His body was drenched in sweat.
For several seconds, Iren could not tell which world was real—the one of fractured skies and warring Sages, or the quiet wooden room around him.
Morning light filtered gently through the cracks in the wall.
The steady rhythm of metal striking metal rang from outside.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The forge.
Reality returned.
He exhaled slowly, pressing a hand against his racing heart.
"The same dream… again."
He had seen it since childhood. The battlefield. The Sages. The rift.
Every year it grew clearer.
More detailed.
More real.
Iren stepped outside into the cool morning air. His village was small, poor, and unremarkable. Houses of wood and patched stone lined the dirt road. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys. Merchants argued softly over coin.
Behind their modest home, his father worked the forge. Muscles flexed beneath worn clothing as hammer met steel with practiced rhythm. His mother sorted tools nearby while his younger siblings chased one another across the courtyard.
Ordinary.
Painfully ordinary.
"I had the dream again," Iren said quietly.
His father paused mid-strike but did not frown.
"The one about the warriors?"
"Yes. The Sages. The rift. Monsters pouring into the world." He swallowed. "I've had it since I was small. Every year it feels closer."
His mother approached, brushing soot from her hands. There was no mockery in her eyes—only concern.
"Dreams are only dreams, Iren," she said gently. "Do not let them steal your peace."
"Focus on your own strength," his father added. "On the life in front of you."
They meant well.
They always had.
But before he could respond, laughter drifted from the roadside.
A group of boys leaned against a fence, listening.
"There he goes again," one sneered. "Talking about monsters."
"Maybe he thinks he's chosen," another laughed. "Shame he doesn't even have magic."
The words were casual.
But sharp.
In a world where children awakened abilities—wind, aura, elemental gifts—Iren had none.
No talent.
No sign of power.
Only dreams.
His fists clenched at his sides.
Heat stirred faintly within his chest.
Not explosive.
Not wild.
Just… present.
He looked up at the sky.
Clear blue.
Peaceful.
Yet somewhere deep inside, unease lingered.
The dream had never changed.
The sealing.
The warning.
The cost.
And for reasons he could not explain—
It felt like a memory.
Not imagination.
As the forge resumed its steady rhythm behind him, Iren could not shake the feeling that the peace surrounding his village was fragile.
And that soon—
Something would break it.