beginning of discovery, but the beginning of danger.
The thought made him shiver. Yet he could not deny it: for the first time in his life, he felt he was exactly where he was meant to be.