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The sky above the small village of Eldrigg was an unbroken gray, thick clouds hanging heavy as if the heavens themselves were mourning. A faint wind, cold as winter's breath, swept through the trees, rattling their leaves like the whispers of forgotten souls. Among the scattered homes and worn cobblestone paths, a solitary figure moved with purpose, the world seemingly unaware of their presence.

Rylan, a young man no older than eighteen, paused for a moment at the edge of the village, looking out toward the distant horizon. His face was marked by exhaustion—his eyes deep, heavy with the weight of dreams he could not recall and memories he could not quite grasp. The life of a simple farmer, with its endless days of toil and sweat, had never been enough for him. There was something more calling to him, though he could never name it.

A rustle of leaves pulled him from his thoughts. He turned his head to see an old woman approaching, her frail figure cloaked in a tattered shawl, eyes sharp and knowing beneath her wrinkled brow.

"Rylan," she said softly, her voice carrying an otherworldly quality. "The time has come."

Rylan blinked, his chest tightening. "Time for what, Grandmother?"

Her lips curved into a thin, knowing smile, but there was no joy in it. Only an ancient sorrow. "The Sigil has chosen you."

At those words, the world seemed to pause. The Sigil. He had heard the legends, the whispered stories from elders about the ancient symbols of power, but it had always seemed distant—something for heroes, for kings, not for simple folk like him. But in the depths of his soul, he knew it was true. The Sigil had indeed chosen him.

"You must go," the old woman continued. "There are forces at work you cannot begin to understand. The threads of fate are already moving, Rylan. You are part of something much bigger than yourself. The path will be hard. The trials will break you. But the gods will watch." She hesitated for a moment, eyes clouding with something dark, almost fearful. "If you survive."

Rylan's breath caught in his throat. "What do I have to do?"

"Journey to the Cradle of Time," the woman whispered. "There, you will find the First Thread. But beware, for the road will twist, and you will meet others who seek the same power. Some will offer you guidance, while others will attempt to take your life."

Rylan swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling in. His heart pounded with uncertainty. It was not just a journey to power—it was a journey to destiny itself. And yet, something stirred deep inside him, an undeniable pull, a thirst for something more. He had always known he was meant for more than the plodding life of a farmer. But godhood? Ascension? Was he truly ready for such a path?

"Grandmother," Rylan began, his voice trembling, "I'm not... I'm not strong. I'm just a farm boy. What if I'm not capable of... becoming what you say?"

The old woman's eyes softened, her ancient hands reaching up to gently rest on his shoulders. "Rylan, strength is not what you are born with. It is forged. The Sigil will not choose the strongest. It chooses those who are willing to sacrifice everything, who can endure the depths of their own soul and rise. The question is not whether you are capable of ascending... but whether you are willing to face the price."

Her words hung in the air like a storm ready to break. Price. That word rang in his mind, echoing with both fear and fascination. What price was too great? Was he truly ready to face what awaited him in the Cradle of Time?

The sky above seemed to darken, and for a moment, it felt as though the heavens themselves were holding their breath. Rylan's eyes drifted to his hands, calloused and rough from years of work on the farm. They seemed so small, so insignificant. He could hardly believe that in those very hands, there could be the power to change fate itself.

"Do not let fear guide you, Rylan," the old woman said, her voice a low murmur. "The Sigil is a path of trials, but it is also a path of discovery. The greatest strength is not in the power you wield, but in the choices you make when faced with the unknown."

The wind picked up then, a howl that seemed to come from the very depths of the earth. It carried with it a feeling of foreboding—a sign that Rylan's journey was no longer a matter of choice. The Sigil had chosen him, and his fate had already begun to unfold.

Rylan's gaze shifted back to the horizon, where the distant mountains seemed to pierce the heavens themselves. The Cradle of Time. The First Thread. His heart pounded with anticipation and dread, but his resolve hardened. There was no turning back now. He could feel the pull of something greater than himself, a force beyond mortal understanding.

He took a deep breath, casting one last glance at the village—the place that had been his entire world up until now. It seemed so small from here, so insignificant in the grand scheme of what awaited him.

"Where do I begin?" he asked, his voice firm with newfound resolve.

The old woman looked at him one last time, a faint, knowing smile crossing her lips. "Follow the winds, Rylan. They will lead you to where you need to go."

With that, she turned and began to walk back into the shadows, her form fading into the mist as if she had never existed at all.

Rylan stood alone at the edge of the village, the weight of his decision settling on his shoulders. His eyes turned to the mountains in the distance, the Cradle of Time now a tangible place in his mind, and the journey ahead more real than ever before.

The first thread of fate had been woven, and it was time to begin the journey.

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As Rylan stepped forward, leaving behind the life he had known, the winds whispered around him, carrying the weight of a thousand forgotten destinies. He was no longer just a farm boy. He was a soul bound to the mysteries of the Sigils, and the gods themselves were watching.