[Year 978]
The sky bled with mana-fueled fire as a lone figure stood against an abomination sculpted from nightmares. A mage, cloaked in robes shimmering with ethereal radiance, lifted his staff into the heavens. The air cracked open as spiraling flame tore through the battlefield—rivers of infernal heat surging toward a beast born of shadow and madness, its limbs too many, its mouth stretching across a face that defied flesh and logic.
Beside the mage, a swordmaster drifted like a phantom through smoke and blood, his blade singing with raw essence. Each strike ruptured the ground and severed regenerating limbs in a dance of violence older than language. The monster shrieked—a cry that fused agony and starvation, warping the sky with its sound, splitting reality like a rotted seam.
And then, the world groaned.
A gate cracked open.
The battle vanished.
Far away, in a quiet mountain village forgotten by time, a boy woke with a gasp.
The wind screamed through the valley, carrying the scent of wet stone and pine rot. Mist slithered between rooftops, clinging to the bones of Mjull—the mountain cradle that had been Icariel's cage since infancy. The sky, painted in bruised hues of violet and ash-blue, held night's fading breath. Silence lingered, disturbed only by the lonely crow of a rooster.
Icariel perched on the edge of a thatched rooftop, staring down at his world. He pulled his threadbare cloak tighter, its fabric frayed by wind and time. Dark hair clung to his forehead, and black eyes—glassy, haunted—drank in the morning light like it might vanish. A crust of stale bread rested in his palm, but his jaw refused the motion of hunger.
[You should eat.]
The voice—deep as bedrock, older than pain—resonated inside him. Not a whisper, not a thought. A presence. Like the breath of something buried beneath the skin of the world.
"I don't feel like it," Icariel muttered.
[Survival demands strength. Strength demands sustenance.]
He sighed, breath misting pale against the cold. One reluctant bite. The bread tasted of mold and memory. His gaze roamed across Mjull—twenty houses, a few ragged farms, one road that led down the mountain and never came back. A place where people grew old without ever becoming anything more.
But Icariel had never fit here.
At sixteen, he towered over most men in the village—lean, forged in stone and wind, his body carved by cliffs and forests that tore at lesser boys. But his strength wasn't what made him different. It was the voice. That voice. A murmur from the marrow. A mind not his own, yet older than language.
[Fear is wisdom, Icariel. But fear without control is death.]
He curled his knees to his chest, chin resting on them. "I've heard it since I was a child. It doesn't tell me who it is. Doesn't even remember, I think. Just speaks when it needs to. Never lies. Never comforts without reason."
A pause.
"I think about dying… more than anything else. The way others think of warmth, or love, or dreams. Death haunts me like a second skin. But not just the idea of pain. It's the ending. The silence. The nothing. I look at people like Finn's father and I don't understand how they run toward danger without flinching. I don't want to understand. I'm not like them."
A tremor passed through his voice.
"I just want to live."
That fear—his parasite and protector—gripped him like frostbite. He glanced down the path that led out of Mjull. He had never followed it. Not once. Beyond it was the unknown—swordmasters, mages, monsters, gates carved into reality like wounds. He knew them only through pages half-burned and half-believed.
"What good is wanting more," he whispered, "if it means dying?"
The silence stretched.
Then, a whisper heavier than thunder:
[What good is fearing death if it means never living?]
Icariel's pulse quickened. The voice had never spoken like this before. Not with challenge. Not with weight.
A shout broke the air like a snapped bone.
"Icariel! Stop brooding and get down here!"
Below stood Finn—short, broad, with a mess of brown curls and dirt smeared like warpaint. He waved, already breathless.
"There's something in the forest! Father says it's not a beast we've seen before!"
Icariel stilled. Beasts weren't rare—wolves, bears, the occasional hungry shadow. But something new? That word was dangerous. It meant unknown. Unknown meant death.
Instinct screamed to stay.
The voice whispered otherwise.
[Go.]
They moved. The cold morning air stung against Icariel's face as he sprinted through the narrow village paths, following Finn toward the dense forest beyond. As they moved, he veered toward a wooden rack near the hunter's lodge, grabbing a sturdy axe, its handle worn from years of use. Finn, already a few steps ahead, snatched his short hunting bow and slung a quiver of arrows over his shoulder.
"You ever get tired of hunting the same beasts?" Finn called over his shoulder. "I sure do. Maybe this one'll be something worth bragging about."
Icariel tightened his grip on the axe. "Or something that kills us."
Finn barked a laugh. "Always the optimist."
Icariel had no desire for excitement or adventure. The only reason he participated in hunts was because of Mjull's single, unbreakable rule: "You must earn your food."
As they rushed through the towering trees, his thoughts churned. "Hunting is always risky. But with Finn's father—the most skilled hunter in the village—leading us, it's reassuring. We've never lost anyone. Never had any real trouble."
Despite his fears, a strange sense of gratitude settled in his chest. "Without this rule, I wouldn't even have a roof over my head. I have no father. No mother. No siblings. I don't even know where I came from. The people of Mjull took me in when I was just a baby. As long as I contribute to the hunts, they give me food, shelter, and a place to belong. For that, I'm thankful. But still… it's a risk."
Finn suddenly skidded to a stop, pointing ahead. "We should turn here! Look—father marked a tree. Three Xs—it's like saying turn right and run straight."
Icariel followed his gaze. Three X marks had been carved into the bark, a silent message from Finn's father. A simple yet effective system the hunters used to guide each other through the mountains—directional signs, warnings, even silent messages when words weren't an option.
As they were about to turn right, the voice in Icariel's mind spoke—hesitant, almost uncertain.
[…Turn left.]
Icariel's eyes widened. "Why?" he asked in his mind.
A beat of silence. Then, firmer:
[Left.]
It had never given him useless advice before. Never misled him.
"Finn," Icariel said, his voice firm. "I think we should go left this time."
Finn frowned. "Why? The mark clearly says to go right."
"Trust me. I have a hunch."
Finn sighed, shaking his head. "Again with your hunches? You're really weird, you know that? You always talk about these hunches of yours, and every time, you end up being right. Still…" He sighed again, then grinned. "They're dependable. Let's go left, then."
With that, they veered off the marked path, running in the opposite direction of the hunters' trail—straight into the unknown.
After running for a while, a deep, guttural growl echoed through the trees.
"We're getting closer to the others," Finn said breathlessly.
Icariel, however, felt a shiver crawl down his spine. "What is that sound?" It was unlike anything he had heard before—low, menacing, and terrifying.
"Come on, you scaredy-cat! Father is already there," Finn teased, dashing ahead.
But when they arrived at the clearing where the sound had come from—there was no one there.
Panic gripped Icariel. He turned in place, scanning the empty clearing. "Where… where is everyone?"
Finn, too, seemed uneasy. "This doesn't make sense."
Then, from the shadows of the trees, a massive figure emerged.
A bear—but not an ordinary one. Its crimson skin gleamed under the dappled sunlight, its enormous form scarred and wounded. Black, soulless eyes locked onto them, and the ground seemed to tremble beneath its slow, deliberate steps.
Pressure wrapped around them like a suffocating weight.
Finn loosed an arrow, but it barely scratched the creature's hide.
"That hunch of yours," Finn muttered, his voice shaking. "I guess it killed us this time."
Fear gripped Icariel, but before he could speak, the voice in his mind roared.
[DUCK. NOW.]
Without thinking, he grabbed Finn and threw both of them to the ground.
A blur. A deafening crack. A tree trunk tore through the clearing like a cannon shot—obliterating the bear in a single thunderous blow.
Both boys lay frozen in stunned silence.
"...What?"
It was Galien—Finn's father. He had thrown a tree with his bare hands.
Unlike the short Finn, Galien was taller than Icariel, broad-shouldered and muscular. His short brown hair was slightly damp with sweat, and an X-shaped scar marked his left shoulder. He wore only a sleeveless top and black pants, his arms rippling with unnatural strength.
"Father!" Finn called out, relief flooding his voice.
Icariel muttered, "Galien…" his eyes shining with admiration for their savior.
"This new thing was really troublesome," he muttered, shaking his head. "It was too fast and wary—I needed a distraction to get a clean shot."
Finn blinked. "Wait… so you used us as bait?"
Galien grinned, ruffling Finn's hair. "Worked, didn't it? You're both still alive. That's a win in my book."
Rubbing his hands, Galien smirked. "To think you boys were the fastest to arrive after hearing the news… Even you, Icariel, the scaredy-cat!" he laughed.
"Father, stop mocking my friend!" Finn huffed.
"Shut up, Finn. You know I like him more than you."
"Fatherrr!" Finn whined, pretending to be angry.
But Icariel's mind was racing. "Finn had received the news from the adults, had the time to find him, and yet they still arrived before the other hunters? That didn't make sense."
And then another realization struck him like ice down his spine.
"Galien," he said slowly, "why did you leave three X-marks on the trees when you should have left two so we could turn left and not right?"
Galien blinked. "Three? No… I only carved two. That path was never meant to send you right."
Icariel's blood ran cold. He glanced back toward the forest, heart thudding.
Someone else had changed the mark.
Or something.
The voice in his head remained silent now—but the hairs on the back of his neck told him one thing: They weren't alone in those woods.
[End of Chapter 1]