Shadows in the Streets
The night air was thick with mist as Caelan stepped out of the archives. The streets of Novus were quiet, the usual bustle of carts and merchants replaced by an eerie stillness. Lanterns flickered, struggling against the fog, casting fractured light over cobblestones slick with recent rain. He adjusted the satchel on his shoulder, feeling the faint weight of the glowing scroll pressed against his side.
Each step toward the edge of the city felt heavier, as though the night itself resisted his movement. The ruins called him, not with words, but with an ache in his chest, a pull that grew stronger with every heartbeat. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see someone following, but the streets were empty.
And yet, he was not alone.
A shadow moved across the rooftops above him, silent, deliberate. It disappeared as quickly as it appeared, leaving only a chill in its wake. Caelan shivered, forcing himself to focus. The ruins were north, beyond the outskirts, far from the safety of city walls. Each step away from home carried risk—but the pull was irresistible.
Memories flickered again in his mind, fragments of ash-strewn streets and collapsing towers, faces he had never known. He shook his head, trying to dismiss them. But they clung, a reminder that the Forgotten Realm was more than legend, more than whispers in old texts. It had been real—and it was waiting.
Footsteps echoed behind him, light and deliberate. Caelan's hand instinctively went to the small dagger at his belt, a token of old lessons learned in childhood, though he had never imagined needing it tonight. The sound stopped abruptly, leaving only silence and mist.
Ahead, the city gave way to open fields, the outlines of trees and hills swallowed by fog. The ruins lay beyond, hidden in the depths of what had once been the forgotten kingdom. The pull in his chest tightened, a beacon, urging him onward. Every instinct screamed caution, every memory whispered danger—but he moved forward anyway.
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement again. A figure, cloaked, standing atop a ridge. The hooded presence seemed to watch him, and for a fleeting moment, their gaze felt like it pierced straight into his soul. A pulse of recognition—or was it warning?—shivered through him.
Caelan stopped. "Who's there?" His voice barely carried over the mist. Silence answered him. Only the fog, thick and unyielding, rolled over the hills.
He continued, faster now, the weight of destiny pressing on him. The ruins were close. He could feel it—the air thicker here, tinged with ash and something ancient, something alive. His pulse raced, not just with fear, but with exhilaration. The edge of the Forgotten Realm was real, and it was calling him home.
The first stone walls appeared in the distance, blackened and crumbling. He slowed, heart hammering. Vines curled over fractured gates, and ash clung to the stones as if the ruins themselves remembered the fire that had sealed them.
Caelan stepped forward, toes brushing the cold stone of the outer courtyard. The scroll in his satchel pulsed again, warm against his side. Memories flared: the clash of armies, the cries of those who had fought and died to protect what had been lost. A whisper threaded through his mind, clear and urgent: You are the heir. Remember. Restore.
The night held its breath.
And for the first time, Caelan knew that nothing—neither crown nor kingdom, neither shadow nor secret—would ever be the same.