The village of Greyfen did not appear on most maps, and that was by design.
It lay in the shallow bend between two tired hills where the soil had long since given up pretending to be fertile. The houses were built low and wide, roofs bowed under years of wind and ash, their stones darkened by soot that no one bothered to scrub away anymore. Smoke lingered constantly in the air—not from industry or war, but from necessity. Fires burned day and night in Greyfen, because cold was the only enemy that never left.
Elysia Hawke had lived here all seventeen years of her life.
She knew every crooked path between the houses, every loose stone on the eastern ridge, every sound the wind made when it slipped through broken shutters at night. Greyfen was small enough that secrets rarely lasted, yet large enough that loneliness could thrive unnoticed.
On the morning the world changed, Elysia was carrying water.
The bucket was heavier than it looked—iron-rimmed, its handle biting into her palm as she walked back from the communal well. Her boots sank slightly into the mud with each step, the ground still soft from the night's frost thaw. The sky above was a pale, bruised gray, as if dawn itself were uncertain whether to arrive.
She welcomed the weight. It kept her thoughts grounded.
Around her, the village stirred reluctantly. A door creaked open. Somewhere, a child coughed. Old Master Renn's forge was already alive, the rhythmic clang of hammer against metal echoing faintly through the air. Life in Greyfen did not begin so much as it resumed, each day a continuation rather than a renewal.
Elysia adjusted her grip and kept walking.
She was tall for her age, lean in the way of someone who had grown accustomed to hunger without ever fully surrendering to it. Her dark hair was braided tightly down her back—not for beauty, but practicality—and her eyes, a strange gray-blue, were always watchful. Not fearful. Observant.
People noticed that about her.
"She sees too much," some said.
"She listens more than she speaks," others murmured.
Her mother had called it sense.
Her father had called it trouble.
Both were gone now.
The bucket sloshed as she reached their old house—still hers, though it no longer felt like home. She set the water down carefully, flexing her fingers as warmth rushed back into them. For a moment, she stood there, breathing in the familiar smell of damp stone and smoke.
Then she felt it.
Not a sound. Not a movement.
A pressure—subtle, vast, wrong.
Elysia straightened slowly.
The air had changed.
The wind, which usually scraped and whined through the village like an old beast, had gone still. Smoke from chimneys froze mid-curl, as though unsure where to drift. Even the forge fell silent, the ringing hammer cut short.
People began to notice.
A woman stepped into the street, frowning. A pair of children stopped arguing and stared upward. Somewhere, a dog whimpered and ran.
Elysia's heart began to pound.
She had felt strange things before—moments of sharp intuition, flashes of knowing she could never explain—but this was different. This felt like standing beneath an ocean suspended in the sky, waiting to fall.
Slowly, inexorably, the light dimmed.
Not darkness—something heavier. The sun blurred behind a veil of ash-colored clouds that had not been there moments before. The temperature dropped sharply, breath fogging the air.
Someone screamed.
Elysia turned toward the sound just as the ground trembled.
It wasn't an earthquake. The earth did not shake—it listened. A low, resonant hum rippled through the stones beneath her feet, through bone and blood alike. She clutched the doorframe, fighting the sudden dizziness.
Then the sky split.
A line of brilliant white tore across the heavens, jagged and alive, as if reality itself had cracked open. From it poured light—not warm, not blinding, but absolute. It illuminated every flaw, every scar, every hidden thing.
Villagers fell to their knees. Some prayed. Others wept.
Elysia could not move.
The light narrowed, focused—aimed.
At her.
The pressure intensified until breathing hurt. Her ears rang. The world receded, sounds muffled as though she were sinking underwater. She wanted to run, to scream, to deny whatever this was—but her legs would not obey.
A voice spoke.
It did not come from the sky, nor from the ground, but from everywhere—and from inside her all at once.
"Elysia Hawke."
Her name struck like a hammer.
She gasped, pain lancing through her chest.
"No," she whispered, though she didn't know to whom. "You're wrong."
The light flared brighter.
Images flooded her mind—cities burning, crowns shattering, armies kneeling, shadows stretching across continents. A tower of crystal and flame. A throne forged from starlight and bone.
Power.
Expectation.
Destiny.
She screamed then, clutching her head as the visions threatened to tear her apart.
"I don't want this!" she cried aloud. "Choose someone else!"
The voice did not answer.
Instead, something settled into her—heavy, ancient, immeasurable. A presence that knew her better than she knew herself. That weighed her worth, her fear, her defiance.
And chose her anyway.
The light collapsed inward, vanishing in a thunderclap that sent villagers sprawling. The sky snapped back to its dull gray. Smoke resumed its lazy curl. Sound returned all at once—shouts, sobs, chaos.
Elysia fell to her knees, gasping, hands pressed into the mud.
Her chest burned.
Her veins felt like fire.
And deep within her, something ancient and terrible had awakened.
Around her, the people of Greyfen stared in stunned silence.
Not at the sky.
At her.
Silence did not return gently.
It crashed back into Greyfen like a wave breaking against stone—voices overlapping, feet scrambling, prayers shouted in half-forgotten tongues. Someone laughed hysterically. Another retched into the mud. Children cried for parents who were standing only a few paces away, too shaken to respond.
Elysia barely heard any of it.
She was aware only of her own breathing—ragged, uneven—and the strange sensation beneath her skin, as though her blood had been replaced with something warmer, brighter. Her hands trembled violently when she tried to push herself upright.
She failed.
The ground seemed to tilt beneath her, and she collapsed forward again, palms sinking into wet earth. Heat radiated from her chest, pulsing in time with her heart. Each beat sent a dull ache through her ribs.
This isn't real, she thought wildly. It can't be.
A shadow fell across her.
"Don't touch her."
The voice was sharp, afraid.
Elysia forced her head up. Old Maelin—the midwife—stood a few steps away, clutching her shawl tight around her shoulders. Her face was pale, eyes wide and glassy.
"She's cursed," someone whispered.
"No," another argued. "She was chosen."
"Chosen by what?"
The murmurs spread like a sickness.
Elysia tried to speak, but her throat felt scorched. When she finally managed to rise to her knees, the movement sent a ripple through the onlookers. Several people stepped back instinctively.
She saw it then—the fear.
Not confusion. Not awe.
Fear.
"I didn't do this," she said hoarsely. "I don't know what happened."
Her words sounded thin, fragile against the weight of what they had all seen.
A man pushed forward through the crowd—Berrick, the miller. His face was flushed, jaw tight. "The sky tore itself open," he said. "And it called your name."
"I know," Elysia whispered. "I heard it too."
That was the wrong thing to say.
The space around her widened further, an invisible line drawn between her and the rest of Greyfen. She saw neighbors she had known her entire life avert their eyes. Others stared openly, as if trying to reconcile the girl they knew with the thing they feared she might be.
From the edge of the village came a new sound—hooves.
Elysia stiffened.
Riders emerged from the low mist beyond the eastern ridge, dark shapes moving with purpose. Not traders. Not wanderers. Their horses were armored, their cloaks marked with sigils Elysia did not recognize but somehow knew were old.
Too old.
A collective gasp rippled through the villagers.
"No," Maelin breathed. "They can't have felt it already."
Felt what?
The riders did not slow as they approached. Six of them, faces hidden beneath helms of blackened steel. One rode at the front, taller than the rest, his presence heavy as an oncoming storm.
Elysia's pulse thundered in her ears.
Something inside her reacted—stirred, restless. The warmth in her chest intensified, spreading outward. She pressed a hand over her heart instinctively.
The lead rider raised a fist, and the others reined in as one.
His gaze locked onto Elysia.
Even through the visor, she felt it.
Recognition.
"There she is," he said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the square. Smooth. Certain. Dangerous. "The Lumen stirs where she stands."
The word sent a shiver through the crowd.
"Lumen?" someone whispered. "That's just a story."
The rider dismounted, boots striking stone with finality. He removed his helm, revealing sharp features and eyes like cold embers.
"I am Ser Kael of the Eastern Reach," he announced. "By decree of King Oris Varlen, I claim the girl."
"No!" Maelin cried. "She's just a child!"
Ser Kael did not look at her. "She is whatever the Shattering made her."
He took a step forward.
Elysia scrambled back, panic clawing at her throat. "I'm not going anywhere," she said, though her voice shook. "You can't just take me."
Kael smiled faintly. "I can. And I will."
The warmth inside her surged violently, responding to her fear. The air around her shimmered, dust lifting from the ground as though gravity itself hesitated.
Kael's smile faded.
"Interesting," he murmured. "She doesn't even know."
Before anyone could react, Elysia screamed.
Not in terror—but instinct.
The force that answered was raw and uncontrolled. A blast of invisible energy erupted outward, throwing Kael backward and sending two riders crashing into the dirt. Stones cracked. Windows shattered.
The village square fell deathly silent.
Elysia stared at her hands, horrified.
"I didn't mean to," she sobbed.
Kael rose slowly, brushing dust from his armor, eyes blazing—not with anger, but hunger.
"Oh," he said softly. "Yes. You did."
He raised his hand, dark sigils igniting along his gauntlet.
"Bind her."
Before the spell could form, a horn sounded from the northern treeline—deep, sharp, defiant.
Kael's head snapped up. "What?"
From the trees emerged another figure, cloaked in travel-worn leather, sword already drawn. He moved with the ease of someone long accustomed to violence, his eyes scanning the scene with practiced speed.
He took in the riders. The villagers. The girl at the center of it all.
Then he smiled grimly.
"Looks like I arrived just in time."
Kael swore. "Blackthorn."
The man inclined his head slightly. "Ser Kael. Still serving tyrants, I see."
Elysia stared at the newcomer, heart pounding.
He met her gaze briefly—just long enough for her to see something there.
Not fear.
Resolve.
"Run," he said to her quietly. "When I say so."
The moment stretched thin, taut as a drawn bowstring.
Elysia's breath caught in her chest as she stared at the stranger who had spoken her name like an order. Alden Blackthorn—though she did not yet know it—stood between her and the riders with the casual readiness of a man who had learned long ago that hesitation got people killed.
Ser Kael recovered first.
"You should have stayed dead, Blackthorn," he said, dark magic crawling like living ink along his gauntlet. "This does not concern you."
Alden's grip tightened on his sword. The blade was plain, nicked and worn, but it hummed faintly, as if recognizing the threat before it. "Everything the Eastern Reach touches concerns me," he replied. "Especially when you start kidnapping children."
"She is not a child," Kael snapped. "She is a convergence. A fracture point. The Lumen itself bent to her will."
"That so?" Alden glanced sideways at Elysia. She was shaking now, knees barely holding her upright, eyes wide and luminous with something that had not been there this morning. "Funny. She looks terrified to me."
Elysia swallowed hard. "I don't know what I am," she said. "But I won't go with him."
Kael's eyes flickered back to her. "You don't get to decide."
The spell snapped into being.
Dark light lashed outward, a chain of shadow racing toward Elysia's feet. Alden moved instantly. He stepped into the spell's path, blade flashing as he struck the magic mid-arc.
The impact rang like thunder.
The shadow-chain shattered, fragments dissolving into black smoke. Alden skidded backward several paces, boots carving lines in the stone. He grunted, shoulders tensing.
"That's new," he muttered. "You've been practicing."
Kael drew his sword in response. The air around it warped, heatless flame licking along its edge. "You cannot protect her," he said coldly. "Not from what she is."
Alden planted his feet. "Watch me try."
The riders surged forward.
Chaos erupted.
Steel clashed against steel as Alden met the first rider head-on, parrying a downward strike and driving his shoulder into the man's chest. Another came at him from the side, blade flashing—but Alden twisted, catching the strike on his own sword and sending a kick into the rider's knee.
Elysia screamed as one of the fallen riders crawled toward her, helm cracked, eyes burning with zeal.
"Now!" Alden shouted over the din. "Run!"
She didn't think. She ran.
Her legs burned as she sprinted toward the narrow alley between the baker's ruin and the old watchpost. The village blurred past her—faces she recognized twisted with fear and confusion. Someone reached for her arm; she pulled free and kept going.
Behind her, magic detonated.
The shockwave lifted her off her feet and hurled her forward. She hit the ground hard, breath knocked from her lungs. Pain exploded through her shoulder, but adrenaline forced her onward.
Don't stop. Don't stop.
She scrambled up and fled into the trees.
The forest swallowed her quickly, branches clawing at her cloak, roots threatening to trip her with every step. She ran blindly, heart pounding, lungs screaming, tears streaking down her face.
She didn't know where she was going.
Only that she could never go back.
After what felt like an eternity, her legs finally gave out. She collapsed against a tree, sliding down its rough bark until she hit the forest floor. Her chest heaved as she fought for air.
Silence pressed in around her—deep, ancient, watchful.
For a moment, she thought she was alone.
Then footsteps approached.
She scrambled backward, panic flaring again, but Alden emerged from the undergrowth, breathing hard, blood running from a shallow cut along his brow. He scanned the forest before lowering his sword.
"They won't follow us far," he said. "Not without regrouping."
Elysia stared at him, disbelief and fear tangled together. "You—why did you help me?"
Alden hesitated.
"I don't like bullies," he said finally. "And I like tyrants even less."
She hugged her knees to her chest, trembling. "They said… they said I was something. That the Lumen—"
Alden's expression darkened. "Then it's worse than I thought."
He crouched in front of her, meeting her gaze. "Listen to me carefully. What happened today? That wasn't an accident. And it won't be the last time someone comes for you."
Her throat tightened. "I don't want this."
"Doesn't matter," he said quietly. "The world rarely asks permission."
She looked back toward the village, though she could no longer see it through the trees. Smoke rose faintly above the canopy.
"My home," she whispered.
Alden followed her gaze. "It was never safe," he said. "You just didn't know why."
Something shifted inside her then—not power, not fear, but resolve. Fragile and uncertain, yet real.
"What do I do now?" she asked.
Alden straightened, offering her a hand. "Now? You survive. You learn. And you stay one step ahead of King Oris Varlen."
She took his hand.
As he pulled her to her feet, thunder rolled distantly—though the sky above the forest was clear.
Far away, in a tower of obsidian and bone, a king smiled.
The game had begun.