The port city of Aethelgard pulsed with restless life, a blend of salt, sweat, and song. Hawkers shouted prices with voices sharp enough to cut through the roar of the crowd, the clang of shipwrights' hammers rang like steel chimes from the docks, and the sea itself threw its endless rhythm against the seawalls below. Amid all this chaos, the world outside seemed alive, but in a quiet room overlooking the harbor, Anya Valerius fought another kind of storm.
She tossed and turned under the thin sheets, her brow creased, her lips moving soundlessly. Her dreams were no longer the familiar ones of sparring and sweat, of steel striking steel until her arms ached with satisfaction. Tonight, something else had invaded her sleep.
Flashes of war.
Blades humming with light.
Cries of triumph and desperation.
And through it all, that feeling again, that impossible, heart wrenching pull to protect, to fight for something that felt greater than herself.
Her eyes quivered behind their lids.
"No… not again,"
She whispered, her hand curling unconsciously as if clenching on a sword.
A light burst of energy rippled through the air around her. The oil lamp on the desk flickered, though no wind touched it.
Then she saw it, a sword gleaming like a shard of sunlight, its metal singing as if alive. The same vision, the same ache in her chest that had haunted her since the night she turned sixteen.
Her father's voice was indistinct in her mind.
"A true blade isn't forged by fire alone, Anya. It's forged by purpose."
She gasped awake, chest heaving. The city's morning bells had just begun to toll, soft and far away. Sweat dampened her neck. For a moment, she just sat there, eyes unfocused, heart pounding.
"Purpose,"
She whispered.
"What purpose could dreams have ?"
But deep down, she already knew this wasn't just a dream. She'd felt something like this once before, standing in Aethelgard's grand library, when her gaze had locked on a crumbling statue of a swordswoman from centuries past. The inscription beneath it had read:
> The Flame That Guarded the Dawn.
She'd felt it then, the strange, tingling recognition in her chest, as though her soul itself whispered, That was me.
Anya shook her head, trying to steady her breathing.
"You're imagining things,"
She muttered, splashing cool water from the basin onto her face. But when she looked up into the mirror, her reflection seemed… distant. The same crimson hair, the same fiery eyes, but behind them, something ancient stirred.
---
Far to the north, where the clouds hung low around the jagged peaks of Mount Serenity, the monastery of the Silent Path rested like an ancient memory carved into the stone itself. Prayer flags swayed lazily in the wind, their colors fading from centuries of sun and snow.
In the hall of the temple, one figure sat still.
Jian's posture was perfect, back straight, hands resting lightly on his knees, breath deep and measured. The rhythmic chant of the monks outside flowed through the air like water. For years, this peace had been his refuge.
Tonight, though, peace avoided him.
The visions had begun again.
At first, they were just flickers images that surfaced during meditation: a brilliant spear of light cutting through darkness, the clash of warriors whose steps shook the ground, a battlefield stretching beyond the horizon.
Now, they came sharper. More clear.
He saw a man, no, himself, cloaked in radiance, moving with the precision of flowing light. Every strike carried the weight of justice. Every motion burned with purpose.
Jian's breathing faltered.
"These aren't illusions,"
He whispered to the still air.
He felt the pulse of something within him, a deep, slumbering energy that resonated like a distant heartbeat.
At the doorway, Master Shen, his mentor, now appeared with eyes sharp for all his years.
"You're troubled, Jian."
Jian opened his eyes.
"I… saw something. Someone fighting."
The old monk studied him in silence.
"Not all battles are fought with the body. Sometimes the spirit remembers what the mind has forgotten."
Jian hesitated.
"Then what am I remembering?"
His lips curled into the faintest of smiles.
"Perhaps fate has started to whisper your name."
Jian looked down at his hands, steady, disciplined hands that had spent years mastering stillness. But now, they trembled slightly, as if straining against unseen shackles. He took a slow breath, trying to steady himself, but the whisper inside him only grew stronger.
---
Southward, beyond the mountains and the forest, the small village of Elaris stirred under the pale dawn. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. The scent of wildflowers and tilled earth hung in the air.
In a small wood cabin at the edge of the forest, Rhys dreamed of eagles.
They soared above him, their wings slicing through the clouds, the wind roaring in his ears. Below, the earth blurred, forests, rivers, and plains, all within reach of his spear.
Then the dream changed.
The spear in his hand was no longer the simple hunting weapon he'd carved himself. It glowed with a deep, azure light, alive and heavy with power. When he thrust it forward, the world itself seemed to shudder.
A voice echoed softly throughout the dream, calm and steady, yet commanding.
"The spear is not meant to kill… it is meant to protect."
Rhys jolted awake, gasping for air. Dawn light streamed through the window. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the images away.
"Same damn dream,"
He muttered, sitting up.
"What's wrong with me lately?"
A knock was heard at the door.
"Rhys! You awake, boy?"
It was old man Corvin, the village's seasoned hunter.
Rhys groaned and swung his legs out of bed.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm up."
Corvin chuckled when Rhys opened the door.
"You've got that look again. The one that says you've been dreaming about dragons or spirits."
"Eagles this time,"
Rhys said with a grin.
"And maybe a spear that glows. Don't ask."
Corvin's smile didn't falter, exactly.
"A glowing spear, you say?"
Rhys frowned.
"Why? You've heard of something like this?"
The old man stared out toward the forest, his weathered hands gripping his walking stick.
"Long ago, before even my grandfather's time, there was a man who carried a weapon like that. Said to have been blessed by the stars themselves. Protected these lands when monsters roamed free."
"Sounds like one of your bedtime tales,
Rhys said, half joking.
Corvin smiled wryly.
"Perhaps. But stories have their roots, lad. Remember that."
Rhys laughed and slung his bow over his shoulder.
"If destiny wants to hand me a magic spear, it better do it before breakfast."
As he stepped outside, a sudden flutter of wings drew his eyes skyward. A cluster of vibrant bluebirds filled the air, swirling in a dazzling formation before vanishing toward the mountains.
Rhys watched them, puzzled.
" Well that's strange …"
"Bluebirds this early?"
Corvin muttered.
"Haven't seen that in years."
The wind shifted. For a fleeting moment, Rhys felt something, like a spark beneath his skin, faint but undeniable.
He turned toward the far-off peaks and did not know why.
"It's like… someone's calling,
He muttered under his breath.
---
That morning, the skies above Aethelgard, Mount Serenity, and Elaris glowed faintly with the same ethereal light.
Three stars, bright, unwavering and lingered long after dawn, their radiance visible even against the sun's rising fire.
Their light reached across mountain and sea, threading invisible lines through the hearts of three young souls who had yet to meet a warrior, a martial artist, and a hunter.
Each awakening to echoes of something long forgotten.
The world was changing.
The past was awakening.
And destiny… began the whispering.