The first thing Daryn noticed was the silence. Not the silence of emptiness, but the kind that hummed with hidden life. The grass beneath him was damp with dew, cool against his palms. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird called, its cry sharp and unfamiliar. He sat up slowly, his head heavy, his chest tight.
The sky was wrong. The moon loomed impossibly large, its silver glow painting the hills in pale fire. It was beautiful, but it felt like an eye.....watching, waiting.
He pressed a hand to his temple. The last memory was fragmented: fire, the sound of shattering glass, his sister's scream. Her hand slipping from his. Then darkness.
Now, here.
"Where am I?" His voice cracked, swallowed by the vastness.
Below him stretched a valley. A city of marble towers rose from its heart, lit by torches and braziers. Music drifted upward—flutes, drums, voices chanting in a language he didn't know but somehow understood. The rhythm was reverent, ceremonial. Worship.
Daryn's stomach twisted. He had read of such things in myths, stories his world had long abandoned. Gods and temples, sacrifices and blessings. But those were tales. Weren't they?
A rustle behind him snapped him to his feet. His fists clenched instinctively.
A girl stood at the edge of the clearing. She wore a white cloak embroidered with silver threads that shimmered in the moonlight. Her staff was carved with lunar symbols, and her eyes—calm, steady, ancient—studied him as though she had been waiting.
"You've crossed the veil," she said softly. Her voice carried the weight of ritual. "Few do so and live."
Daryn swallowed. "I didn't cross anything. I just… woke up here."
The girl tilted her head, as if amused by his denial. "Then the goddess has chosen well."
He frowned. "Goddess?"
Her gaze lifted to the moon. "Selene. She has marked you. You are to stand in the Trial of Champions."
The words meant nothing to him, yet they struck something deep inside, like a bell tolling in his bones. He staggered back. "No. You've got the wrong person. I'm just—"
But even as he spoke, the moonlight thickened, wrapping around him like a cloak. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw a woman's face in the glow—eyes full of sorrow, lips whispering his name.
Daryn.
He gasped, clutching his chest. The vision vanished, leaving only the girl's steady gaze.
"You feel it, don't you?" she asked. "The bond. The curse. The blessing. Whatever name you give it, it is yours now."
Daryn shook his head. "I don't even know who you are."
She stepped closer, lowering her staff. "I am Lyra, priestess of Selene. And you, stranger, are no accident. The goddess has bent the laws of heaven for you. That makes you dangerous… and precious."
Her words chilled him. He wanted to deny it, to laugh, to run. But deep inside, something stirred—an ache that was not new but ancient, as though he had lived this moment before.
And beneath it all, one thought burned brighter than the rest: My sister. I have to find her.
If this goddess—Selene—had answers, he would endure whatever trial they demanded. Even if it meant standing in her arena.
"Come," Lyra said, turning toward the valley. "The city awaits. And the gods do not like to be kept waiting."
—
The descent into the valley was steep, the path winding through groves of moonflowers and trees with silver-veined leaves. Daryn walked in silence, his thoughts a storm. Lyra moved ahead with quiet grace, her staff tapping rhythmically against the stones.
As they neared the city gates, the music grew louder. The air shimmered with incense and magic. People in flowing robes moved through the streets, their faces painted with symbols of their patron gods. Statues lined the avenues—towering figures of marble and obsidian, each radiating power.
Daryn paused before one: a woman carved in silver, her eyes closed, her hands raised to the sky. The plaque read: Selene, Keeper of Cycles, Mother of Light.
"She's real," he whispered.
Lyra nodded. "And she watches you."
They passed through the gates, and the city swallowed him whole. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen—ancient and alive, sacred and strange. Temples rose like mountains, their spires etched with constellations. Markets bustled with offerings: moonstones, scrolls, vials of starlight.
But beneath the beauty, Daryn felt tension. Eyes followed him. Whispers stirred. He was an outsider, and they knew it.
At the heart of the city stood a great amphitheater, its arches glowing with lunar fire. Lyra led him to its steps.
"This is where the champions are named," she said. "Where the gods speak."
Daryn stared at the arena. It pulsed with energy, as if waiting for him.
"I didn't ask for this," he said.
"No champion ever does," Lyra replied. "But the gods choose. And Selene… she never chooses lightly."
—
That night, Daryn stood alone beneath the moon. The city slept, but he could not. The stars whispered. The wind carried voices he couldn't understand.
He looked up at the moon, and for a moment, he felt her gaze—Selene's gaze. A mother's sorrow. A goddess's will.
"I don't remember you," he said aloud. "But I think you remember me."
The moonlight flickered. A breeze stirred the trees.
And somewhere, deep within him, something began to awaken.