The stars were weeping again.
Karl jolted upright in bed, chest rising and falling with sharp, uneven breaths. Sweat clung to his skin despite the early morning chill. His eyes darted to the window — the sky outside was still dark, dusted with the faint glow of dawn. But the image in his mind remained vivid:
A man with silver eyes, kneeling in ash.
A relic pulsing with forgotten light.
And a voice, ancient and aching, whispering something he couldn't understand.
He exhaled slowly and rubbed his face.
Just a dream.
Again.
But it never felt like one.
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled aside the collar of his shirt, fingers brushing against the center of his chest. The skin there felt warm — not visibly marked, but beneath it, he could feel it. A shape. Wings, maybe. Spreading out from a center point like they'd been burned into him from the inside.
He'd stopped asking about it years ago. The old healer in the village just called it stress. But Karl knew better.
This wasn't something from this life.
It was something that had been left behind.
The floor creaked under his feet as he stood and stretched. Outside, the first rays of light kissed the fog rolling in from the mountains. The valley always felt calm this time of day — too calm, sometimes.
"Karl!" a voice yelled from below.
It was loud, high-pitched, and absolutely annoying.
He winced.
"Up already," he muttered. "I really need to move my bed further from the window."
The voice returned, more smug this time.
"Your face won't fix itself, pretty boy! Don't make me come up there!"
Karl sighed.
That would be Mira. Early riser. Too much energy. Loud enough to wake the dead.
And possibly the reason he'd need hearing restoration magic before turning twenty.
He dressed quickly — simple tunic, dark trousers, worn boots — and fastened the leather strap around his wrist. It was a habit more than anything. A part of him liked the quiet pressure of it, like it was keeping something inside him still.
As he stepped outside, the village opened before him — small, sleepy, and peaceful. Thatched roofs. Cobblestone paths. Mist curling around the woodposts like morning ghosts.
But he didn't see peace.
He saw ruins.
Collapsed spires. Cracks in the sky. Ash where snow should be.
Not here… but somewhere.
"Karl!" Mira waved from the training square, half her tunic unbuttoned and one boot missing. "You look like death! Again."
He gave her a tired look. "You say that every morning."
"Because you look like that every morning."
Her laughter echoed across the stones. There was something warm about it — chaotic, but grounding. He didn't know how she always managed to stay light when the world felt so heavy.
Maybe she was too normal. Or maybe she just didn't remember anything she shouldn't.
Unlike him.
As they began warmups, the elder instructor approached. Master Fen was older than stone, it seemed, with one blind eye and a limp that came from "a duel with a boar twice his size" — a story that changed every time he told it.
But today, even Fen's smile was tense. He studied Karl for a moment too long, then muttered something to himself and walked away.
Karl frowned.
He felt it too.
The air. It was… wrong today.
And somewhere — far beneath their feet — something pulsed once.
A relic.
Waiting to be remembered.