The world was on fire.
Rōen stood in the heart of a battlefield, though he didn't know how he'd gotten there. The ground beneath him was cracked and glowing, veins of golden light pulsing like a heartbeat. The air was thick with the scent of ash and something metallic, something alive. Around him, figures clashed in a chaotic storm of light and shadow—warriors wielding blades of flame, mages summoning storms from the heavens, and creatures that seemed to melt into the darkness itself.
But there was no sound.
No screams, no clashing steel, no roaring magic. Just the muffled thrum of his own heartbeat, echoing in his ears like a war drum. He tried to move, to speak, but his body felt heavy, as if the earth itself were pulling him down.
Then, the sky split open.
A blinding light tore through the clouds, and for a moment, Roen thought the sun itself had fallen. The light didn't burn—it hummed, a low, resonant vibration that made his bones ache. The battlefield froze, the warriors mid-strike, the flames suspended in mid-air. Time itself seemed to unravel.
The flames retreated. The fallen rose. The cracks in the earth sealed themselves. The sky mended, the clouds swirling backward as if the universe were rewinding.
And then, her voice.
"The Cosmic Pulse...It Calls to you."
It came from everywhere and nowhere, soft and gentle, yet carrying the weight of eternity.
The words lingered, vibrating in the air like the aftermath of a struck bell. Roen chest tightened, his breathing growing heavy and uneven. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening, but the voice didn't stop.
"Wake up… wake up…"
The words were softer now, almost soothing, but they carried an urgency that made his heart pound even harder.
---
"Wake up, Roen!"
The voice was sharp, impatient, and very much real.
Roen's eyes snapped open, his body drenched in sweat, his heart pounding as if he'd just run a mile. The faint light of dawn filtered through the cracks in his window, casting long shadows across his small, cluttered room. Books and scrolls were piled haphazardly on his desk, remnants of his studies at the local academy. The air smelled of ink and old parchment, a comforting contrast to the acrid smoke of his dream.
"Roen! Get up already! You're going to be late for class again!"
His mother's voice, sharp and impatient, shattered the lingering remnants of the dream. He groaned, rubbing his face.
"I'm up, I'm up…" he muttered, dragging himself upright.
His legs still felt weak, his muscles tense as though his body had truly endured the battle from his dream. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heartbeat, as if it were still echoing the rhythm of that otherworldly pulse.
What was that dream?
The Cosmic Pulse. The words rang in his head, refusing to fade.
His mother's voice rang out again, sharper this time. "If you don't come down now, you're skipping breakfast!"
Rōen sighed, running a hand through his messy black hair. He stretched, his joints popping, then finally swung his legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor was cool against his bare feet as he stood.
Morning Chaos
The scent of warm porridge and fried eggs greeted him as he stumbled down the stairs, his stomach growling in response. The kitchen was small but filled with the comforting sounds of home—his mother clattering dishes, the bubbling of a pot over the fire, the rhythmic tapping of a knife against a wooden cutting board.
His older sister, Kaela, sat at the table, casually picking at her food with a bored expression. Her dark hair was still damp, tied up in a loose bun. As soon as Rōen entered, she smirked.
"Look who finally decided to wake up," she teased, taking a slow bite of her bread.
Rōen ignored her, grabbing a bowl and filling it with porridge. He barely sat down before his mother shot him a disapproving look.
"You're late again," she said, placing a plate of eggs in front of him.
"I was studying late," Rōen muttered between bites.
His mother scoffed. "Studying? Or just dreaming again?"
He tensed. His mother was no fool. She knew about his strange dreams, though it was jusy bad or normal dreams to her, he had never told her the details.
Kaela leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Ooooh, another vision? Maybe the gods are trying to tell you you're meant for something great."
Rōen shot her a glare. "Shut up, Kaela."
His mother sighed, placing a hand on her hip. "You need to focus, Rōen. Magic is a gift, but it won't put food on the table. You have responsibilities. You can't keep chasing dreams."
He wanted to argue. To tell her that it wasn't just a dream. This time it felt real But he bit his tongue.
Instead, he shoved another spoonful of porridge into his mouth, swallowing his frustration along with it.