Beneath the Silence
The morning sunlight crawled reluctantly through the dusty blinds of a modest apartment on the fourth floor of a weather-worn building in Greystone City. The rays painted golden lines across a cluttered desk, a half-eaten loaf of bread, and a tattered physics textbook. In the corner of the room, buried beneath an old woolen blanket, a boy stirred.
Aaron Cole's eyes fluttered open.
There was that dream again.
The same one that haunted his nights for as long as he could remember — a dream of a vast void, of celestial chains wrapping around a dying star, and a colossal sword suspended in blackness. And the voice. Always that same voice whispering a single word:
"Awaken."
He sat up, breathing slowly, rubbing his palms against his face. His room was cold, despite the August heat. A chill hung in the air — one that had nothing to do with temperature. Aaron glanced down at his wrist. The faint scar, curved like a crescent moon, pulsed ever so slightly.
Again.
He pressed his fingers to it. The warmth was gone in seconds, as if it had never been there.
"Aaron! Breakfast! You're going to be late again!"
The shout came from the kitchen. Aunt Tola — his late mother's younger sister — had taken him in twelve years ago, and although her voice often carried irritation, her actions screamed love.
"Coming!" he shouted back, hopping out of bed.
He moved with practiced rhythm — toothbrush, quick shower, uniform. By the time he got to the kitchen, Aunt Tola was already seated in her wheelchair, sipping tea and watching a small TV on the counter. She looked up as he entered.
"You've got those dream-eyes again," she said, raising an eyebrow.
Aaron paused. "Didn't sleep well."
"You never do. That scar acting up again?"
He nodded but said nothing more. She studied him with quiet worry but didn't press. Instead, she gestured at the toast and eggs.
"Eat, boy. You've got school. And that Lyra girl might actually talk to you today if you don't look like you got run over by a spirit."
Aaron almost choked. "Aunt!"
She laughed. That full, unfiltered laugh that reminded him why he loved mornings, even when they came with strange dreams and glowing scars.
---
The city was already awake when Aaron stepped outside. Greystone hummed with noise — cars, vendors, students, and the ever-present announcements from the speaker poles scattered across neighborhoods. A fusion of modern tech and urban decay, the city was alive but tired, like an old soldier still marching out of habit.
Aaron moved quickly, backpack slung over one shoulder. The streets were familiar, yet every so often he'd catch himself staring at shadows — wondering if something moved where it shouldn't have. There was a static in the air today. Not just in his mind — the world itself felt... off.
He reached Crownfield High just as the gates were closing.
"Aaron! Yo! You made it!" came a voice.
Kenny Obasi. Best friend, class clown, and lover of sneakers more than books. His broad smile was contagious.
"Barely," Aaron replied, bumping fists with him.
"You look like you've been to war. Didn't sleep again?"
Aaron gave a half-shrug. Kenny didn't push. That was his thing — always knowing when to laugh and when to let silence win.
Classes began. Literature, then mathematics, then chemistry. Hours blurred, but Aaron's mind kept drifting. He couldn't focus. The scar itched. His thoughts spiraled.
Then it happened.
During lunch, in the courtyard, as students scattered across the concrete benches and under rustling trees, she appeared.
Lyra Vex.
She walked alone, as usual. Tall, composed, with strange silver highlights woven into her dark braids. Her eyes were a piercing gray — unnatural, even. Every student had theories. Rich transfer student. Cult runaway. Government experiment. Alien.
Aaron didn't believe any of them.
Because when she looked at him — like she did now — time slowed.
Literally.
Everything around him paused. The wind. The noise. The chatter. Even Kenny's laughter froze in place.
It was just him and Lyra.
She tilted her head, slightly. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Instead, a sudden surge of energy pulsed through Aaron's chest. The scar burned bright. He gasped.
And then — like a broken signal — everything snapped back.
He was on the ground. Students stared. Kenny rushed over.
"Aaron? Bro, you alright? You just — you fainted or something."
Aaron blinked. Lyra was gone.
---
The rest of the day was a blur. He couldn't concentrate. Couldn't speak. He avoided questions, kept to himself, and walked home slower than usual.
But that night — the dream changed.
He stood not in a void but on a battlefield — stars above, fire below. In front of him was the sword again. But this time, he wasn't alone.
There were seven figures, blurred, cloaked in shifting light. They stood in a circle, chanting.
Chains stretched from their bodies — not around the sword, but into the universe itself.
Then one of them turned toward Aaron.
A woman's voice. Familiar. Cold. Powerful.
"You were placed on Earth for a reason, Aaron Cole. They all were. The planet is not a refuge. It is a gate."
And just before he awoke — the stars screamed.
---
Aaron jolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat. The scar was glowing again, brighter than ever. Outside, the city was quiet.
But far above, in the sky no one thought to question, something ancient had begun to stir.
And it had remembered his name.