Aric was never one to believe in destiny.

The winds that swept across the village of Varen were always calm, whispering gently between the trees, with no indication of the storm that was about to tear through his life. The air smelled of freshly baked bread and the smoke of iron from his father's forge. His hands, calloused from years of hammering, were still sore from the day's work, but the satisfaction of completing another sword was enough to keep him going. He had always loved the rhythmic clang of metal against metal, the way the fire in the forge seemed to burn away all his worries.

But that night—something was different.

It was a dream, of course. Aric had grown accustomed to vivid dreams, but this one felt real. Too real. He could still remember the way the forest had smelled—the cool, damp earth beneath his feet, the sharp scent of pine and moss mingling in the air. The darkness had swallowed the sky, leaving nothing but the shimmer of faint light through the trees. And there had been a voice—soft, yet commanding, like a whispering wind through a canyon.

"Aric..."

His name echoed through the silence, a sound that seemed to reverberate deep within his chest. It wasn't the first time he'd heard it in a dream, but this time, it was different. It wasn't a simple call. It was a plea—a desperate cry for help, wrapped in the weight of a thousand years.

"Aric… the Veil is weakening. You must stop it. You must stand at the gate."

The words hung in the air like a warning. His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him through the dark forest toward the source of the voice. The trees stretched higher than anything he had seen before, their bark twisted in unnatural shapes, almost as if they were alive. Their branches reached out like skeletal hands, each one seeming to pull him deeper into the heart of the forest.

Then, the Veil appeared.

It wasn't a wall of light, as he had imagined. It was a curtain—flowing, rippling with an eerie energy that pulsed with a low hum. It stretched far beyond his sight, a thin layer between his world and something darker. The fabric shimmered like silver smoke, and as Aric stared at it, something within him stirred. It was familiar. It was ancient. And it felt wrong.

Before he could approach, a figure emerged from the shadows—tall, cloaked, with eyes that burned with an unnatural light. The figure didn't speak, but Aric could feel the weight of its gaze, a penetrating force that made him feel small, insignificant.

"It's already begun," the figure said, its voice cold and hollow. "The gate is open. The darkness is coming. You are the last one who can stop it."

The dream ended abruptly with a jolt. Aric woke up gasping for air, his heart pounding in his chest as if it was trying to break free. He sat up in his bed, drenched in sweat, staring at the familiar wooden beams of the ceiling above him. The early morning light filtered through the cracks in the shutters, and outside, the sound of birds chirped in the distance. But his mind was still trapped in the dream.

The Veil. The forest. The voice. The dark figure.

What did it all mean?

The next day, Aric couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. It wasn't just the dream—there was a strange pull within him, an unshakable sensation that something big was coming. And for some reason, he felt it deep within his bones that he was meant to be a part of it.

He had always considered himself just a blacksmith's son, nothing more, nothing less. His father, Roderic, had taught him the trade since he was a child, hammering iron, shaping blades, and learning the rhythm of metalworking. Varen, the village they lived in, was a peaceful place—isolated from the rest of the world, nestled between the woods and a winding river that fed into the far-off sea. It was a place of simple lives and simpler dreams.

Yet Aric felt restless. The dream had stirred something inside him that he couldn't explain. His life in Varen had always been ordinary, but what if there was something more? What if the Veil—whatever it was—was calling him for a reason?

Shaking his head, Aric tried to push the thoughts away. He had work to do. His father had asked him to finish a batch of swords for a nearby town, and Aric knew the faster he worked, the sooner he could clear his head.

But as he swung the hammer down, his thoughts kept drifting back to the dream. His heart still raced when he thought of the voice, the figure in the shadows, and the warning about the Veil. He had never heard of anything like it before. The elders in Varen often spoke of old legends, of ancient magics and forgotten realms, but nothing so vivid as what he had seen. Could it be that these old stories were true?

That evening, as the sun began to set behind the mountains, a traveler arrived in Varen. Aric was working late in the forge when he heard the sound of hooves approaching. The horse was tired, its rider equally so. The figure dismounted slowly, his face obscured by a cloak.

"Can I help you?" Aric called out, wiping his hands on his apron.

The traveler nodded, his movements slow and deliberate. "I'm looking for someone," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "A young man. Aric."

Aric's heart skipped a beat. How did this man know his name?

"I'm Aric," he said cautiously, stepping closer. "What do you need?"

The traveler's hooded gaze met his, and for a moment, Aric felt a chill run down his spine. There was something about the man's eyes—familiar yet unsettling.

"I've been searching for you," the man said, his voice taking on an almost urgent tone. "You're the one. The Veil—it's weakening. The prophecy. You have a part to play."

Aric blinked. The words seemed to hang in the air, as if they were meant for someone else. The Veil, the prophecy… Was this another dream?

Before he could respond, the man pulled back his cloak, revealing robes of deep purple, embroidered with intricate patterns that glowed faintly in the dimming light. Around his neck, a pendant shimmered, shaped like a crescent moon. Aric's heart skipped another beat. The pendant looked strangely familiar—just like the one from his dream.

"My name is Thalon," the traveler said, his gaze unwavering. "I've come to take you to the Council of Mages. There's no time to waste. The darkness is rising."

Aric stood frozen, the hammer still clutched in his hand, the weight of the stranger's words settling over him like a heavy cloak. The dream. The voice. The warning. They were real.

And now, everything had changed.