Despite his fears, the village prepared for its annual harvest festival. People filled the streets with laughter and joy, hanging lanterns and setting up stalls. Arin tried to immerse himself in the celebrations, but the tension from his dream refused to leave him.
As night fell, the village square lit up with bonfires, and the music of flutes and drums filled the air. But as Arin stood near the edge of the festival, a strange figure appeared again—Eryndor, watching from the shadows. Arin's heart sank. This was no coincidence.
Without a word, the sorcerer gestured toward the dark woods beyond the village. "Tonight," Eryndor whispered, his voice carried by the wind, "it begins."