The sky had always been gray above the outlying settlement of Feyrwell. Not the somber gray of storms, nor the soothing shade of clouds, but a color that looked empty—a tone that suggested the heavens themselves had forgotten what they were supposed to be. Children who grew up here would look to other nations' painted skies in books and assume them fiction.
In such a place lived a boy named Aren Astar, a quiet apprentice record-keeper—one who spent his days copying decrees, documenting trade ins, and organizing the dusty archive of the settlement's Hall of Oaths. Life in Feyrwell was uneventful, stagnant even, as if the world beyond did not care whether its people existed.
Aren preferred this quiet. Not because he feared conflict, but because he understood—better than most—that conflict in Feyrwell usually meant death.
For beyond the settlement's pale stone walls lay the Ashen Wilds, a region cursed since ancient times. The stories claimed that once a century, a "veil" would thin, and something would seep through the cracks of the world. Something unseen. Something hungry.
Aren had never believed those tales. But he had always kept a respectful silence toward them.
A respectful silence… and a persistent unease.
The unease began pressing against him more intensely that morning.
The gray sky flickered.
Not bright.
Not dark.
But alive.
Like a pulse.
Aren dropped the scroll in his hands. The ground beneath him seemed to echo the pulse, faint though undeniable—as if the land itself was reacting to whatever disturbed the sky.
Shouts arose beyond the Hall of Oaths.
A child screamed.
Then another.
Aren didn't hesitate. Quiet, calm, unassuming—yet always decisive when the moment demanded it. He hurried outside, cloak trailing behind him.
Feyrwell's square was filled with villagers staring upward like a congregation witnessing a god's descent.
That empty sky…
…was cracking.
Hairline fractures, thin as spider webs, spread across the air above the settlement, glowing faintly with a color no one could name. The cracks pulsed, the same rhythm he had felt in his bones a moment ago.
"What is happening…?" someone whispered.
"The Veil— the Veil is thinning!" cried Elder Rhan, the oldest of the Oath-Keepers.
Aren's breath slowed. Not out of fear, but measured focus.
The legends.
The century-old curse.
The unseen things.
He had copied the records countless times. He knew the pattern.
Today was exactly one century since the last recorded Veil Thinning.
He stepped forward, gazing at the anomaly. A faint hum resonated in his head—like a voice too distant to understand, yet too present to ignore.
The crack widened.
Something drifted through.
Not a creature.
Not a weapon.
A fragment of light, drifting like a feather, shimmering with instability—almost fading in and out of existence. It circled lazily before descending toward the square.
People backed away, terrified.
But the fragment drifted… toward Aren.
It hovered before him, inches from his face.
"Boy! Step back!" Elder Rhan called.
Yet Aren didn't flinch. His instincts screamed that running would be pointless. The fragment wasn't malicious… but it was intent.
The air around him tightened, like the space itself was holding its breath.
Then—
The fragment shot forward.
Straight into his chest.
Aren staggered, falling to his knees. His vision fractured with symbols—circles, spirals, lines forming patterns he had never seen. His breathing grew shallow, but he forced himself to remain conscious.
He refused to collapse.
He refused to appear weak.
He refused to give fear the satisfaction of taking hold.
A whisper slithered through his mind.
—Bear the Sigil…
Then silence.
When Aren opened his eyes, villagers were staring at him in fear—fear of him.
Elder Rhan trembled. "You… boy… what did the Veil mark you with?"
Aren didn't know.
But he felt it.
Something inside him—dormant but vast. A presence like a locked door in a silent room.
"Stand up, Aren!" a voice called.
It was Lyrie, a girl his age, a hunter's apprentice. She pushed through the crowd, supporting him by the arm.
"I'm fine," Aren said softly. Not a lie. A statement he chose to make true.
He stood.
The sky fractures dimmed, retreating as if satisfied with its offering. Within seconds, the cracks vanished. The gray sky returned to lifeless stillness.
People murmured.
"He's cursed."
"He's blessed."
"He'll bring ruin."
"He'll bring salvation."
Aren ignored all of it.
He turned to Elder Rhan. "What does the Sigil mean?"
Rhan swallowed hard. "If the legends hold true… it means you are now tied to the Veil. A Sign-bearer."
A title he had only seen in old, brittle texts.
A Sign-bearer… a being capable of channeling the unseen forces that seeped through the Veil. Many had gone mad. Others had vanished. None had lived peaceful lives.
"I see," Aren replied calmly.
No anger.
No panic.
No theatrics.
Just acceptance—and an ember of determination beneath it.
But as he took a breath to steady himself, a strange sensation crawled through his body. A pulse, faint but growing. Not painful—just alien.
His eyes flickered, and for a brief instant, he saw the world differently.
Shapes behind shapes.
Shadows with intent.
Lines of force running through the air.
And something at the edge of Feyrwell…
…watching.
The vision ended as quickly as it came.
A cold sweat crept along his spine.
The Veil was thinning sooner than expected. And the fragment had chosen him.
"Aren," Lyrie whispered. "Are you truly alright?"
"Yes," he answered. Again making it true through sheer will.
But inside, he knew the truth:
The world had shifted beneath his feet.
And something had awakened within him.
Something incomplete.
Something dangerous.
Something that would either destroy him…
or turn him into a force greater than anything Feyrwell had ever seen.
As the crowd dispersed reluctantly, Aren headed toward the archives. He needed answers—records, maps, anything that mentioned Sign-bearers. But before he could enter the Hall of Oaths, Elder Rhan called out:
"Aren Astar."
He turned.
Rhan's eyes were grave. "If the Veil chose you, then the world will not leave you in peace. Power seeks conflict. And conflict… seeks the weak."
Aren met the elder's gaze steadily.
"Then I'll stop being weak."
Rhan stared at him silently, as if measuring the weight of those words.
And for the first time that day, the old man's expression softened—not with hope, but a reluctant respect.
"If you truly mean that… then you must prepare. Tonight. Before the Wilds awaken."
Aren nodded.
He didn't know yet what had lodged itself within him—the fragment, the Sigil, the whisper.
But he would learn.
Not for glory.
Not for fear.
Not for the settlement that now eyed him with suspicion.
But because something ancient had chosen him.
And Aren Astar refused to let himself collapse under its weight.
As he stepped inside the Hall of Oaths, the gray sky outside dimmed further—not darker, but emptier, as if anticipating what was about to unfold.
Beyond the walls of Feyrwell, deep within the Ashen Wilds, something stirred.
A presence older than kingdoms.
Awakened by the same pulse that marked him.
And in a hollow whisper that rattled the distant trees, it spoke a single word—
"Found…"