Kaelen woke up to a start, twisting in his little, worn cot as remnants of a dream clung to him like smoke. His breath came fast, his chest heaving as if the air fought him to calm him down. The dreams had come again—visions of stone, fire, and whispers. Always whispers.
They came unbidden, echoes of a half-forgotten memory. There were no faces in these dreams, only shadows—figures moving beneath towering structures of ancient stone, their voices low and insistent. Words in a language he could never quite grasp, slipping away like water through his fingers. And always the feeling: a sharp, cold pressure buried deep in his chest, as if stone pressed against bone.
He was wiping his face with the tunic sleeve, sweat mingling with the cool air coming through the small window next to him, as the village was silent and covered by fog rolling down from the peaks that had the walls of an ancient fortress cradling Valdore. Outside, the wind had picked up; whistling through the trees, he could hear faint calls of birds over the treetops.
It was a sound he knew, soothing in its predictability. But something about today felt different. Maybe it was the dreams. Maybe it was the lingering chill in his hands, a cold that persisted despite the fire he'd stoked the evening before.
Shaking off the unease, Kaelen sat up, the rough fabric of his tunic scratching his skin. His life was simple—lonely, but predictable. The rhythms of the village, mornings spent on chores, evenings by the fire listening to the elders' stories—all of it gave his days structure. Yet today, that fragile routine felt ready to break.
He reached out to his small pack, double-checking its contents. There was a knife whose hilt was smooth with wear, a few coins, some spare cloth, and his mother's pendant - a small silver token now tarnished with age. His father had died long before Kaelen's earliest memories, leaving behind only himself. The village looked after him, but he knew a thing or two: charity went only so far. Kindness couldn't give him roots when the ground beneath him was already fractured.
He caught a glimpse of the fog-shrouded horizon from the window. The view stoked something in him, a familiar ache—a feeling he was meant for something more, though he couldn't say what. Maybe it was the arrogance of youth. Or maybe it was the dreams tugging at him, whispering of distant hills and forgotten ruins.
Kaelen dressed, slinging his pack over one shoulder, and went out into the sharp air of the morning. The village was tiny, its cottages standing like weathered stones. The smoke curled from chimneys upward into the mist. He had to pass by familiar faces on his way through the square, nodding but giving little else. The people were kind but distant; there was no malice in their glances-only an unspoken hesitancy as if they couldn't quite place him.
"Kaelen!" a voice called. He turned to see Mira approaching, her dark hair catching in the wind. Her bright eyes sparkled with mischief, a hint of laughter in her step.
"You're up early," she teased.
"Couldn't sleep," Kaelen admitted, keeping his tone light.
Mira grinned, skipping past him. "You should eat more stew. Keeps the spirits out of your head!"
Her laughter lingered in the air as she disappeared into the fog. Kaelen managed a small smile. If only it were that simple—banishing shadows with stew and cheer.
He went about his morning chores, sweeping the paths and gathering herbs from the woods at the edge of the village. His hands moved on autopilot, his mind drifting. The dreams returned unbidden, flashes of stone and shadow. His chest tightened with that same crushing pressure as if the weight of the visions were real.
By midday, Kaelen was done. The sun had begun to shine through the mist, making the village golden dimly. The air grew warm with the smell of wood smoke, and he went to the village's edge, where the forest started. Here, life seemed to seep into him—the trees whispering their secrets, which he had yet to comprehend.
Kaelen stooped to pluck herbs, his fingers sweeping dew-damp leaves. For the first time that day, his thoughts went away from dreams and drifted instead toward the possibility of leaving Valdore. Across the hills lay answers ancient and waiting. Maybe someday he'd find the strength to leave.
The sudden gust of wind rustled the branches, sending leaves scattering. Kaelen felt the unease in his chest again. He looked back toward the village, the weight of the unknown pressing heavier now. Somewhere deep within him, he felt it: something was coming. Something that would change everything.