Days turned into weeks, and Elara kept the marked stone and the strange symbol on her hand a secret. The visions had faded, but the feeling of something momentous stirring in the world lingered. One crisp morning, a shadow fell over Oakhaven. A rider, clad in black armor that seemed to absorb the very light, sat astride a magnificent raven-winged steed at the edge of the village. A hush fell over the bustling marketplace as the Raven Knight, as the villagers fearfully whispered, dismounted. His face was hidden behind a polished visor, reflecting only the anxious faces of the villagers.
He moved with an unnerving grace, his gaze sweeping across the thatched roofs and the huddled figures. Finally, his attention settled on Elara, who stood frozen near the well. He approached her, his footsteps silent on the dusty ground. A gloved hand reached out, not in aggression, but in a gesture that somehow conveyed both authority and a profound sadness. "Elara of Oakhaven," his voice was a low, resonant murmur that seemed to carry the weight of ages, "the time has come. The Shadow stirs, and the Stone has chosen."