The stars fell on the night Kael was born.
Not one. Not a dozen. Hundreds.
The sky turned red with fire, and the heavens wept light over the shattered peaks of the Drevalyn Mountains. All across the world, people cried out in fear. Priests whispered prophecies. Kings locked their gates. But in a forgotten village buried in the snow, a boy was born under the light of a dying star.
They named him Kael.
Sixteen years later, Kael stood at the edge of the cliff, wind biting through his cloak. Far below, the forest writhed like a sleeping beast—silent, endless, unknowable. Behind him, the village was nothing but flickering lanterns and smoke curling into the sky.
His fingers tightened around the strange, black shard that hung from his neck. It pulsed—faintly—like a heartbeat. His heartbeat.
"You're not supposed to go there," said a voice behind him.
Kael turned. It was Arin, the healer's daughter. Her red scarf danced in the wind, her arms crossed tightly.
"The forest is cursed," she continued. "You know that. No one comes back."
"Maybe it wants me to come," Kael said, almost smiling.
"You always talk like that. Like you're some hero from a legend."
Kael looked back at the trees. "Maybe I am."
That night, Kael dreamed of fire.
The world burned. Cities crumbled. A giant eye stared from the sky—not the sun, not the moon, but something ancient and hungry. Beneath it, a figure stood tall in black armor, eyes glowing red like coals, and in its hand—a sword made of starlight.
Kael woke up with his clothes soaked in sweat and the shard on his chest glowing bright blue.
Something had awakened.