That night, Kael's sleep was restless. Shadows pressed at the edges of his mind, and he found himself walking through a land that was not his own. Towers of black stone jutted from a wasteland of ash, their peaks clawing at a blood-red sky. Chains as wide as rivers stretched across the horizon, binding something vast beyond sight.
He heard chanting—low, guttural, and ancient. Each word vibrated in his bones. In the center of the barren plain, a colossal sigil blazed with violet fire, its lines fractured, its glow unsteady.
Kael stumbled closer, drawn by an invisible pull. The closer he came, the louder the chanting grew, until it became a roar. He could not tell if the voices came from within the sigil or from the shadows themselves.
Suddenly, the ground split open. A hand, massive and clawed, burst from the fissure. Its black talons scraped against the chains, sparks of violet lightning scattering into the sky. Kael froze, terror rooting him in place, yet he could not look away.
The colossal sigil pulsed once, twice—then shattered.
The world collapsed into darkness.
Kael awoke with a cry, drenched in sweat. The dim outline of his small room came into focus—the wooden beams above, the familiar quilt tangled at his feet, the morning light seeping through the shutters. It had only been a dream.
And yet, as he pressed a trembling hand against his chest, he felt it—the faint warmth of something beneath his skin, echoing the fire he had seen in that dream.