Morning in Kharrow always began the same way.
Mist crept low from the hills, clinging to rooftops and fences as if reluctant to let the village go. Roosters crowed somewhere unseen, their calls muffled by fog. Fires were lit one by one, thin lines of smoke rising like quiet prayers that never traveled far.
Aren Vale woke before the sun, as he always did.
He lay still for a moment on the narrow bed, listening. His father's steady breathing came from the other side of the room. The walls creaked softly as the cold shifted through old wood. Nothing was wrong. Nothing ever was.
And yet the feeling from the night before had not faded.
It sat in his chest like a stone—heavy, unmovable. Aren rubbed his palms together, half-expecting to feel warmth that wasn't there, some sign that the unease meant something. There was nothing. Just skin, bone, and breath.
He rose, dressed, and stepped outside.
The village path was already alive with routine. Old Meret was repairing the same broken fence he fixed every week. Children ran past carrying buckets too large for their arms. Life continued, stubborn and unaware.
Aren headed toward the woodline with his axe over his shoulder. His father joined him in silence, as he often did. Words were unnecessary between them; survival had its own language.
"Storm coming?" his father asked after a while.
Aren glanced at the sky. Gray, but calm.
"No," he said. Then hesitated. "Feels… strange, though."
His father grunted. "World's always strange if you listen too closely."
They worked until noon, the rhythm of chopping wood grounding Aren despite himself. Each strike was familiar, controlled. This was what he was good at—endurance, repetition, persistence. Not greatness. Not glory.
At midday, the village gathered near the square. An elder spoke of distant rumors—border conflicts, missing caravans, increased awakenings in the south. The words drifted over the crowd without landing. Such things belonged to other places.
Aren noticed something else.
The birds were gone.
By late afternoon, the fog had not lifted. It thickened instead, pressing inward. Dogs whined and refused to leave their yards. A low pressure settled over the land, subtle but undeniable.
Aren stood at the edge of the square, heart quickening.
He felt it again.
That same sensation from the previous night—like unseen eyes turning toward Kharrow. Toward him.
Far beyond the hills, something ancient adjusted its focus.
As the sun dipped and shadows stretched too long, Aren understood, with a clarity that frightened him:
This was the last ordinary day he would ever live.
The fog closed in.
And the world drew breath.