The words of the old man haunted Arin all night. He had told no one about the encounter, unsure of what it meant. At dawn, he found the stranger waiting near the barn. "Who are you?" Arin demanded, gripping a hoe in his hand, more for comfort than protection.
"I am Eryndor," the old man said, "a sorcerer from the far south. Your village lies in the path of something ancient and terrible. You, Arin, are not what you think. The blood of the Old Ones flows through your veins. That is why the darkness seeks you."
Before Arin could respond, his father appeared, waving the stranger off. "Leave us be, old fool. We have no interest in your tales." But as Eryndor vanished into the woods, his words lingered, settling in Arin's chest like a weight he could not shake.