A star. Blue and white in a mixture of light through darkness. Then more, and more, until the sky above was filled with them. A beautiful sight, even for the muddiest of souls. You, lying in the grass on a hilltop with your loved one(s) next to you. It could be just a person, or it could be a whole family. You look at the sky and feel that you, finally, belong. You’ve found your home. A quick glance below at the village, and you feel it. It’s truly there. Your house with so much joy and love and happiness that it could fill more than just one lifetime of events.
But then... Then it happens.
Just as before, when you saw it in the past. You blink once, and it’s there. The destruction, the chaos, the hate, the suffering. All of it. You try to stop it, you give your best, and yet... It’s not enough. You feel helpless, so you decide to flee. In the midst of everything, you run and you run... Everything turns to darkness, and then... The eyes. The most hateful, wretched eyes pierce you with a soulless gaze. Below them, the maw. It comes quickly, and as you feel almost paralyzed, it swallows you whole. You fall deep into the abyss and you never wake up. Or so it seems...
Jol woke with a violent start, his chest heaving as if he had just sprinted a sizeable distance. His tunic clung to his skin, drenched in cold sweat, while his heart pounded a relentless rhythm against his ribs. The first tentative rays of dawn crept through the thin, threadbare curtains of his modest bedroom, their golden glow painting faint streaks across the wooden floorboards. Despite the light’s warmth, an unshakable chill lingered in the room, as though the shadows from his dreams refused to relinquish their grip on him.
The nightmare clung to his mind like the acrid scent of smoke after a fire. It was more than just a fleeting vision—it was vivid, searing, a terrible memory that didn’t belong to him yet claimed its place in his consciousness. The 19-year-old swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet finding the cool planks beneath him. He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, his breath uneven. Those eyes. They weren’t just angry—they were hateful, like twin abysses filled with pure malice. And the maw. The memory of it—of jagged teeth and a hunger that felt unending—was as clear now as it had been in the dream.
“It’s just a dream,” he whispered hoarsely to himself, though the words carried no conviction. Jol ran a trembling hand through his disheveled light brown hair, his fingers catching briefly on a tangle he didn’t bother to smooth out. The dream had felt too real, as though it wasn’t his mind conjuring phantoms but his soul unearthing buried truths.
Forcing himself to move, Jol rose to his feet, his tall, muscular frame unfurling with a slight groan as he stretched. The action brought some relief to the tension in his shoulders, but the memory of the dream still weighed heavily on him. Crossing the room, he reached for the basin by the window, his calloused hands fumbling for the pitcher of water. He poured a generous splash into the bowl, the liquid catching the morning light in a momentary shimmer. Jol dipped his hands into the water and brought it to his face, the shock of its coolness jolting him further awake. Droplets trickled down his jawline, dripping onto his chest, but even the cold couldn’t fully chase away the sense of foreboding that lingered like a shadow at his back.
Outside, the faint sounds of the village waking began to filter through his window: the soft clatter of hooves on cobblestones, the chirping of birds greeting the new day, and the faint, cheerful murmur of voices carrying from the square. Today was no ordinary day. Today was the eve of the Festival of Revelation, a day that carried with it both promise and pressure. It was a day when fates would be revealed and futures decided—a day when even the Heart of Gold itself might deign to show its favor.
The thought grounded Jol, tethering him to the here and now. Whatever that nightmare had been, whatever horrors it had shown him, it couldn’t hold sway over reality. Today, the village of Himnar would be a hive of activity, preparing for the grand festival that would take place in the Forest of the Soft Whispers. Tomorrow, he might finally learn the truth about his place in the world.
His mother’s voice broke through his thoughts, warm and familiar. “Jol! Breakfast is ready!”
Her call was accompanied by the soft clinking of dishes from the kitchen below. Jol sighed, inhaling deeply as he steadied himself. He had no time to dwell on strange dreams and dark premonitions. The day ahead would be long, and the festival loomed ever closer. With purposeful motions, he quickly dressed in his usual attire: a simple linen tunic and breeches that spoke to the life of a laborer. As he tightened the laces of his sturdy boots, his green eyes caught his reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall.
The face that stared back at him was both familiar and foreign. His sharp jawline, his unruly hair, and his piercing gaze were all unmistakably his. But there was something in his eyes today—a glint of uncertainty, perhaps even fear—that made him pause. Jol had often been told he had the build of a warrior, his broad shoulders and powerful arms honed by years of work at the forge. Yet, despite the strength that marked his frame, he didn’t see himself as a warrior. Not yet, anyway.
Shaking off the thought, he gave his reflection a final glance and made his way downstairs to the kitchen.
The smell of freshly baked bread greeted Jol as he stepped into the kitchen, mingling with the earthy aroma of porridge simmering on the stove. His mother, Liona, moved with practiced efficiency, setting plates on the sturdy wooden table. Her auburn hair, streaked with silver, was tied back neatly, and her brown eyes were bright despite the early hour.
“Morning, Jol,” she said, glancing up with a smile. “You slept late. You’re usually up before me.”
“Morning, Ma,” Jol replied, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Had trouble sleeping.”
Liona paused, her gaze settling on him. “Dreams again?”
Jol hesitated. He fiddled with the edge of his sleeve, unsure whether he wanted to burden her with the details. “Yeah,” he admitted finally. “The same one. The stars, the village, and... the destruction.”
Her expression softened, and she set down the teapot she’d been holding. Walking over, she took the seat across from him and poured tea into his cup. “You’ve been having these dreams for weeks now,” she said gently. “Do you think they mean something?”
“I don’t know,” Jol said. “It feels real, Ma. Like it’s not just some nightmare, but a warning. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do about it.”
Liona reached out, placing a hand over his. “Dreams can be strange things. They can show us our fears or our hopes. Sometimes they’re just that—dreams. But if it’s more than that, you’ll know. You’ve got a good heart, Jol, and a strong one. Whatever comes your way, you’ll handle it.”
Jol met her eyes. Her words brought him some measure of calm, even if they didn’t banish his doubts. “What if I can’t?” he asked quietly. “What if I’m not enough?”
“You’ve always been enough,” Liona said with conviction. “Strength isn’t just in your arms or your resolve—it’s in knowing who you are and standing by it, even when it’s hard. You’ve got that strength, my boy.”
A small smile tugged at Jol’s lips. “You always know what to say.”
“That’s what mothers are for,” Liona said with a soft laugh. “Now, eat up. The Festival of Revelation is tomorrow, and I’m sure Master Kalric will keep you busy today.”
Jol picked up his spoon and took a bite of the porridge, its warmth spreading through him. “I’m nervous about tomorrow,” he admitted after a moment. “What if the Heart of Gold doesn’t choose me?”
“The Heart of Gold doesn’t choose, Jol,” Liona replied, her voice steady. “It reveals what’s already within you. Whether you touch it or not, you have a destiny. The Heart doesn’t give it to you—it just shows you what you’re capable of.”
Her words struck something deep within him, and he nodded slowly. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all anyone can ask,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. “Now finish your breakfast.”
Jol finished his breakfast in silence, the weight of his thoughts gradually easing as he focused on the familiar routine. When the last spoonful of porridge was gone, he stood, kissed his mother lightly on the cheek, and grabbed his leather satchel by the door.
“Don’t forget to stop by the market if you have time,” Liona called after him. “We could use more flour and some fresh herbs for tomorrow’s feast.”
“Got it, Ma,” Jol replied, pulling the door open.
The village of Himnar was already stirring with life. The cobbled streets echoed with the clatter of wagon wheels and the voices of merchants setting up their stalls. Neighbors greeted each other as they went about their tasks, and children ran past, their laughter ringing through the air as they chased one another between the buildings.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Jol took a deep breath, letting the fresh morning air fill his lungs. Himnar was a simple place, unassuming in its charm. Modest homes with sloping roofs lined the main thoroughfare, their stone walls softened by ivy creeping along the edges. Small shops and workshops flanked the square, their colorful signs swinging gently in the breeze. Today, the village was alive with a unique energy, the kind that only came before an event as important as the Festival of Revelation.
As he made his way toward the forge, Jol nodded greetings to those he passed. Old Ferrik, the cobbler, waved from his stall, where he was already repairing a well-worn pair of boots. Mira, the baker’s daughter, offered him a bright smile as she carried a tray of fresh pastries toward the market. Jol smiled back, though his thoughts remained elsewhere.
The market square was particularly lively, filled with merchants hawking their wares beneath brightly colored awnings. The scents of baked goods, roasted nuts, and smoked meats mingled with the sharper tang of herbs and freshly tanned leather. Children darted between the stalls, clutching small coins as they eyed toys and sweets. Himnar, along with the neighboring villages of Evhock and Sadabret, came together every year for the festival, and this time, Himnar had the honor of organizing it. The villagers were determined to make it a celebration to remember.
Jol’s thoughts returned to the Heart of Gold as he passed a group of workers loading carts with supplies for the festival. The sacred relic would soon be displayed at the heart of the forest, its golden glow a beacon of divine energy. Since he was a boy, Jol had watched others step forward to touch the Heart, their fates revealed in bursts of light or sudden clarity. It was an awe-inspiring sight, but this year, it was his turn.
The forge came into view, its sturdy stone structure standing apart from the bustle of the market. Smoke rose steadily from its chimney, and the faint clang of hammer on metal carried through the air. Jol stepped inside, greeted by the wave of heat and the familiar scent of iron and coal.
“About time, lad,” came the gruff voice of Master Kalric, who was already at work shaping a glowing piece of steel. The older man glanced up, his lined face breaking into a small grin. “Daydreaming about the festival, were you?”
“Something like that,” Jol admitted as he tied his leather apron around his waist.
Kalric chuckled. “Well, we’ve got no time for daydreams today. There’s plenty to be done.” He gestured toward a stack of projects waiting to be finished—blades for ceremonial duels, horseshoes for parade teams, and an assortment of trinkets that would undoubtedly find their way into the hands of merchants.
Jol nodded and rolled up his sleeves. The work was steady and familiar, each hammer strike ringing out in rhythmic precision. The heat of the forge wrapped around him like an old friend, and for a time, the world shrank to the glowing steel before him. Yet even here, his thoughts strayed to the festival, to the dreams that refused to leave him, and to the Heart of Gold.
“Focus, lad,” Kalric’s voice cut through his reverie. “Steel doesn’t shape itself.”
“Sorry, Master Kalric,” Jol replied, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.
“Don’t apologize,” Kalric said, his tone firm but not unkind. “Just remember—destiny isn’t handed to you on a silver platter. It’s forged, just like this steel. Takes effort, patience, and a touch of fire.”
Jol nodded, the older man’s words resonating with him. He redoubled his efforts, letting the rhythm of the forge ground him. By midday, a significant dent had been made in the stack of orders, and Kalric clapped him on the shoulder with a grunt of approval.
“Good work,” the blacksmith said. “Now go wash up and get some food. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.”
Jol set down his tools, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Thanks, Master Kalric,” he said, a flicker of pride warming him. He was good at his job. One more year under the tutelage of Master Kalric and he would become a master blacksmith himself. However, as he was grabbing lunch, the nagging feeling of things to come kept ‘telling’ him that wouldn’t be the case at all…
*****
In the Forest of the Soft Whispers, preparations for the Festival of Revelation were in full swing. The towering trees stretched high above, their ancient branches forming a natural canopy that dappled the forest floor with shifting patterns of sunlight. Birds flitted between the leaves, their songs blending with the hum of activity below. Villagers moved purposefully through the clearing, erecting tents, arranging decorations, and unloading supplies from wagons.
Leaning casually against the trunk of a towering oak, Aluvar Esprit watched the villagers scurry about the clearing. He had an easy grin plastered on his face, his golden eyes glinting with amusement as he observed the chaotic attempts to erect a particularly stubborn tent. One of the ropes snapped, sending the half-raised structure collapsing in on itself, much to the dismay of the workers. Aluvar chuckled softly under his breath.
“Enjoying yourself?” came a sharp voice from behind him.
He turned, already knowing the source. “Raela Zahd,” he said, his grin widening as the red-haired knight strode toward him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this scolding? Did I lean against this tree wrong? Should I have been standing at a sharper angle?”
Raela stopped in front of him, crossing her arms over her chest. The polished plates of her armor caught the sunlight, glinting in a way that made her seem larger than life. Her piercing green eyes, however, held no hint of amusement. “You’ve been standing there for tens of minutes, doing absolutely nothing. Meanwhile, everyone else is working their tails off to get this festival ready. You could at least pretend to help.”
“Pretend?” Aluvar raised an eyebrow. “You wound me, Raela. My mere presence here is a contribution. Someone has to make sure things don’t completely fall apart.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And how, exactly, are you doing that?”
“Morale,” he said smoothly, gesturing to the workers. “Look at them—working tirelessly under the watchful eye of their favorite dragonkin. If that’s not inspiring, I don’t know what is.”
Raela groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re insufferable.”
“No, I’m charming,” he corrected, tapping a finger against his temple. “But it’s an easy mistake to make.”
“You’re impossible.” She glared at him, though a faint twitch of her lips betrayed the effort it took to keep a straight face. “I mean it, Aluvar. This isn’t just some festival. The Heart of Gold is here. Do you think it’s safe right now? How could the Knights previously appointed for this task do this with these few guards?”
Aluvar tilted his head, his grin softening. “Ah, there it is—the Raela special. Always looking for shadows, even on a sunny day.”
“That’s because shadows exist,” she shot back. “You’re experienced, Aluvar. You should know better than to take this lightly.”
“I do know better,” he said, his voice dropping a notch. “But I also know that running yourself ragged worrying about what might happen doesn’t help anyone. You’ve got to learn to pick your battles.”
Raela folded her arms tighter, her expression skeptical. “And this isn’t one of them?”
“Not yet,” he replied, nodding toward the villagers. “Look at them. They’re happy, excited. The last thing they need is one of us storming around, barking about potential threats. You keep everyone safe, Raela, but sometimes that means letting them breathe a little.”
She let out a frustrated sigh, her stance softening ever so slightly. “You make it sound so easy.”
“That’s because it is,” Aluvar said, leaning closer with a conspiratorial grin. “Or, at least, it can be. Try smiling once in a while. You’d be amazed how far it goes.”
“Do you ever stop talking?” she asked, though her tone lacked its usual sharpness.
“Rarely,” he admitted. “But you secretly love it. Reminds you of your older brother, doesn’t it?”
Raela blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. “I... didn’t say anything about my brother.”
“You didn’t have to.” He straightened, his golden eyes losing some of their mischief. “I’m good at reading people, remember? You’re a lot like my little sister was. Always serious, always trying to prove herself.”
Raela frowned, her sharp reply dying on her tongue. “You have a sister?”
“Had,” he said quietly. “She passed years ago. But she was a lot like you. Stubborn. Determined. Took everything far too seriously.” His grin returned, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “She would’ve hated me saying that.”
Raela hesitated, unsure of what to say. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Aluvar said, waving her off. “She was the best of us, and she knew it. I just wish she’d learned to loosen up a little sooner.” He gave her a pointed look. “Hint, hint.”
Raela rolled her eyes, but there was a softness in her expression now. “You truly are impossible.”
“And you’re predictable,” he said, stepping away from the tree. “But I like you anyway. Now, how about we go supervise the tent-building effort together? I promise to stand at an appropriately heroic angle this time.”
“Aluvar—” she started, but her words were cut off by a scream that echoed through the clearing.
Both knights froze, their banter forgotten in an instant. Raela’s hand flew to the hilt of her sword as she spun toward the source of the sound. Aluvar’s playful smirk vanished, replaced by the sharp focus of a seasoned fighter.
“Stay close,” Raela said, her voice tight but steady.
“Wouldn’t dream of leaving you,” Aluvar replied, his tone grim but still carrying a hint of that familiar warmth. “Let’s go.”
Before Raela could add anything, the scream was followed by frantic rustling, and a young woman burst into the clearing. Her face was pale, and her wide eyes were filled with terror as she stumbled forward.
“Demons!” she cried, her voice trembling. “They’re coming!”
Aluvar glanced at Raela, his golden eyes sharp. “Well, that’s one way to liven up a festival.”
Raela didn’t respond. Her sword was already drawn, her gaze fixed on the shadows beneath the trees.
“Let’s move,” she said, her voice low but firm.
“One second… Form up!” Aluvar barked the second part towards the villagers, his voice cutting through the rising chaos. “Everyone, behind the wagons! Form a barricade!”
As the few tens of people started to mobilize, he looked again at Raela. He focused and prayed for a brief moment, pleading the Archlight to be with them today. He didn’t want to lose another younger sister. Side by side, they advanced toward the edge of the clearing, their weapons at the ready. The shadows among the trees seemed to thicken, and a chill swept through the air, carrying with it the stench of decay.
Whatever was coming, it wasn’t stopping.
