In the shadowed valleys of Eldrath, where mountains pierced the heavens like the spines of ancient beasts, a small village clung to the edge of the world. Thornridge was its name, a cluster of stone cottages and thatched roofs nestled against the foot of Mount Vaelor, the tallest peak in the known lands. The air here always carried the faint scent of pine and damp earth, and the wind whispered through the trees as if sharing secrets older than time. Life in Thornridge moved slowly, governed by the seasons, the harvest, and the quiet fear of what lay beyond the ridge.
One day a child named Atlas was born on a night when the stars burned brighter than usual, or so the elders of the village claimed. His mother, a gentle healer named Lira, had labored through a storm that rattled the windows of their modest home. His father, Garrick, a blacksmith whose hands were scarred from years at the forge, had paced outside until the cries of a newborn cut through the thunder. They named him Atlas, not after any grand legend, but because Garrick once heard the name in a prophecy told by a wierd woman who met him one day in his forge. She described that the one who is crowned this name is destined to carry the world on his shoulders. It seemed fitting for a boy born under such a restless sky.
15 years later, Atlas stood taller and well built than most men in the village, his frame broad and strong from years helping his father at the anvil. His hair was dark with the ends being slight pinkish which he got from his mother, falling in uneven strands over eyes the color of crimson fire. He moved with a quiet purpose, speaking only when necessary, but his presence filled a room. People said he had his mother's kindness and his father's stubborn strength. Yet there was something else about him, something unspoken that made the village dogs whine when he passed and the fire in the forge burn hotter when he worked the bellows.
On the morning everything changed, Atlas woke before dawn, as he always did. The house was silent except for the soft breathing of his younger sister, Elara, curled up in the corner cot. She was the last gift his parents have left for him in this world before passing away three winters ago. First his mother to a fever that swept through the valley, then his father to grief that no hammer could pound away. Since then, Atlas had become the provider, the protector, the one who kept the roof mended and the hearth warm. Elara, only twelve, still believed the world was kind. Atlas intended to keep it that way for as long as possible.The siblings tried their best everyday to live happily with each other.
He stepped outside into the chill air, pulling his worn dark cloak tighter. The sky was a deep indigo, the first hints of light brushing the mountain peaks. He carried a bucket toward the well, his boots crunching on frost-covered grass. The village was still asleep, smoke just beginning to curl from a few chimneys. It was peaceful, the kind of peace that felt fragile, like thin ice over a deep river.
As he lowered the bucket, a low rumble rolled through the ground. At first he thought it was thunder, distant and harmless. But the rumble grew, deepening into something that vibrated in his chest. Birds erupted from the trees in a frantic cloud. The well water rippled violently. Atlas dropped the rope and turned toward Mount Vaelor.
High on the peak, where no one from Thornridge had ever climbed, a thin crack of crimson light split the darkness. It pulsed once, twice, then widened, bleeding into the sky like a wound. The air grew heavy, pressing down on his shoulders as if the mountain itself had shifted its weight onto him. He staggered, catching himself against the well's stone rim.He felt pressured but at the same time this feeling was somehow familiar in his mind but couldn't find why it feels like that.
From the cottages, doors began to open. Villagers stumbled out in nightclothes, faces pale with confusion and fear. Our old neighbour Marta clutched her shawl and pointed. Children cried. Someone shouted about the end of days. Atlas ignored them, his gaze fixed on the mountain. The crimson light was spreading now, threading through the clouds like veins like it was trying to go somewhere.
Then he felt it a sudden pull, deep in his bones, as though something ancient had reached out and hooked its fingers into his soul. His knees buckled. Pain flared behind his eyes, sharp and white-hot. Images flashed through his mind: crumbling stone towers older than the mountains, chains thicker than tree trunks snapping under impossible strain, a sky torn open by hands too vast to comprehend. And at the center of it all, a silhouette bent and its wings tucked beneath a weight that should have crushed the whole world itself.
Atlas gasped, falling to one knee. The visions vanished as quickly as they came, leaving only the echo of a voice not heard with ears, but felt in his blood. A single word, heavy as iron
Rise
He didn't know how long he knelt there. When awareness returned, Elara was beside him, her small hands gripping his arm. "Atlas? What's happening? I'm scared."
He forced himself upright, hiding the tremor in his limbs. "It's all right,El im here" he lied. "Just… something on the mountain. Go inside and close the door."
She hesitated, eyes wide. "You're bleeding."
He touched his eyes. His fingers came away red. He wiped it on his sleeve and gently pushed her toward the house. "Go. I'll be right behind you."
But he didn't follow. Instead, he walked toward the village square where the elders were already gathering. Elder Thorne, the oldest among them, leaned on his staff and stared at the mountain with a face carved from stone.
"That light," the old man muttered as Atlas approached. "I've heard of it before. In a old prophecy told by the Ancient witch of ruin."
Atlas kept his voice steady. "What does it say?"
Thorne's eyes, clouded with age, turned to him. "It means the old prophecies weren't just stories. The Seal is breaking."
A murmur rippled through the gathered villagers. The Seal. Every child in Thornridge grew up hearing whispers of it a barrier forged in the age of gods to hold back something too terrible to name. Most treated it as superstition, a tale to frighten disobedient children. But the elders never laughed when it was mentioned. Some told that a god or a dragon is holding the seal closed but no one knows the truth or have seen such things till now.
Atlas felt the pull again, stronger now, urging him toward the mountain. He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. "How long do we have?"
Thorne shook his head. "Days. Maybe less. When the Seal falls completely, what was bound will walk again. And the world will remember why it feared the dark."
One of the younger men, Bram the miller's son, scoffed nervously. "We should flee. Pack what we can and head south before—"
"Flee where?" Thorne cut in. "There is no south far enough. No wall high enough. The old writings say only one thing can stop it."
His eyes turned to Atlas.
He felt the weight of his stare like stones piled on his back. "What?" he asked, though part of him already knew.
Thorne's voice dropped to a whisper. "The Bearer. The one chosen to carry the Hope."
Atlas laughed once, a short, bitter sound. "You're saying that's me? Because of stupid name my father liked?"
"No," Thorne replied. "Because of the mark."
Slowly, as if in a dream, Atlas pulled aside the collar of his tunic. There, just above his heart, a faint pattern had appeared which was not there till now lines of golden and purple forming a circle broken by four radiating spokes. He is seeing it for the first time. It glowed faintly, pulsing in time with the crimson wound on the mountain.
Gasps rose from the crowd. Elara, who had disobeyed and crept closer, covered her mouth with both hands.
Thorne bowed his head. "The mark of hope. The one foretold to shoulder the burden when the earth and heavens cry."
Atlas stared at the mark, then at the mountain. The pull was unbearable now, a command he could not refuse. Every instinct told him to run, to grab Elara and vanish into the wilderness. But another part in him deeper and older knew running would change nothing and was futile. Whatever was waking up there would find them all, eventually.
He took a slow breath and firmed himself "What must I do?"
Thorne straightened, resolve hardening his features. "According to the prophecy, You must climb. Reach the Heart of the Mountain before the Seal shatters completely. There you will find the first fragment of Hope the spark that was hidden when the gods fell silent."
"And if I fail to do so?"
The elder's answer was soft, almost kind. "Then everything ends. Not just Thornridge. Everything."
Silence fell over the square, broken only by the distant rumble from the peak. Atlas looked at the faces around him neighbors he had known all his life, people who had shared bread and stories and grief. He looked at Elara, tears shining on her cheeks. He thought of his parents, buried beneath the old oak. He thought of the quiet mornings he would never have again. He can't let them die. He remembered the last words his mother told him
" Dear, you are born stronger and more blessed than others, so you have the responsibility to protect the weak. It is easy to be evil , selfish and unkind in this harsh world but it takes guts and grit to continue being good. I may not be there to witness it but i know my child is destined for greatness. Be good and protect your sister and the people of this world my dear child"
I can't disappointed my mother. I will do my best to help everyone in my life . This is the first step of many coming later on.
Finally, he nodded once.
"I'll go."
Relief and sorrow mingled in the crowd. Someone began to weep. Elara ran to him, burying her face in his chest. He held her tightly, memorizing the feel of her small arms around him.
Thorne placed a weathered hand on his shoulder. "You won't go unprepared. Take what you need from the village. We will give whatever we can."
Atlas gently pried Elara's arms away. "Stay with Elder Thorne," he told her. "Help where you can. Be brave."
She tried to speak, but only a sob escaped. He kissed her forehead, then turned toward home. There was little to pack: his father's old sword, his masterpiece. The blade was bluish and the hilt was a mix of black and red . He also took a waterskin, some dried meat and bread; the black cloak his mother had sewn. As he strapped the sword to his waist, his fingers brushed the mark on his chest. It was warm now, almost burning.
By the time the sun cleared the lesser peaks, Atlas stood at the edge of Thornridge. The path up Mount Vaelor began as a narrow trail used by shepherds, but higher up it became legend no one had returned from those heights in living memory. Behind him, the entire village had gathered to watch him leave. No one cheered. They simply stood in silence, faces etched with a grief too deep for words.
He did not look back. If he did, he might never take the first step.
The climb began gently, winding through pine forests where the air grew thinner and colder. By midday, sweat soaked his tunic despite the chill. The crimson light above pulsed steadily now, a heartbeat in the sky. With every step, the pull strengthened, guiding him as surely as any compass.
As evening fell, he reached the tree line. Bare rock stretched upward, jagged and unforgiving. The wind howled like a living thing, tugging at his cloak. He paused to drink, his throat raw, and looked down. Thornridge was a distant cluster of lights, fragile and small. He wondered if Elara was watching.
Then the voice came again, clearer this time, resonating through stone and bone:
Do not falter child . Move forward towards your destiny
Atlas tightened his grip on the sword hilt, squared his shoulders, and continued upward into the gathering dark. Somewhere above, the first trial waited. Somewhere above, the fate of the world balanced on the strength of one young man.
The tale of Atlas had only just begun.