Elian strolled through the quiet streets of Valenhelm, the town he'd grown up in. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of freshly baked bread from the bakery down the road. He paused as he passed Old Miriam's fruit stand, glancing over the apples.
"Good morning, Elian!" Miriam called, her voice warm. She held out a bright red apple with a smile. "On the house, as always."
Elian smiled, taking the apple. "Thanks, Miss Miriam."
"You remind me more of your father every day," she murmured, her eyes clouded with a touch of sadness. "He was a good man, always looked out for people."
Elian nodded, swallowing down the familiar ache that came whenever anyone spoke of his father. "Everyone says this but I don't remember him very clearly," he said softly.
Continuing down the road, he spotted Liana, a girl from the town who'd grown up with him. She waved, her expression brightening as she approached.
"Elian! Are you headed somewhere special?" she asked, her curiosity almost childlike. Her blue hair fell around her shoulders, and her cheeks flushed slightly as she waited for his answer.
"Just... exploring, I suppose," Elian replied, a hint of a smile on his face. "Trying to make sense of some things."
"Sense of what?" she asked, stepping a bit closer. Her eyes were eager, curious, like they always were whenever he mentioned something mysterious. She'd always been interested in his life, more than most people in the town.
"Well, yesterday I Again Saw that dream... something important," he began, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. He wasn't ready to share all the details yet, not with anyone—not even Liana. "My Father's Dream."
Liana's eyes softened, and she touched his arm gently. "You know, if you ever want company on any problem, I'd be more than willing to tag along."
Elian chuckled, "Thanks, Liana. I might just take you up on that." He could tell she was serious, but he wasn't sure if he wanted her getting involved in something he didn't fully understand himself.
They walked together for a few more minutes, talking about simpler things: how the harvest season was approaching, how the town was preparing for the annual festival. But the whole time, the weight of dream and his father's words nagged at the back of his mind.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, greeted by the quiet creaks of the wooden floorboards. Elian placed his satchel on the table, brushing a few stray pieces of parchment aside, and stretched. It had been a long day, but nothing out of the ordinary. A bath, some bread, and an early night—that was the plan.
After a quick meal, he changed into his nightclothes and climbed into bed. The night was still, the only sound being the faint rustle of the trees outside his window. His eyelids grew heavy, and soon enough, sleep took him.
But peace did not last.
Elian was jolted awake by the vivid image of his father—his face full of regret, his voice a whisper, almost drowned out by the wind. "I have to go, son. I'm sorry..." The figure of his father faded into the mist, leaving Elian behind as a young boy, crying and reaching out to the man who had always been his world.
He awoke with a start, his heart racing, sweat dampening his skin. The room was dark, save for the pale moonlight spilling through the window. He sat up in bed, his breaths shallow as he tried to shake off the nightmare.
It wasn't the first time he had dreamed of his father. These nightmares had haunted him for years, always the same—his father leaving, vanishing into the unknown, leaving nothing but questions and an aching emptiness.
Elian rubbed his eyes and leaned back against the headboard, trying to calm his racing thoughts. The dream had felt more vivid this time, more real, as if his father's voice was trying to tell him something. But what?
Then, he remembered. His father used to keep his most important work—his maps, notes, and documents—in a small wooden box under his bed. Elian had avoided his father's room for years, unable to confront the memories that lingered there, but now something compelled him to go. Perhaps the answer lay within those old papers.
Quietly, he rose from his bed and padded across the house to his father's old room. Dust covered nearly everything—his father's desk, the shelves lined with old books, the floorboards themselves creaking beneath Elian's feet. He hadn't stepped foot in here for years, and it showed.
He knelt by the bed and felt around underneath until his fingers brushed against the familiar wooden box. Pulling it out, he wiped away the dust and opened the lid. Inside were old documents, yellowed with age, sketches of places Elian didn't recognize, and maps—some incomplete, others filled with markings and notes.
At the bottom of the box was a folded map, different from the others. It seemed newer, untouched by time. Elian carefully unfolded it, revealing a location marked deep within the forest, far from any known roads or villages. There was no name, just a small red circle drawn around a cave.
He frowned. His father had never mentioned this place, but if it was important enough to hide, it must have meant something.
Elian stood up, clutching the map. He knew what he had to do. This was his father's final message—his last trail to follow. If there were answers, they would be there, in the cave.
After gathering a few belongings and supplies, Elian set off just before dawn. He made his way through the thick trees, the map's path taking him further from the familiar trails. The forest here was silent, the trees tall and imposing. Shadows seemed to shift around him, and for a moment, he thought he saw movement from the corner of his eye—a beast with dark fur and glowing green eyes watching him. But when he looked again, there was nothing there.
Prologue
The town of Durnham was unremarkable to most—a quiet, rustic place nestled between rolling hills and dense forests. For Elian, it was home. He had lived there all his life, making his living as a cartographer, mapping the unexplored parts of the world for nobles and merchants. Every corner of the town was familiar to him, from the crooked wooden houses that lined the main street to the lively market where the villagers bartered over fresh produce and livestock.
But even in the peaceful rhythm of his daily life, something gnawed at Elian, a void that had grown with each passing year. His father had disappeared years ago, leaving only a cryptic message that never fully made sense: "When the sky shatters, follow the fragments." No one in the village knew where he had gone, and few even remembered him now. Only Elian carried the weight of that absence, a quiet sorrow buried beneath his work.
Chapter 1: Whispers of the Past
The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the town of Durnham. Elian sat by the small fountain in the town square, taking in the peaceful hum of the evening. Around him, villagers chatted and laughed, some finishing up their daily errands, others heading home for the night. He greeted them with polite nods as they passed.
"Good evening, Elian!" called out old Mister Terrow, the blacksmith, wiping sweat from his brow as he locked up his shop. "Any new adventures on the horizon?"
Elian smiled, shaking his head. "Not today, Terrow. Just mapping out the southern roads again. Nothing exciting."
"Well, if you ever need someone to hammer out a new sword for those wild journeys of yours, you know where to find me."
"I'll keep that in mind," Elian chuckled before standing up and bidding the man farewell.
As the crowd in the square thinned, Elian made his way home. His modest house sat on the outskirts of the village, nestled against the edge of the woods. It was a simple place, small and practical—perfect for a man who spent most of his time outdoors or lost in his maps. But tonight, the house felt heavier than usual, almost as if it carried the weight of memories too old to shake.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, greeted by the quiet creaks of the wooden floorboards. Elian placed his satchel on the table, brushing a few stray pieces of parchment aside, and stretched. It had been a long day, but nothing out of the ordinary. A bath, some bread, and an early night—that was the plan.
After a quick meal, he changed into his nightclothes and climbed into bed. The night was still, the only sound being the faint rustle of the trees outside his window. His eyelids grew heavy, and soon enough, sleep took him.
But peace did not last.
Elian was jolted awake by the vivid image of his father—his face full of regret, his voice a whisper, almost drowned out by the wind. "I have to go, son. I'm sorry..." The figure of his father faded into the mist, leaving Elian behind as a young boy, crying and reaching out to the man who had always been his world.
He awoke with a start, his heart racing, sweat dampening his skin. The room was dark, save for the pale moonlight spilling through the window. He sat up in bed, his breaths shallow as he tried to shake off the nightmare.
It wasn't the first time he had dreamed of his father. These nightmares had haunted him for years, always the same—his father leaving, vanishing into the unknown, leaving nothing but questions and an aching emptiness.
Elian rubbed his eyes and leaned back against the headboard, trying to calm his racing thoughts. The dream had felt more vivid this time, more real, as if his father's voice was trying to tell him something. But what?
Then, he remembered. His father used to keep his most important work—his maps, notes, and documents—in a small wooden box under his bed. Elian had avoided his father's room for years, unable to confront the memories that lingered there, but now something compelled him to go. Perhaps the answer lay within those old papers.
Quietly, he rose from his bed and padded across the house to his father's old room. Dust covered nearly everything—his father's desk, the shelves lined with old books, the floorboards themselves creaking beneath Elian's feet. He hadn't stepped foot in here for years, and it showed.
He knelt by the bed and felt around underneath until his fingers brushed against the familiar wooden box. Pulling it out, he wiped away the dust and opened the lid. Inside were old documents, yellowed with age, sketches of places Elian didn't recognize, and maps—some incomplete, others filled with markings and notes.
At the bottom of the box was a folded map, different from the others. It seemed newer, untouched by time. Elian carefully unfolded it, revealing a location marked deep within the forest, far from any known roads or villages. There was no name, just a small red circle drawn around a cave.
He frowned. His father had never mentioned this place, but if it was important enough to hide, it must have meant something.
Elian stood up, clutching the map. He knew what he had to do. This was his father's final message—his last trail to follow. If there were answers, they would be there, in the cave.
The next morning, Elian packed his supplies and set off at first light. The journey to the marked location was not far, but it took him through dense, untamed forests where few dared to venture. As the hours passed, the trees grew taller, their thick canopies blocking out much of the sunlight. The air was cooler here, damp with the scent of moss and earth.
Elian moved carefully, his instincts guiding him through the rough terrain. Every so often, he would check the map, ensuring he was on the right path. It was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves or the distant call of a bird.
But as he neared the cave, something stirred in the shadows—a low growl, barely audible at first but growing louder with each step. Elian's hand went to the small knife he carried at his side, though he knew it would be little use against whatever was lurking in the underbrush.
TO BE CONTINUED....