The wind shifted.
Lyrius felt it before he heard it—a subtle tremor in the air, like the forest itself was holding its breath. Trees, ancient and vast, towered around him, their leaves rustling with voices older than the cities of men. The path ahead curved into mist, and beyond that, silence stretched like a warning.
He slowed his steps.
For hours he had wandered deeper into Eldraen Vale, away from roads and the world of coin and steel. He didn't know why, not truly. He had followed instinct—the same instinct that woke him before danger, that guided his hand in battle, that urged him now to walk this forgotten path.
The woods around him weren't normal.
The air here shimmered faintly, like heat over stone, but it wasn't warm. Strange runes etched themselves into the bark of nearby trees as he passed, glowing for mere seconds before vanishing. No animals stirred. No birds called. And yet, Lyrius felt no fear. Only curiosity. And something else… familiarity.
Like he had been here before.
He reached a clearing, and there, at the center, stood a tree unlike any other—taller than all, its bark silver-black, its roots webbed with glowing lines that pulsed like veins. At its base, embedded into the earth, lay a stone slab covered in dust and moss. It called to him—not with words, but with emotion: sorrow, longing, purpose.
Lyrius approached.
As he knelt beside the stone, brushing away the moss, the carvings beneath revealed themselves—symbols of the Arkanis Weave, a power thought lost to history. Only spoken of in myths.
Before he could make sense of it, a voice echoed behind him.
"You shouldn't be here, boy."
Lyrius turned swiftly, blade halfway drawn. A figure stood at the edge of the clearing—tall, cloaked, face hidden beneath a hood of midnight blue. A staff of knotted ashwood rested in his hand, topped with a dimly glowing crystal.
"I didn't know this place existed," Lyrius replied, cautious but calm.
"Few do," the stranger said, stepping into view. His eyes, pale gold, shimmered in the dim light. "Fewer still are called here."
Lyrius narrowed his gaze. "Called?"
The man ignored the question, instead looking him over as if weighing his soul. "You carry the scent of the Weave. Dormant, yes… but not broken. That means only one thing."
Lyrius waited.
"You survived the Veilborn Reaping."
"I don't know what that is."
"Not yet," the man said. "But you will. The fact that you're alive… the fact that the Heartroot woke for you… means you are not ordinary. Something ancient stirs in you, Lyrius. And soon, the world will come to fear it—or follow it."
Lyrius frowned. "How do you know my name?"
The stranger smiled. "Because I was told to find you."
And then, without another word, the man raised his staff.
Light flared.
The ground beneath Lyrius's feet trembled as glowing lines erupted from the stone slab, rushing outward like veins of fire. The symbols on the trees returned, pulsing rapidly. The clearing filled with a soft hum—a chorus of magic long forgotten.
Suddenly, Lyrius felt it. In his chest.
A force.
Not like the muscles of his body or the rhythm of breath, but something deeper—like threads running through his soul, taut and alive. They tugged, hummed, reacted to the world around him. He fell to one knee, gripping the earth.
"What… is this?" he muttered.
"The Weave," the man said gently. "It binds all things—stone, storm, spirit. It was once wielded by the Arkanites, the first mages. It is not learned. It is remembered."
Lyrius looked up, eyes burning silver for a heartbeat before dimming.
And just like that, it was gone.
The forest stilled.
The symbols faded.
Lyrius exhaled sharply and stood. "Why me?"
The man turned away, cloak swaying. "Because the world is dying. And only those who remember the Weave can stop it."
Then, he vanished into the trees, leaving Lyrius alone once more.
But he wasn't the same.
The Weave had stirred in him.
And destiny, like the roots of the forest, had begun to grow.