Night fell over Feyrwell with an unnatural swiftness, as if the sky had grown impatient and pulled darkness across the land like a heavy shroud. The torches that lined the settlement's walls flickered violently, though there was no wind.
Aren Astar walked alone through the stone corridors of the Hall of Oaths, his footsteps echoing softly—too softly, almost absorbed by the old walls themselves. He carried three things: a small lantern, a set of archive keys, and the quiet conviction that if he did not start understanding what had happened to him, he would fall behind the chaos creeping toward him.
His chest still tingled faintly where the fragment of light had entered him. The sensation wasn't pain—more like a dim heartbeat that didn't belong to him.
He reached the bottom of the archive steps. The air here was colder, heavier. Dust motes danced in the lantern's glow, drifting like slow-moving stars.
Aren unlocked the gate.
Inside lay shelves of brittle documents, sealed clay tablets, forbidden records… things that Feyrwell pretended not to remember.
The archives smelled of age, wax, and secrets.
He went straight to the oldest shelf—Epoch Records, written by the settlement's founders. If anything mentioned Sign-bearers, it would be here.
He set the lantern down and began scanning spines and titles.
The Veil's First Thinning
Chronicles of the Ashen Wilds
Tales of the Hollow Crown
Annotations on Essence Contamination
Finally:
Manifestum: Sigils of the Lost Epoch
Aren pulled the tome out. The leather was dry and flaked under his touch. He opened it slowly.
Symbols filled the pages—not merely drawn but etched, as if burned by an unsteady hand. Many were incomplete, smeared, or crossed out. Whoever wrote this had been desperate… or dying.
He flipped pages carefully until he found one that made his breath catch.
A circle.
A spiral.
Three intersecting lines.
The same shape that had flashed in his mind when the fragment struck him.
Beneath it, a trembling description:
"The Incomplete Sigil. A fragment of a forgotten authority.
It grants nothing whole, but everything partly."
Aren frowned. "Partly…?"
He read further.
"Bearers of the Incomplete Sigil are said to perceive truths hidden behind the Veil, though only in pieces. Power manifests slowly, unpredictably… often at great cost.
Most do not survive the awakening."
Aren's fingers tightened around the page.
Not fear.
Resolve.
He turned another page.
Then froze.
Someone had scribbled a note on the margin—different handwriting from the original author.
Rushed, uneven, as if the writer were terrified.
"A door will appear before you.
Do not open it.
Do not seek the handle.
There is no safety in what answers."
A chill crawled along Aren's spine.
He lifted the lantern to examine the writing closer—
—and the flame trembled violently.
A quiet scrape echoed behind him.
Aren turned.
The archive door—
the heavy iron gate he had locked—
was open.
But no footsteps had approached. He would've heard them. The air was too still.
There was no one.
No one… but something.
The lantern dimmed, shadows stretching unnaturally long across the stone floor.
A voice—not heard, but felt—whispered through his mind like a cold finger tracing his thoughts.
—Bearer… open it…
Aren steadied his breathing.
"I am not opening anything," he said softly but firmly. "State your intent."
The whisper chuckled. A sound like dry leaves scattering.
—You bear a fragment that belongs to us. The First Door awaits. Come, and you may see… what you were meant to be…
Aren stepped back. His body felt weightless, as if the world around him had thinned.
Yet his mind stayed sharp.
"Why now?" he asked. "Why appear so soon?"
Silence.
Then—
—Because the Wilds have smelled you. And they hunger.
The lantern flickered out.
Darkness swallowed the archive.
Aren didn't panic. His posture tightened, senses sharp. But his heart stayed steady. Fear made the mind sloppy; he had no interest in sloppy.
His eyes slowly adapted.
Shapes formed.
Shadows morphed.
And at the far end of the archive corridor…
something impossible had appeared.
A door.
A tall, jet-black slab standing upright where there had been nothing but stone grid shelves. It was seamless—no cracks, no hinges, no handle. Just… there. Absurdly silent.
Aren felt his heartbeat align with something inside that door—an echo of the fragment within him.
The warning from the book resurfaced in his mind:
"Do not open it.
Do not seek the handle."
The door had no handle.
But Aren understood the implication.
It would open for him if he wished it.
He approached slowly.
Each step felt like stepping into colder air. His breath fogged. Frost crawled across the floor near him, faint but unmistakable.
The door vibrated faintly, as if sensing him.
—Approach, Bearer…
Let us see your resolve…
Aren stopped an arm's length away.
He could feel—more than hear—something pressing against the other side. Not struggling to break through. Merely waiting. Patient.
Predatory.
Aren closed his eyes.
He inhaled deeply.
Then he spoke, voice calm, steady.
"I won't open a door when I don't know the price."
The whisper fell silent.
Air thickened.
The frost paused mid-spread.
Then—
—Wise… for now.
The door shivered once…
and dissolved into dark smoke.
The lantern flickered back to life on its own.
Aren exhaled slowly, grounding himself.
He was beginning to understand something crucial:
The Sigil wasn't just power. It was a signal.
A beacon.
And the things behind the Veil had noticed.
Footsteps echoed at the top of the stairs.
"Aren? Are you down there?" Lyrie's voice called, slightly tense.
Aren closed the record, grabbed the lantern, and went to meet her.
As he climbed the stairs, he found her gripping a hunting knife, her expression uneasy.
"Aren," she whispered. "Something is outside the walls. The guards heard… breathing. Too heavy for any beast we know."
Aren's eyes sharpened.
The presence he sensed earlier… it was making its move.
"Did anyone see it?" he asked.
"No. Every time someone looks, it's gone. But the sound… and the shadows…"
She swallowed.
"It feels like something is circling Feyrwell."
Aren thought for a moment. "Don't go anywhere alone. And tell Elder Rhan to gather the Oath-Keepers."
"Aren… what about you?"
"I have to verify something."
Lyrie hesitated. "You're not planning to go near the walls, are you?"
Aren didn't answer. His silence was all the confirmation she needed.
"…Please be careful."
He nodded once.
Outside the Hall, the settlement was eerily still. Torches sputtered, reacting to a wind that didn't exist. Aren walked to the western wall, senses tense but focused.
The night beyond was pitch black—too dark. The Ashen Wilds usually glowed faintly with its silver fungi and drifting spores.
Tonight, nothing glowed.
As if something had swallowed the light.
Aren placed his hand on the cold stone wall.
And the Sigil inside him opened—
just a little—
like a slit in a curtain.
His vision blurred…
And he saw it.
A shape in the distance.
Tall.
Bent.
Pale limbs too long for any natural creature.
Fingers scraping lightly along the earth as it moved.
A head that twitched with unnatural angles, as if sniffing the air.
But its eyes—
if they were eyes—
were fixed directly on him.
Aren felt no panic.
Only a calm, cold clarity.
The creature reacted.
It froze.
Then slowly straightened.
As if recognizing him.
As if answering the same "signal" he carried.
Then—
It began to walk toward the walls.
Each step a soft thud felt in Aren's bones.
He exhaled slowly.
"So you sensed me."
The creature halted.
The hair on Aren's arms rose.
Then the creature did something that made even his steady heart skip.
It smiled.
A wide, silent, unnatural smile stretched far beyond what a mouth should allow—as though its face were only imitating the idea of one.
Aren whispered, "What are you?"
And its silent lips moved.
Forming a word he did not hear with ears…
but understood with the Sigil inside him:
"Precursor."
Aren's eyes narrowed.
Then the creature dissolved into pitch-black particles and vanished.
Leaving only silence…
and a world that had just become far more dangerous than Feyrwell ever imagined.