The first thing Eryndor felt was the cold. It wasn't the crisp chill of a winter morning or the numbing frost of an icy cavern—it was deeper, older, as if it had seeped into his very bones. He opened his eyes, expecting to see familiar surroundings, but instead, he was met with a desolate sky, painted in shades of gray and violet, swirling like a storm frozen in time.

"Where am I?" he whispered, his voice breaking the eerie silence.

He sat up slowly, the ground beneath him crackling with a strange crystalline texture. The surface shimmered faintly, glowing with a light that pulsed in sync with his own heartbeat. A sense of unease crawled over him as he noticed his reflection in the shards—his face, though familiar, was marked with glowing sigils that weren't there before.

"Eryndor…" A voice called out, distant yet resonant, as though it came from the sky itself.

His head snapped up, scanning the horizon. A figure materialized from the mist—a woman draped in tattered robes, her eyes glowing with the same eerie light as the sigils on his skin.

"You've been chosen," she said, her voice heavy with both sorrow and urgency. "The Forgotten Realm calls for its guardian."

"Chosen? Guardian? I don't understand!" Eryndor stood, his fists clenching at the absurdity of her words.

"The Arcane slumbers no more," she continued, ignoring his protest. "Demons stir in the shadows, and the old kingdom teeters on the edge of collapse. You must awaken the power within before it's too late."

As her words settled, the ground beneath him trembled. From the mists, a monstrous form emerged—a towering beast with jagged, obsidian scales and eyes burning with crimson fire. It let out a deafening roar that shook the air.

"Prove your worth, Eryndor," the woman said, stepping back into the mist. "Or perish."

The creature lunged forward, claws raking through the air. Eryndor stumbled backward, his heart hammering in his chest. A surge of warmth coursed through him, pooling in his palms. Without thinking, he raised his hands, and a burst of light exploded from his fingertips, slamming into the beast.

As the monster recoiled, Eryndor stared at his glowing hands in disbelief.

"What... what am I?" he whispered.

The woman's voice echoed once more, fading into the distance. "The last hope of a forgotten kingdom."

And as the beast roared again, Eryndor knew this was only the beginning.

The beast lunged again, its claws scraping the crystalline ground as it bore down on Eryndor. This time, he didn't have the luxury of surprise or instinct. The light in his hands had vanished, leaving him defenseless.

"Fight back!" the woman's voice echoed, sharper now, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

"I don't know how!" he shouted back, sidestepping just in time to avoid the creature's crushing blow. He stumbled, his foot slipping on the slick surface, and fell hard onto his back.

The beast loomed over him, its fiery breath washing over his face, its jagged teeth glinting with a hunger that promised no mercy. Eryndor's heart pounded in his chest as the sigils on his skin began to flicker. The warmth from before returned—not a searing heat, but a steady, growing fire.

"Feel it," the voice urged. "The Arcane is within you. Command it!"

Gritting his teeth, Eryndor focused on the warmth coursing through him. It pulsed, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat, as if it were alive. With a desperate cry, he thrust his hands forward.

This time, the light wasn't a wild burst but a focused stream, a blinding beam that struck the beast directly in its chest. The impact sent it hurtling backward, crashing into the mist with an earth-shaking roar.

Eryndor gasped for air, his arms trembling as the light faded. He scrambled to his feet, his body weak but his mind racing.

"Did I kill it?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.

The mist swirled where the beast had fallen, its crimson eyes still faintly visible. It wasn't dead—not yet—but it wasn't getting up either.

"That's enough for now," the woman said, stepping out of the mist like a phantom. Her glowing eyes locked onto his. "You've survived your first test."

"Test?" Eryndor spat, his anger cutting through his fear. "You throw me into a fight with *that* thing and call it a test? I could've died!"

"And you still might," she replied coldly, her gaze unyielding. "But if you're to save this world, you must learn to harness the power of the Arcane. What you faced was merely a fragment of the darkness that lies ahead."

Eryndor wanted to argue, to demand answers, but something in her tone stopped him. She wasn't mocking him—she was dead serious.

"What is this place?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

"The Forgotten Realm," she said, her eyes softening for the first time. "A kingdom long lost to time, its people scattered, its power hidden. And you, Eryndor, are its last hope."

Before he could ask what that meant, the ground beneath them began to quake. The beast let out a final, guttural growl before dissolving into the mist.

"The Arcane stirs," the woman said grimly. "And it won't wait for you to be ready."

As the mist began to shift and the strange world darkened, Eryndor felt the weight of her words sink in. This wasn't just a test—this was his new reality.

Eryndor's legs felt like lead, but he forced himself to remain standing. The beast's absence brought no comfort; the mist that swallowed it seemed alive, curling closer as if assessing him. The woman stepped forward, her glowing eyes dimming slightly.

"Do you feel it now?" she asked, her voice softer but still commanding.

Eryndor hesitated. "Feel what?"

"The Arcane," she replied, gesturing to his still-glowing sigils. "It isn't just power—it's connection. You've awakened it, but you've barely scratched the surface."

He looked down at his hands, where faint traces of light pulsed through the intricate markings on his skin. "Why me?"

She studied him for a moment, the weight of her gaze unsettling. "Because the Forgotten Kingdom has no one else. The demons have broken through the veil, and the old guardians are gone. You were chosen because you're the only one who can tip the scales."

Her words hit him like a physical blow. "I didn't ask for this!"

"No one ever does," she said sharply. "But destiny doesn't wait for your permission. Now, stop wallowing and listen. That beast was just the beginning. More will come, stronger, hungrier. If you don't learn to wield the Arcane, this realm—and every other—will fall."

Eryndor opened his mouth to argue but stopped when the ground beneath them began to glow. A pattern of runes emerged, circling where they stood. The mist parted slightly, revealing a jagged horizon of crystalline peaks and swirling, dark skies.

"What's happening now?" he asked, panic creeping into his voice.

"The realm is waking," the woman said. "And it's calling you."

"Calling me? To what?"

"To fulfill your purpose," she said, her tone as heavy as the air around them. "To find the relics of the Arcane and restore balance. Without them, the kingdom will remain lost, and the demons will consume everything."

Eryndor stared at her, his mind spinning. The words felt like something out of a storybook, a tale told to entertain children. And yet, the glowing marks on his skin and the echo of power in his veins made it all too real.

"What if I refuse?" he asked finally.

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "Then you'll die here, and the realms will fall."

The ground trembled again, but this time, the light from the runes intensified, enveloping Eryndor in a radiant glow. He shielded his eyes, but he could still see the woman through the blinding light.

"Decide quickly," she said, her voice cutting through the roar of energy. "Will you fight, or will you fade into obscurity like the others?"

The words hung heavy in the air as Eryndor's body felt lighter, the ground beneath him dissolving into nothingness. His answer wasn't clear to himself, but the light didn't wait—it consumed him entirely.

The last thing he saw was the woman's glowing eyes, filled with both hope and despair, before the world vanished into the light.

The light surrounding Eryndor faded, leaving him breathless and trembling. His feet found solid ground again, though it was different—softer, colder. He looked down to see snow beneath his boots, glittering like powdered starlight under a faint moon.

Around him stretched a vast, frozen wasteland. Jagged mountains loomed in the distance, their peaks hidden by swirling clouds, while icy winds howled through the air. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself as the glowing sigils on his skin dimmed to a faint pulse.

The woman was gone. He was alone.

"Great," he muttered, his voice lost in the wind. "Thrown into some strange world, told I'm supposed to save it, and now I'm dumped in a frozen hellscape. Perfect."

He turned in a slow circle, searching for any sign of shelter. The mist that had surrounded him earlier was gone, replaced by an endless horizon of ice and shadow.

Then, far in the distance, he saw it: a flicker of light, like a torch burning weakly against the darkness. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Driven by the promise of warmth—or at least answers—he started toward it, his boots crunching against the snow. With each step, the weight of exhaustion grew heavier, but he pushed forward, his mind racing.

"What was that thing?" he muttered to himself, thinking of the beast that had nearly killed him. "And what *am* I? That light… it didn't just come from me. It *was* me."

The wind picked up, biting at his skin and forcing him to pull his threadbare cloak tighter. The glowing marks on his arms began to pulse again, faint but steady, like a heartbeat. They seemed to guide him, pulling him toward the distant light.

As he drew closer, he realized the light wasn't a fire but something stranger. A large crystal, jagged and glowing with an inner warmth, jutted out of the ground. Its surface was etched with the same runes that had appeared beneath him during the fight.

Eryndor reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing the crystal's surface. The warmth surged through him, and for a moment, the world around him blurred.

Visions flashed before his eyes—an ancient city shrouded in golden light, its towers reaching into a sky of endless stars. He saw people clad in robes, wielding magic that crackled like lightning, their faces grim as they faced a horde of monstrous creatures.

Then, the city fell. Darkness engulfed it, and the vision ended.

Eryndor stumbled back, his chest heaving. The crystal pulsed brighter, as if reacting to his touch.

"This is only the beginning," a voice echoed—not the woman's, but something deeper, older. "The Arcane chose you. Now, prove you are worthy of its power."

Before Eryndor could respond, the snow beneath him cracked, and the ground gave way. He fell into darkness, the wind screaming in his ears.

Eryndor's body plummeted into the darkness, the howling wind giving way to an eerie, oppressive silence. His arms flailed for something—anything—to grab onto, but there was nothing except the sensation of falling deeper and deeper.

Then, with a sudden jolt, he landed hard on a surface that felt impossibly smooth and cold, like glass. He groaned, the impact rattling his bones, but somehow, he wasn't broken.

He pushed himself up slowly, blinking into the dim glow that surrounded him. The darkness wasn't absolute—faint lines of blue light crisscrossed the ground beneath him, forming intricate patterns like veins of an enormous, living organism. The air here felt different, charged, as if the room itself was breathing.

Eryndor turned his head and froze.

Before him stood a towering set of doors, carved from black stone and lined with silver runes that shimmered faintly in the dark. The doors stretched impossibly high, their tops lost in the shadows above. Symbols he couldn't decipher danced across their surface, shifting and glowing in an ever-changing pattern.

But what truly held his attention was what stood in front of those doors.

A figure cloaked in shadow, its features indistinct but its presence overwhelming. The air around it seemed to warp and twist, making it impossible to tell if it was solid or merely a mirage. The figure had no eyes, yet Eryndor felt its gaze pierce him to his very core.

"Welcome, stray," it said, its voice resonating like the low toll of a bell. "You stand at the threshold of destiny… or demise."

Eryndor's throat was dry, but he managed to speak. "Who are you? What is this place?"

The figure didn't move, yet the shadows around it seemed to grow darker. "Names hold power, and mine is not for you to know. But this…" it gestured toward the massive doors, "…this is the Gate of Ashara, the path to the Arcane Kingdom. You have been brought here because the realm demands a champion."

"Champion?" Eryndor echoed bitterly. "You've got the wrong person. I don't know what's happening, or why—"

"You are what remains," the figure interrupted, its tone unyielding. "The Arcane has chosen you, not for what you are, but for what you could become. Beyond these doors lies your purpose. But the question is…"

The figure leaned closer, and Eryndor felt the air grow colder. "…will you survive what lies ahead?"

Before he could respond, the runes on the doors flared to life, their light so intense it forced him to shield his eyes. The ground beneath him trembled as the doors began to creak open, revealing a swirling vortex of light and shadow.

"Enter," the figure commanded. "Or turn back and let the realms crumble into oblivion. The choice is yours."

Eryndor's legs felt rooted to the ground. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to find a way back to the life he knew. But the faint pulsing of the sigils on his arms reminded him that there was no going back.

With a deep breath, he stepped forward, toward the vortex.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the world erupted into chaos. A deafening roar, louder and more feral than anything he had heard before, echoed from the other side. The vortex pulled at him with terrifying force, and the last thing he saw was the figure standing still, unshaken, its shadow dissolving into the light.

Then, everything went white.

To Be Continued...