The scent of burnt toast wafted through the sun-drenched kitchen, chased by the sharp clatter of a wooden spoon hitting a copper pot. Outside, birdsong tangled with the rustle of wind-brushed vines as sunlight spilled over rolling green hills, painting gold onto the cobbled streets of Eldhollow.
A village so small it didn't have a wall, yet so old its name appeared in tomes buried deep within the Grand Archives of Velnor's Spire.
"I swear by the Seven Winds, if you burn the toast one more time—"
"—Then you'll what?"
Riven spun, wooden spoon in hand, to face the culprit. His wife, Miren, was laughing, one hand on her swollen belly, the other cradling a blue ceramic cup. Her smile still made his chest ache in the best way.
"You'll cast another kitchen ward that explodes every time I touch the oven?" she teased. "Don't think I forgot last spring."
"That was an experiment!" Riven said, placing a protective hand over the charred toast like a knight shielding a fallen comrade. "Besides, you didn't catch fire. Technically."
A high-pitched giggle erupted from the table. Their daughter, Elira, all of eight years old and missing one front tooth, clapped her hands. "Mama was smoky! Like Grandfather's pipe!"
Miren raised an eyebrow, her smile twitching at the corners. "I'll let you explain that to the village matrons."
Riven surrendered, tossing the toast to the chickens outside through the open window. "Breakfast is now a picnic, apparently."
---
The Emberhearths, as the villagers called them, lived in the last house before the grass gave way to the old woodlands—where the trees grew too close and whispered to one another in a tongue older than civilization. Their home was made of weathered oak and stone, tucked beneath a roof that had once been green with moss but now shimmered faintly with dormant runes.
Everyone in Eldhollow knew Riven Emberhearth. He was not the mayor, not a guildmaster, not even a merchant. Just a father, a husband, a former student of Velnor's Spire turned… gardener. Sort of. His neighbors still whispered, though never unkindly, about the man who'd once chased fire elementals through the lecture halls and now enchanted rain barrels to hum lullabies.
But magic in Eldhollow was like mist—present, soft, and seldom grasped. Most folks preferred their lives mundane and solid.
Except Elira.
"Papa," she said between bites of bread and honey, "will you show me the runes today?"
Riven hesitated. The question had become more frequent lately.
"It's too soon," Miren said softly, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Her Sight's not yet open."
"But it twitches," Elira insisted, mouth sticky with honey. "When I close my eyes. Like bubbles behind my eyelids."
Riven's smile faltered, though only slightly. That description—bubbles behind the eyes—was an early sign. The first ripple in a still pond.
"That means something, doesn't it?" she pressed.
"It means," Riven said, placing a hand on her head, "that maybe, just maybe, the world is getting ready to speak to you."
She grinned, triumphant, and ran out the door barefoot.
---
Later, in the garden, Riven sat beside the humming barrel and let his thoughts drift. The grass here was laced with silvertongue root, a minor flora that sang when the wind passed. He'd sown it after Miren's first miscarriage, when the house felt too silent. Now the garden murmured gently at all hours, like an old friend clearing their throat.
There was magic everywhere, if you looked. Not the kind from fables—not lightning bolts or dragons in every sky. Magic was a quieter thing now. It threaded through roots, whispered from stones, curled around the bones of the world. Old magic. Wild magic.
And yet, Riven knew that deeper veins pulsed far beyond the hills of Eldhollow. He had seen them. Studied them. Once, long ago, he'd even drawn from them.
But that was a past life.
He stood and moved to the edge of the garden, where the grass turned to bramble and beyond that, forest. His eyes tracked the skyline. Far to the east, obscured by the morning haze, stood the faint silhouette of the Sunspire Mountains. Nestled at their base was the Spire of Velnor, the largest seat of magical study in the known world.
And above it—if one looked closely—floated the edge of something vast and impossible: a drifting city of stone and crystal, caught in the firmament like a bird trapped mid-flight.
Skyreach.
He hadn't spoken of it to Elira yet.
He hadn't spoken of it to Miren in five years.
---
That night, as the hearth flickered and the fire warmed the floorboards, Riven opened an old tome. Not a grimoire. Not anymore. This one was bound in plain leather and filled with drawings.
Crude renderings of sigils, maps of constellations, and sketches of wild creatures.
And on the final page: a tree.
Massive, ancient, its roots sprawled in all directions like rivers, its branches reaching toward unseen heavens. Etched into the bark were glyphs from a tongue Riven once nearly lost his mind trying to decipher.
The Aetherstem.
The first source. The myth that magic had not been born, but grown.
And somewhere in the world—beneath oceans or deep within untraveled lands—the Aetherstem still pulsed. Some said it had leaves that shimmered like starlight. Others said it was dead, and the magic we used now was only the smoke from its burnt core.
Riven believed neither. But he felt it. The same way Elira felt bubbles behind her eyes. The stirrings of something vast. Something waking.
---
The next morning, everything changed.
He awoke not to birdsong, but silence. Dense and unnatural.
Elira stood by the window, wide-eyed. "Papa… the trees are moving."
He followed her gaze.
The forest beyond the bramble wasn't whispering anymore.
It was leaning.
Every tree, every branch—angled unnaturally, as if pulled by invisible strings, all bending toward the house.
No wind.
No sound.
Just the slow, deliberate inclination of an entire woodland... watching.
---
Elsewhere…
In the Cloudfast Dominion of the Northern Skies, a monk knelt upon glass-like stone, scrawling a prophecy that burned as it was written. High above, the stars blinked out—one by one—replaced by runes so ancient even the gods had forgotten them.
In the Blacksteel Markets beneath the Crimson Dunes, a boy with no tongue whispered the name of a tree that had never been spoken aloud.
And in the Depths of Qindral, where the ocean folds back on itself and water breathes like lungs, something bloomed. A flower of light. A scream in color. A message across magic itself.
---
Back in Eldhollow, Miren touched her stomach, eyes going distant.
"It's not… just you anymore," she said to Riven. "She's dreaming too loudly."
"You mean Elira?"
"No," she whispered. "The one not yet born. He sees things. In symbols. Wakes me with hands of flame and speaks with no voice."
Riven's mouth dried.
"He?"
"I think…" Her breath hitched. "I think he's remembering things that haven't happened yet."
In this world, magic is drawn not from energy, but meaning—the essence behind symbols, memories, and resonances in the world's vast, semi-conscious weave. Known as the Loom, the magic of this world does not obey strict spells, but rather interprets the intent behind the symbols a caster channels.
There are three primary schools:
1. Threadweaving – The act of binding intent to physical objects, used by craftsmen, gardeners, and builders. A Threadwoven ladder might not just hold weight—it remembers holding you.
2. Glyphbinding – Using ancient and personally-created symbols to interact with the Loom. Each glyph is unique to the person who created it. The same glyph in different hands can have entirely different effects.
3. Echocraft – The rarest, most dangerous form—channeling future memories or echoes from possible timelines to shape outcomes. Practiced only by those who walk the Veil, a metaphysical reflection of the world that moves half a heartbeat behind reality.
Riven was once all three.
Now, he's something else.
Or so he hopes.
But the Loom never forgets.
---
As night fell, the forest straightened again, as if satisfied. Riven stood at the threshold, shielding his family, a spoon in one hand and a whisper on his lips.
"Don't make me come back," he said softly.
Because if the Loom had truly begun to stir again—if Elira was starting to hear its pulse, if the unborn child saw paths yet walked—then the world was no longer safe.
And it had only just begun.