The villagers called it an omen.
On the last night of the Harvest Festival, the sky cracked open with fire. Blazing trails of silver and green rained across the heavens, scattering light so bright it drowned the moon. The children cheered, thinking the gods had gifted them a second festival. The elders trembled, whispering prayers to forgotten names.
And in the middle of it all, a boy sat alone on the temple steps, watching the stars bleed.
His name was Kael.
At seventeen, Kael had little to show for himself. He was no warrior like his late father, no scholar like the temple priests, not even a skilled farmer like most of the village. He was, as his uncle often said, a shadow in daylight. Yet as the falling stars lit the world, Kael's chest burned with something he had never felt before—an ache, sharp and alive, as though the heavens were calling only to him.
Then the screaming started.
The largest of the star-fires broke apart midair, crashing into the forest north of the village. A shockwave thundered through the valley, rattling windows, throwing livestock into frenzy. By the time the villagers regained their balance, half the sky was ablaze.
"Stay back!" the temple priest bellowed as a crowd gathered at the edge of the forest. The air shimmered with heat. Trees were snapped like twigs, soil scorched into black glass. Yet through the smoke and flame, Kael saw something impossible.
At the heart of the crater lay not stone, but a body—tall, armored, and glowing faintly with runes. Its chest rose and fell, shallow but steady.
"It's a warrior from the heavens," someone whispered.
"No," another hissed. "It's a curse. Seal it—bury it before it wakes!"
Kael could not move. His eyes locked on the fallen figure. It was not fear that gripped him, but recognition. He didn't know why, but he felt it in his bones—the warrior was connected to him.
And then the warrior's eyes snapped open.
They burned like molten gold, and for an instant Kael saw an entire battlefield reflected in them—armies of shadows, towers of fire, and a throne carved from bones. A whisper curled inside his head, a voice that was not his own:
"You are late, vessel."
The voice shattered something in Kael's soul. He stumbled backward, gasping, but the golden gaze never left him.
The villagers screamed. Some fled, others reached for pitchforks and blades. The priest began chanting wards.
But the warrior didn't rise. Its lips moved faintly, whispering words Kael barely caught:
"Find…the Crown of Dusk…before they do."
Then the glow faded, and the warrior fell still.
Kael stood frozen. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the strange, burning mark now etched into his palm—a sigil of fire and shadow, pulsing with the same rhythm as his own heart.
Behind him, the villagers began to shout.
Ahead, the forest smoldered with secrets.
And above, the last star fell, vanishing into darkness.
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✨ End of Chapter One ✨
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