The mountain had never been called by its true name.
Among the villagers, it was simply The Old One—a jagged mass of stone and mist that loomed beyond the fields, watching silently as generations were born and buried. Hunters avoided it. Shepherds turned their flocks away from its shadow. Even the elders spoke of it only when forced to.
But now, as Arel stood at the village edge with a small pack slung across his shoulder, he understood why.
The mountain was alive.
Not in the way animals breathed or trees swayed, but in a deeper, older sense. The air around it pulsed faintly, as though the land itself had a heartbeat. With every throb, Arel's mark responded, glowing warmly beneath the wrappings around his palm.
"You feel it," the voice said within him.
Arel flinched. "Stop appearing without warning."
A low, almost amused hum echoed in his mind. "You will grow accustomed to many things you dislike."
Arel tightened the straps of his pack. Inside were dried food, a skin of water, a short blade, and a charm Elder Kaem had pressed into his hand before sunrise—a carved circle marked with ancient runes.
"For grounding," the elder had said. "In case the heavens try to pull you apart."
Comforting words.
The village faded behind him as he began the climb. With every step, the sounds of the world changed. Birds were scarce. Insects silent. Even the wind seemed reluctant to follow him upward.
"How long has the First Gate been sealed?" Arel asked, partly to distract himself from the growing pressure in his chest.
"Since the end of the Great Fall," the Guardian replied. "When mortals sought to steal what they were not meant to hold."
"What happened?" Arel pressed.
Silence stretched.
Then: "The sky burned. The seas rose. Entire names were erased from time."
Arel swallowed. "And you expect me to walk into that?"
"You were born already walking toward it."
The path grew steeper, winding through broken stone and twisted roots. At times, Arel swore the rocks shifted beneath his feet, subtly rearranging themselves—as if the mountain were testing him.
By midday, the sky darkened unnaturally. Clouds spiraled above the peak, forming a slow, endless rotation. Light flickered within them, not lightning, but something steadier—like a lantern turning behind thick glass.
Arel's mark flared sharply.
He cried out, dropping to one knee.
"They're close," the Guardian said.
"Who?" Arel gasped.
"Those who hunt the gates."
Before Arel could ask more, the ground ahead split with a thunderous crack. Stone burst upward, forming a jagged ridge across the path. Dust filled the air.
From the haze emerged figures.
Three of them.
They wore dark, fitted armor etched with symbols that made Arel's eyes ache to look at for too long. Their faces were hidden behind pale masks, smooth and expressionless. Each carried a weapon that seemed wrong—metal that reflected light like water.
Gate Seekers.
The stories rushed back to Arel: servants of fallen orders, roaming the world to claim fragments of heaven's power. The elders had said they were myths.
The tallest of the three stepped forward. "The First Gate has awakened," a distorted voice said from behind the mask. "And so has its key."
Arel's heart hammered. He reached instinctively for his blade, though his hands shook.
"I'm not a key," he said.
The figure tilted its head. "All vessels say that."
The air thickened suddenly, pressing against Arel's chest. His knees buckled.
"Run," the Guardian commanded.
Arel didn't argue.
He turned and sprinted uphill, lungs burning as the mountain roared behind him. Stone shattered. Something whistled past his ear, slicing the air where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.
The path narrowed into a ravine. Arel dove into it, sliding down loose gravel and barely stopping himself from tumbling over the edge.
He landed hard, pain exploding through his side.
Footsteps echoed above.
"End this quickly," one seeker said. "The gate grows impatient."
Arel's mark burned hotter than ever, the pain sharp and unbearable.
"I can't," Arel whispered. "I don't know how."
"You do," the Guardian replied. "You're afraid to listen."
The footsteps drew closer.
Arel squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the heat in his palm. Not fighting it. Not fearing it.
Accepting it.
The world shifted.
Suddenly, he was somewhere else—not the ravine, not the mountain. He stood in a vast hall of light and stone. Before him rose an enormous structure: a circular gate carved with countless symbols, each one glowing faintly.
Chains of pure radiance bound it shut.
"This is the First Gate," the Guardian said, now visible—a towering figure formed of light and shadow, eyes like distant stars. "And this is as close as you may come… for now."
"What am I supposed to do?" Arel asked, awed and terrified.
"Listen."
A sound filled the hall—a deep, resonant hum. It vibrated through Arel's bones, through his thoughts. Images flashed before him: cities rising, falling; humans wielding power that bent reality; skies tearing open.
And then—choice.
"You are not here to open the gate," the Guardian said softly. "You are here to stabilize it. To keep it from tearing the world apart."
"How?" Arel demanded.
The Guardian extended a hand. "By becoming its anchor."
Pain unlike anything Arel had known tore through him as the mark on his palm flared blindingly bright. The chains around the gate shimmered, reinforcing, locking more tightly into place.
The hall shattered.
Arel gasped as he was thrown back into his body. The ravine shook violently. Light erupted from his wrapped hand, blasting upward in a column that split the sky.
The Gate Seekers screamed.
A shockwave rippled outward, hurling them back like broken dolls. Stone melted where the light touched. The mountain groaned—then fell silent.
Arel collapsed, exhausted, smoke curling from his palm.
When he looked up, the seekers were gone. Only scorched ground and shattered rock remained.
The sky slowly returned to normal.
Far above, the clouds stilled.
The First Gate slept once more.
"You've done well," the Guardian said, its voice fading. "But this was only a whisper of what's coming."
Arel pushed himself to his feet, trembling.
"How many gates?" he asked quietly.
"Ten," the Guardian answered. "And now that one has awakened, the others will follow."
Arel stared at his hand, the mark now permanently etched in radiant gold.
Somewhere in the world, other chosen ones were waking.
And not all of them would choose to protect the gates.
The mountain exhaled.
And the journey has truly begins...