Chapter 1: The Prophecy of the Eternal Realm

The visions left Eryndor breathless, his heart pounding as the golden sigil pulsed with an otherworldly energy. The voice that had spoken to him still echoed in his mind, carrying a weight that felt heavier than the mountains themselves.

As he struggled to regain control of his thoughts, the sigil began to fade, its glow sinking into the earth until only the burnt imprint remained. The forest was silent again, but it was no longer the comforting quiet he had known his whole life. It was the hush before a storm, the breath the world held before something momentous arrived.

He had no time to process what had happened before the sound of approaching footsteps sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through him. Instinct took over, and he ducked behind a fallen tree, his hunter’s training allowing him to move soundlessly. From the shadows, he watched as three figures emerged from the woods.

They were cloaked in deep blue robes embroidered with silver runes, their faces hidden beneath hoods. The air around them shimmered faintly as if reality itself recoiled from their presence. Magisters, Eryndor realized, members of the Order of the Eternal Eye—a secretive sect of scholars and mystics who studied the old prophecies. Their arrival could not be a coincidence.

One of them knelt beside the fading sigil, running gloved fingers over the charred ground. "It has begun," she murmured, her voice sharp yet reverent.

The tallest of the trio turned his head toward Eryndor’s hiding place. "We are not alone."

Eryndor knew he had been spotted. There was no point in hiding anymore. He rose to his feet, muscles tense, his mind racing for an escape. But before he could move, the lead Magister raised a hand, palm outward, in a gesture of peace.

"Fear not, hunter. We mean you no harm."

Eryndor did not lower his guard. "Then why are you here?"

The Magister took a slow step forward, allowing the hood to fall back and revealing a face lined with wisdom and age. His silver eyes gleamed in the early morning light. "Because the stars have spoken your name, Eryndor Valis."

Hearing his full name from a stranger sent a chill down his spine. "How do you know who I am?"

The female Magister, still kneeling by the sigil, responded. "Because you are marked by the Prophecy of the Eternal Realm. You have seen the visions, have you not?"

Eryndor hesitated. He had no reason to trust them, but something told him they were not lying. "What do you know of the prophecy?"

The third Magister finally spoke, his voice deep and resonant. "It is said that when the gods abandoned the mortal world, they left behind a final decree—a prophecy that would foretell the rise of one who could either restore the balance of the heavens or break it forever. That prophecy speaks of a mortal who bears the mark of the divine, a soul touched by both light and darkness."

The lead Magister gestured toward Eryndor. "You are that mortal."

Eryndor felt the weight of their words settle on him like a shroud. It was impossible. He was no hero, no warrior. He was just a hunter. "You must be mistaken," he said. "I am no one."

The female Magister shook her head. "The prophecy does not lie. You carry the essence of the gods within you. And soon, others will come seeking you—those who would see the prophecy fulfilled, and those who would see you destroyed before it can come to pass."

Eryndor clenched his fists, frustration boiling beneath his skin. "And what if I want no part in this?"

The lead Magister smiled, though there was sorrow in his expression. "Fate does not wait for permission. Whether you accept it or not, the path has already begun."

Before Eryndor could respond, a sudden shift in the air made all three Magisters stiffen. A new presence stirred in the forest, something dark and cold. The birds that had returned to the trees fell silent once more.

The deep-voiced Magister turned sharply toward the trees. "They are here."

Eryndor followed his gaze, his instincts screaming at him to move. Shadows flickered between the trees, moving unnaturally fast. Then, from the darkness, they emerged.

Hooded figures cloaked in black, their faces hidden behind masks of polished obsidian. Their very presence seemed to distort the light around them. The Veilborn, assassins of the Godless Order, a cult that had long sought to erase any remnants of divine influence from the world.

Their leader stepped forward, his voice smooth as silk but sharp as a dagger. "Step aside, Magisters. The boy comes with us."

The lead Magister moved protectively in front of Eryndor. "You serve the fallen god, Xaltheon. You would see the world burn before allowing the prophecy to be fulfilled."

The Veilborn leader tilted his head. "We would see the world free from the chains of gods and destiny." His eyes, black as the void, locked onto Eryndor. "Come willingly, hunter, and your death will be swift."

Eryndor felt the cold touch of fear, but beneath it, something stirred—a spark of defiance, of strength that did not belong to him alone. The visions returned in flashes. The throne of stars. The sword of flame. The shadow devouring the sky.

He did not understand them yet. But he knew one thing: he was not ready to die.

The Magisters drew their weapons—elegant blades humming with runic power. The Veilborn reached for their curved daggers, dark energy crackling around them.

The battle for Eryndor had begun.

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