The village did not sleep that night.
By dawn, fear had settled into every home like ash after a fire. Doors were barred. Mothers pulled children close. The elders gathered beneath the sacred iroko tree, their faces drawn and pale.
Arel stood apart.
Whispers followed him wherever he moved.
"It's him."
"The mark…"
"The gate chose him."
He clenched his glowing palm and wrapped it in cloth, but it was useless. The light bled through, faint yet unmistakable—like a heartbeat that refused to be silenced.
Elder Kaem struck his staff against the earth. "Enough," he said, though his voice trembled. "Bring the boy forward."
Arel obeyed.
"You were born during the Night of Falling Stars," Kaem said slowly. "We hoped the signs were wrong."
"What signs?" Arel asked.
Kaem hesitated, then nodded to another elder, a woman bent with age and secrets.
"The First Gate does not open for kings or warriors," she said. "It opens for vessels. For those whose souls can endure heaven's weight."
Arel swallowed. "I didn't ask for this."
"No one ever does," Kaem replied.
Suddenly, the air thickened. The same ancient pressure from the night before returned. Arel's mark burned hot.
"You are running out of time," the voice said inside his mind.
The Guardian again.
"What do you want from me?" Arel whispered.
"Go to the mountain," the voice answered. "The First Gate is unstable. Others will feel it—hunters of power, servants of ruin. If they reach it before you, the world will bleed."
Arel's breath caught.
Kaem's eyes widened. "You hear it, don't you?"
Arel nodded.
The elder straightened, resolve hardening his expression. "Then the old paths awaken. Prepare him."
"Prepare me for what?" Arel asked.
Kaem met his gaze. "For a journey beyond heaven… and the truth that some gates were never meant to be opened."
Far away, atop the silver-scarred mountain, something moved.
And it was watching him.