The village of Hollowstone lay in the shadow of the great mountains, a crumbling remnant of what it once had been. Thick clouds of ash hovered in the air, the remnants of fires long dead and lands long decayed. The sun was hidden behind this constant gray veil, casting a dim, lifeless light over everything. It was a place where hope had withered like the crops, and no one had seen the vibrant green of the forests in years. The river was low, its waters murky, and the people who lived here moved slowly, as though carrying the weight of the sky itself.

Tavian moved among them, unnoticed as usual. He had grown used to the way people ignored him—or worse, sneered at him. At fifteen, his slight frame and ragged clothes made him easy to overlook. His hair hung in matted, dark strands over his eyes, his face was gaunt, and his hands were thin, almost skeletal. Life in Hollowstone had never been easy, and for someone like Tavian, it was even harder.

"Look out, runt!" A rough hand shoved him to the side, sending him stumbling into the dust. He caught himself before he fell completely, but the force of the push made his chest burn with humiliation. He recognized the voice—Orik, the blacksmith's son, a hulking figure with arms as thick as tree trunks. Orik laughed as he passed, not even bothering to look back. Tavian gritted his teeth, keeping his eyes on the ground.

"Shouldn't you be with the other orphans, scrubbing floors?" another voice called out from across the marketplace. Tavian didn't even try to see who it was. It could have been anyone. The people of Hollowstone had little use for someone like him, a boy with no family, no trade, no worth. Even his meager attempts to help—running errands, gathering firewood—were met with scorn.

The worst part wasn't the mockery, though. It was the knowledge that, in their eyes, they were right. Tavian *was* weak. He wasn't like the other boys his age who trained with their fathers or learned trades from the village's craftsmen. He had no family to teach him, no one to guide him. And, more than that, he lacked the spark of power that others in the village sometimes showed. Magic was rare, but it wasn't unheard of. Some of the older villagers still whispered stories of the time when Hollowstone had been a place of strength, where those with magic held the land together. But that time was long past, and now even the smallest hint of power could earn you respect.

Tavian had none. At least, none that anyone could see.

He pulled his hood lower over his face and continued through the marketplace, avoiding eye contact with anyone as he made his way toward the old well at the edge of the village. It was quieter there, away from the stares and the harsh words. He liked the well. It was a place where he could think, where the noise of the village faded, and where he could be alone with his thoughts.

And with his secret.

Tavian's fingers brushed against the small leather pouch that hung from his belt, hidden beneath his cloak. Inside, he could feel the familiar weight of the shard. He had found it two weeks ago, buried deep in the dirt near the ruins just outside the village. It had looked like nothing at first—just a piece of stone, blackened and rough, no larger than his palm. But when he had picked it up, something had changed. A pulse, faint but undeniable, had surged through him the moment his fingers closed around the shard. It was as if the stone had come to life in his hand, as if it had recognized him.

Since then, Tavian had kept it hidden. He didn't know why, but he had felt a strange compulsion to keep it close, to protect it. And the pulse… it hadn't gone away. If anything, it had grown stronger, beating softly beneath the surface of his skin whenever he touched the shard. It was like a second heartbeat, one that only he could feel.

He wasn't sure what it meant, but he knew one thing—it made him feel different. Not stronger, exactly. But not as weak as before.

Tavian sat at the edge of the well, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. The marketplace was still bustling in the distance, the sounds of bartering and conversation echoing through the air. He reached into his pouch and pulled out the shard, holding it in his hand. It was cool to the touch, its surface rough and jagged. But beneath that roughness, he could feel the power. It thrummed through him, faint but insistent, like a distant call he couldn't quite understand.

"What are you?" he whispered, turning the shard over in his hands.

The shard gave no answer, but Tavian didn't expect one. He stared at it for a moment longer before tucking it back into his pouch. As much as he wanted to understand the strange pull of the shard, he didn't dare explore it here. Not in the open. If anyone saw him with it, they might take it from him. Or worse, they might ask questions—questions he didn't have answers to.

No, he would wait. The ruins were close enough. He would go there again tonight, when the village slept and the ash hung thick in the air. No one would follow him there. No one ever did.

He stood up and dusted off his clothes, casting one last glance at the village behind him. The day was winding down, and soon the sky would darken further, swallowing what little light remained. Hollowstone would settle into its usual quiet, and he could slip away unnoticed.

But even as he turned to leave, a chill ran down his spine. The air felt heavier than usual, the ash thicker, the clouds lower. For a moment, Tavian thought he saw something—a crack in the sky, a thin line of light flickering through the clouds. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared, but the image stayed with him, burned into his mind.

Something was coming.

And whether he liked it or not, he was going to be part of it.