The sky had not been black like this before. Even at midnight, there was always the faint glow of stars, a scattered reminder that the cosmos endured beyond mortal sight. But now, as Kael stepped out of the narrow doorway of his cliffside hut, the horizon bled gray and violet, like a wound in the heavens. No sun. No dawn. Just a pallid gloom that pressed down on the world with suffocating weight.
The wind carried a strange taste: metallic, faintly warm, and tinged with magic he could feel coiling in his chest. It hummed like the resonance of a stringed instrument tuned to some frequency beyond human hearing. Something had changed. Something terrible had come.
Kael flexed his fingers and felt the soft burn of the mark that had appeared on his hand that morning: a sigil glowing faintly like molten copper, twisting and spiraling in intricate patterns. It pulsed, almost alive, as if it had its own heartbeat.
He knelt, pressing his palm against the cold stone of the cliff. A spark leapt from the sigil into the air, small but tangible, lighting the fog around him in molten-orange threads. The threads wove into arcs, connecting with the rocks, the roots of the cliffside trees, and the tiny mist that clung stubbornly to the precipice. Kael swallowed hard.
"What… what is this?" he whispered, voice trembling.
The wind shifted, curling around him, and a voice rose from nowhere and everywhere at once — deep, resonant, and impossibly old.
"Kael… heir of the Luminarch line. You have been marked. The sun is gone, and darkness rises. Only you can restore the light."
He staggered backward, chest pounding. The voice was not coming from the wind, the cliffs, or the cliffs' birds. It reverberated inside him, vibrating through his bones, awakening something ancient and terrible within.
Kael's life had been ordinary in its smallness. Orphaned as a boy, raised by a cantankerous old fisherman on the cliffs of Lintara, he had thought the stories of "chosen blood" were nothing but fairy tales whispered to children. Yet the mark burned hotter now, crawling up his wrist like liquid fire, and Kael realized the truth he had feared all along: destiny had chosen him, whether he wanted it or not.
From the mist behind him, a soft rustle turned his attention. A figure emerged from the fog: tall, silver-haired, wrapped in flowing robes that seemed woven from moonlight itself. Her eyes glimmered faintly, like two slivers of reflected moon caught in shadow. She moved without sound, her steps hovering slightly above the ground, as if the fog itself carried her.
"You bear the mark," she said, voice low and musical, commanding yet calm. "I am Lyria, Guardian of the Moonlight Path. And you… Kael, are on the brink of awakening powers you cannot yet comprehend."
Kael stared, words caught in his throat. The orb of molten light hovering above his palm reacted, spinning faster, casting flickering shadows across the cliff. He felt an inexplicable pull toward Lyria, though fear clutched his chest.
"What… powers? Why me?" he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
She stepped closer. The wind curled around her like a cloak of living air. "Because the realms have chosen. The sun is gone. The Shattered Skylands tremble. Darkness grows unchecked, twisting forests, rivers, even the stars themselves. You are a Luminarch, Kael — the last heir capable of bending celestial energy. Without you, the world will fall."
The words were heavy, suffocating, but within Kael, the mark pulsed brighter, almost feverish. He extended his other hand, and the molten threads of light surged toward Lyria. She held up a delicate hand, and the threads stopped just short of her, coiling around her in ribbons of gold and silver.
"You must learn control," she said. "Not just for your sake, but for the lives that will depend on you. The mark is a key… and keys can open doors or unleash monsters."
Kael took a shaky breath. Around them, the fog shifted as if alive. Tiny creatures stirred — long-legged spiders with translucent wings, fox-like spirits with fur that glimmered like starlight, and birds with feathers of liquid silver. They watched him, curious, cautious. He realized the world itself had awareness, that life was waiting to see if he was worthy.
"What do I do?" he asked finally, voice trembling with awe and terror.
Lyria's silver hair glimmered in the dim, unnatural light. "First, you survive the awakening. Second… you learn. Your first trial will not be easy. The shadows have agents already at work — watching, testing, preparing. And some do not intend to wait for you to understand your gift."
Kael looked toward the horizon. The Shattered Skylands stretched beyond his sight: islands suspended in the void, rivers of stars weaving between them, forests clinging to cliffs like stubborn memory. Somewhere out there, the Astral Sea waited. Somewhere, the stolen sun's light had been captured, and somewhere, a darkness older than time itself was stirring.
The mark on his hand flared once, then twice, as if acknowledging its master. Kael clenched his fist, molten light spilling in tiny arcs. He swallowed hard, feeling something fierce awaken in his chest — fear, yes, but also a spark of determination.
"I… I will learn," he said, voice steadying. "I will fight. I will find the sun."
Lyria's eyes softened slightly. "Then we begin. The path will not be gentle. And the realms… will not wait for you to catch your breath."
The wind howled, and the fog shifted as if it were alive, reacting to his decision. Somewhere above, a single star flared in defiance, and the first threads of Kael's destiny began to weave across the Shattered Skylands.
The dawn would not come on its own. He would have to bring it.