The village of Vaelmoor woke slowly, as it always did—reluctantly, like an old man shaking off sleep. Dawn crept across the fields in pale strokes of silver-blue, brushing the tall grain until it glimmered like water. Smoke curled from the first lit hearths, thin and blue as the morning chill. Carts creaked. Chickens griped. Somewhere a hammer struck iron in clean, steady rhythm.
It was a peaceful place, by all appearances. A place untouched by war, though the war had raged for twenty-two years.
Elara Vaelen stepped out into the cold light, pulling her wool shawl tighter around her shoulders. Her breath fogged the air in front of her, proof of the night frost that still clung stubbornly to the grass. She brushed a curl of dark hair behind her ear and glanced toward the eastern fields. Her chores waited there, patient and unchanging. Vaelmoor itself changed little—each day was almost indistinguishable from the one before. That suited most of the villagers.
But not her.
A shiver trembled through her fingers. Not from the cold. From memory.
Her dreams had been worse last night.
Elara closed her eyes for a moment, trying to push away the echo of them—the red sky, the stone tower she had never seen but somehow recognized, and the voice whispering her name from behind a door she could never reach. It had been the same dream for months now, returning with growing insistence. Nipping at her like a hungry animal. She had never told anyone. Not her guardian, not the village priest, not even Mira, though Mira had been her closest friend since childhood.
The dreams felt dangerous. Like secrets meant to stay silent.
She exhaled slowly and started down the path. Her boots trod across frost, the crunch oddly loud in the quiet morning. Vaelmoor was not awake enough yet to drown out the sound. As she walked, villagers nodded to her. A few offered gentle smiles. Elara always returned them, though hers were smaller, almost shy.
She didn't mind being quiet. Quietness meant safety.
Safety meant no one looking too closely.
She reached the grain fields and took a moment to admire the way the sunrise painted the land in warm gold. These were her favorite moments—when the world felt vast yet soft, grand yet kind. Elara set down her basket, lifted her skirt hem slightly, and waded between the tall stalks.
The wind stirred. A whisper followed it.
*Elara…*
Her body went rigid. Her hand gripped the grain so tightly that it snapped.
"No," she whispered, barely audible. "Not now."
The voice drifted away. Not quite gone—never gone—but distant enough for her to breathe again. She forced herself to resume her task, stripping heads of grain and dropping them into her basket. Her fingers trembled for long minutes, but steadied eventually. They always did. Work helped. Routine helped. It grounded her in the world she knew: soil, sunlight, sweat.
She was nearly finished when she heard the clatter of hooves.
Elara straightened, shielding her eyes from the rising sun. Three horses approached along the northern road, all bearing the same colors—deep indigo cloaks clasped with iron pins shaped like crowns.
Crown's Guard.
Her heart lurched.
They almost never came this far south. Vaelmoor had nothing of value. Nothing strategic. Nothing worth sending trained soldiers for.
Unless—
Elara's throat tightened.
Unless they were looking for someone.
She ducked instinctively, crouching among the stalks. The grain hid her well enough, but she didn't move. Didn't even breathe deeply. Not until the horses slowed near the well at the village center.
She could hear their voices now. Not clearly, but enough to catch pieces.
"…reports from the marsh…"
"…signs of manifestation…"
"…the prophecy…"
Her veins turned to ice.
She had heard the word *prophecy* only a handful of times, spoken in hushed tones during winter gatherings or hurriedly between merchants passing through. It was always said with fear, never reverence. War Maiden, Chosen One, Harbinger—everyone used different names, but all spoke of the same legend: a girl born once in an age of war who would end it.
Not save the world. Not destroy it.
*End it.*
And people disagreed violently about whether that would be salvation or catastrophe.
A shout rang out from behind her. "Elara! There you are!"
She jolted. Mira strode across the field toward her, blond braid swinging, smile wide as ever—until she noticed Elara's expression.
"What's wrong?"
Elara swallowed. "Don't look toward the village."
Naturally, Mira did exactly that. Her eyes widened. "Crown's Guard? Here?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Elara hesitated. Mira's gaze snapped back to her, searching her face with sudden suspicion.
"Do you know why?"
"No," Elara lied quickly.
Mira frowned, but before she could say anything more, a voice boomed across the field.
"You there—girls! Come forward."
A Crown's Guard rider was trotting toward them, his armor catching the early light. Elara felt the world tilt under her feet. Mira grabbed her hand and whispered, "It's okay. We haven't done anything."
Elara wished she could believe that.
They stepped out of the grain together. The guard dismounted, boots sinking slightly in the softened earth. He scanned them both with sharp, assessing eyes.
"What are your names?"
Mira spoke first. "I'm Mira Linton. This is Elara Vaelen."
The guard's gaze lingered on Elara. Too long. Too intently. She felt exposed, as though the man could see straight through her skin to the fire she feared sleeping beneath it.
"How long have you lived in Vaelmoor?" he asked her.
"All my life."
"And before that?"
Elara blinked. "There was no before."
Mira stepped in defensively. "Her mother died when she was born. She was raised here by Hanan Vaelen. Everyone knows that."
The guard didn't look convinced. He took a step closer to Elara. "Show me your hands."
Her stomach twisted.
"My…my hands?"
"Now."
Mira squeezed her fingers in warning, then slowly released them.
Elara lifted her hands. They trembled ever so slightly. The guard seized her left wrist and turned her palm upward, examining the skin.
She knew what he was looking for: the mark. The rumored sign of the Maiden. A birth-scar shaped like a flame. Some said it glowed when she was near awakening. Others said it was invisible until the right moment. The stories contradicted one another endlessly.
Elara had no such mark.
But the guard looked too long anyway.
Finally, he dropped her wrist. She pulled her hand quickly back to her side.
"No sign," he declared loud enough for the others to hear. "Not this one."
Relief crashed over her so suddenly her knees almost buckled. Mira let out a breath she'd been holding.
Another guard rode by and called out, "The old man near the mill sent word of 'strange lights.' Did you find anything?"
The first guard shook his head. "Not yet. But they're close. I can feel it."
Elara's pulse hammered hard in her throat.
*They're looking for someone with power.*
Someone who caused strange lights.
She had done that—once, a year ago. A burst of heat during a nightmare, a flash that shattered a lantern and charred her wall. She had begged her guardian not to tell anyone. He never had. Or so she'd believed.
The guards gathered again by the well, conferring quietly.
Mira turned to her. "Elara…your dreams…"
Elara jerked her head up. "Don't. Don't say anything."
Mira pressed her lips together. "I won't. You're my friend. I just—"
A distant scream tore across the village.
Both girls spun toward the sound. A flock of birds scattered from the rooftops. The guards snapped to alert, hands flying to their weapons.
Smoke rose from near the northern houses.
And beneath it, a crackling flash—faint but unmistakably unnatural—lit the air red.
Elara went cold.
She knew that light.
The guards cursed and bolted toward the village, shouting orders. Villagers fled the opposite direction. Mira grabbed Elara's arm. "We have to go! Now!"
But Elara couldn't move.
Because the flash in the distance wasn't coming from her.
Someone else was manifesting.
Someone powerful.
Someone the Crown's Guard would kill or capture without hesitation.
And in her bones—in that deep, aching place where her dreams lived—Elara felt something awaken in response.
A pull.
A calling.
A warning.
Mira tugged her harder. "Elara! We have to run!"
Elara finally tore her gaze away from the rising smoke and let herself be dragged back toward the fields. But as they fled, a burst of red light erupted again—brighter, closer, roaring like an angry star.
The ground trembled.
The air rippled.
And deep within Elara's chest, something cracked open like a door.
Heat surged through her veins. Her vision blurred. The world tilted.
Mira shrieked her name
—but Elara barely heard her.
The fire inside her, long quiet, long denied, rushed upward like a tidal wave breaking free.
Elara fell to her knees.
And the sky above Vaelmoor turned briefly, impossibly red.