The wind howled through the cracks of the Dreadfall Outpost like a living thing. Kaelen Ardyn pulled his cloak tight around himself, the rough material scraping against his forearms. He looked out over the jagged rocks that marked the edge of the Shattered Marches. A storm brewed over the distant mountains, thick clouds boiling up like smoke.
Kaelen had always been a man who felt... different. Not stronger or quicker than the others in the outpost. Not yet. But there were moments. Little sparks that set his nerves aflame. A flicker in his fingers when he touched stone. A shiver that ran up his arm as he faced the unknown. Kaelen had always thought it was just fancy. Thought he was alone on the edge of the human kingdoms. But he knew. Deep down. He knew.
A scream pierced the morning air.
Kaelen stood transfixed, his heart pounding in his chest. The watchtower of the outpost seemed to tremble as a figure ran by in the shadows – a bandit, or worse, a hybrid creature said to inhabit the Marches. Fear built up inside Kaelen like a living entity. He saw Old Taren, the outpost's blacksmith, trapped under a fallen beam with his arm crushed and his face contorted with pain. Kaelen ran towards him, his feet seemingly flying across the ground as he moved with unnatural speed.
And then it happened.
A burst of heat and light shot out from his hands as his fear reached a peak. Rocks kicked up in all directions as the wind spun in a mad dance, and the earth shook beneath his feet. Kaelen stumbled but did not fall as something inside drove him forward – something raw and uncontrolled. He felt it building inside his chest – an energy that seemed to burn with an inner fire, sharper than his fear, sharper than his thoughts.
The bandits dispersed, their faces contorted in shock. A chunk of the wooden barricade broke off, crashing to the ground. Kaelen's hands trembled; sweat dripped into his eyes. Each breath burned his lungs. Each heartbeat sounded like the beat of a warhammer. But everything around him seemed to move in time with the rhythm of his fear. A gust of wind kicked up dirt and debris. Shadows danced in an unnatural way. The dying sunlight wavered over the jagged rocks as if it wasn't sure where it belonged.
He arrived at Old Taren. He lifted the heavy beam with strength he didn't know he had. Pain shot through his arms. His muscles burned as if they were on fire. But the beam lifted. Taren gazed up at him in awe and terror.
"What... what did you...?" the blacksmith question trailed off as he gazed up at Kaelen.
"I... I don't know," he admitted. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. He felt it. The cost. His chest heaved. His legs trembled. A dull ringing echoed through his head.
Shadows moved, giving chase to the fleeing bandits, and from the borders of the Marches, eyes shining brightly and alertly followed him. Kaelen did not notice, consumed as he was by the strange mix of emotions that coursed through him. It was a curse, a blessing, and something completely terrifying all at once.
He glanced at his hands, which were still shaking, still faintly sparkling with the leftover sparks. The wind had ceased. The world was standing still, holding its breath in silence. And yet, he could feel it. He could feel that he was being watched.
The first step had been taken. The awakening had begun.
Throughout all of this, the world had already changed, and he had no idea how dangerous that change would be.