Dawn never truly came to Feyrwell.
Not today.
Instead of a soft glow from the horizon, a dim silver haze spread like diluted ink across the sky—an imitation of morning, fragile and incomplete. The settlement stirred uneasily, murmurs weaving through streets and alleys.
Something had been seen near the walls last night.
Something tall.
Something wrong.
No one spoke openly, but fear clung to the air with the persistence of damp fog.
Aren Astar walked with quiet steps toward the inner chambers of the Hall of Oaths. He had not slept—he doubted anyone had—but his mind remained sharp. Sharp enough to keep last night's events arranged neatly in his thoughts:
The door without a handle.
The whisper calling him Bearer.
The creature outside the walls.
And the word it spoke—
"Precursor."
Aren didn't know what that meant.
But he intended to find out.
He reached the meeting chamber. It was a circular room with high ceilings and ancient stone engravings—worn symbols whose meanings had long faded. Twelve Oath-Keepers sat in a ring, robes draped over their forms like sagging shadows. Elder Rhan stood at the center.
Rhan's expression tightened when Aren entered.
"Sit, Aren Astar."
Aren remained standing. "I'd rather remain as I am."
Some Oath-Keepers frowned at his directness. But Rhan sighed. "Very well."
Rhan raised his voice slightly. "We convene today because the Veil has thinned prematurely. And because this boy—" He gestured toward Aren. "—has been marked by a Sigil."
Soft murmurs filled the chamber.
"Dangerous…"
"Unpredictable…"
"Will the Wilds draw near again?"
Aren spoke, refusing to let assumptions shape the narrative. "Something came last night."
The chamber fell silent.
Rhan exhaled. "…Describe it."
"A tall creature. Long limbs. Face that could stretch into a mock smile. It vanished when I saw it clearly—dissolved into black particles."
The Oath-Keepers stiffened.
"Did it speak?" Rhan asked.
Aren held his gaze steadily. "It called me something. 'Precursor.'"
The word slithered through the chamber like a cold draft.
Several Oath-Keepers muttered prayers under their breaths.
Rhan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Then the rumors are true… The Wilds have begun stirring again."
Aren scanned the chamber. "You know something about this term."
Rhan hesitated. Then nodded to an attendant, who brought an old scroll wrapped in faded black cloth.
Rhan unrolled it carefully.
The parchment was inked with a sketch:
A tall, twisted figure.
Long limbs.
Hollow eyes.
A mouth sliced too wide.
Aren recognized it instantly.
The creature from last night.
Underneath the illustration, a single title:
"The Vaylen: Heralds of the Precursor Epoch."
Aren's eyes sharpened. "You knew these creatures existed."
"We feared they did," Rhan admitted. "But no Vaylen has manifested near Feyrwell for over three centuries."
"What are they?" Aren asked.
Rhan tapped the parchment. "They were the assistants—no, the hunters—of ancient beings believed to exist before our epoch. Entities of overwhelming authority. Some called them gods. Others… calamities wearing shape."
"And the Vaylen?" Aren pressed.
"Messengers. Sent to observe, track… and prepare the way."
Aren's voice dropped. "Prepare the way for what?"
Rhan's silence spoke volumes.
The other Oath-Keepers shifted uneasily.
Aren inhaled slowly. "Then let me narrow it down. The Vaylen called me 'Precursor'. You believe that means… what, exactly?"
Only one Oath-Keeper dared answer. A pale, tremoring woman. Her voice cracked.
"That you are…
either a successor of their kind—
or a beacon for their return."
The room fell deathly still.
No one could meet Aren's eyes.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't tremble.
Didn't show the fear they clearly expected from him.
"Then you should be glad I'm calm," he said quietly. "Panic would make this worse."
Rhan let out a long breath. "Calm, yes. But calmness doesn't solve the threat."
Aren stepped forward. "Then tell me what you need."
The Oath-Keepers exchanged looks.
Rhan studied Aren for a long moment. "Last night… did the Sigil inside you act strangely?"
Aren considered. "It reacted when I saw the Vaylen. It showed me more than human eyes could see."
"That confirms it," Rhan whispered. "The Sigil inside you has begun its awakening."
"Awakening?" Aren echoed. "Is that good or bad?"
Rhan grimaced. "Both. You may gain power. But you may attract greater attention from beyond the Veil."
Aren's jaw tensed. "Then I need control."
"Yes," Rhan said, tone surprisingly earnest. "And that is why we asked you here."
The Oath-Keepers parted, forming a path leading to a sealed stone archway at the back of the chamber.
The archway was engraved with symbols Aren recognized from last night's book—twisted lines, spirals, and circles.
"The Chamber of Binding," Rhan said. "Only a Sigil-bearer may enter."
"What's inside?" Aren asked.
"No one alive knows," Rhan admitted grimly. "It was built long before Feyrwell existed. We only guard it."
A challenge.
A risk.
A necessity.
Aren stepped toward the archway.
But before he could cross the threshold, Rhan stopped him with a firm grip.
"Aren Astar," he said quietly. "There is something you must understand. If you enter… you may not return the same. Or at all."
Aren looked him in the eye—steady, unwavering.
"I've already changed, Elder. The moment the Sigil entered me."
Rhan swallowed. "…Then may the Oaths watch over you."
Aren crossed the threshold.
The stone archway sealed behind him.
Darkness filled the chamber, then receded—replaced by a dim blue glow emanating from symbols on the walls. The room was circular, empty save for a single pedestal in the center.
Upon it lay an object:
A small obsidian shard, no longer than a finger.
It pulsed faintly—matching the rhythm of Aren's heart.
Aren stepped closer.
His breath hitched. The shard resonated with the Sigil in his chest, humming softly, calling him.
But the moment Aren reached for it—
Something else moved.
A whisper.
A subtle distortion of air.
A presence unfurling in the chamber like a long-neglected apparition.
Aren turned sharply.
Behind him, a figure had appeared.
Not a creature.
Not a Vaylen.
Not fully human, either.
It wore a hooded mantle of tattered memory—its surface shifting like pages of an unfinished book.
Its face was blank.
Featureless.
Yet Aren felt its gaze.
"Bearer."
The voice resonated directly in his mind—not cruel, not hostile… but ancient.
"You approach the shard. You seek strength. But strength without identity becomes hunger."
Aren didn't step back. "Who are you?"
The figure remained still.
"We are what remains of a forgotten epoch. We are the ones who held the Sigils before your kind named them."
Aren's eyes narrowed. "A former Sign-bearer."
The figure inclined its head slightly.
"The shard will awaken the first layer of your Sigil. But to take it without an anchor will unravel you."
"How do I anchor it?" Aren asked.
The figure spread its arms.
"You must speak your Will."
Aren frowned. "My Will?"
"State what you refuse to become.
State what you intend to become.
State the weight you choose to bear."
The chamber trembled.
Aren approached the pedestal.
The shard's surface rippled, as if responding to him.
His reflection stared back—calm, steady eyes burning with quiet resolve.
He placed a hand over his chest, where the fragment had entered.
His heartbeat synced with the shard.
He spoke softly, but with steel underneath:
"I refuse to be a vessel for whatever lurks beyond the Veil."
The shard pulsed brighter.
"I refuse to lose myself."
Brighter still.
"I intend to rise beyond weakness."
The air hummed.
"I intend to understand the Veil—
and surpass the dangers tied to it."
The chamber vibrated violently.
Aren exhaled.
"And I choose to bear this weight, no matter how heavy."
Silence.
Then—
The shard burst into light.
It flew into Aren's chest, merging with the Sigil. His veins glowed faintly under his skin—lines of power, incomplete yet awakening.
Symbols flashed in his mind.
A whisper echoed:
—Sigil Awakening: First Layer… granted.
—Authority: Perception Beyond the Veil… strengthened.
—Instability: moderate.
Aren gasped sharply, gripping his chest.
But he didn't fall.
He endured.
The figure watched.
Then whispered:
"You have taken the first step. The world will feel it… and they will come."
Aren steadied his breath. "Who?"
The figure's head tilted.
"Those who fear the Precursor—and those who wish to serve it."
Before Aren could ask more, the figure dissolved into fragments of memory.
The chamber dimmed.
The archway behind him unsealed.
He stepped out.
Rhan and the Oath-Keepers gasped when they saw the faint glow still lingering in Aren's veins.
Rhan whispered, horrified and awed:
"…You awakened it."
Aren nodded slowly.
"Good," he said.
"For danger is already on its way."