Graythorn Village rested in one of the last pockets of calm the region still remembered.

  Wooden fences. Muddy paths. Lanterns swaying softly in the breeze.

  A quiet place.

  A place Joren never thought he’d leave.

  Aetheria had not always been like this — fractured, uncertain, haunted. Long before Joren was born, the world relied on the Afterlife Gate, an ancient construct of unknown origin that carried souls safely into the Beyond. Some called it divine; others believed it was built by a forgotten civilization. But everyone agreed on one truth: the Gate kept Aetheria whole. And seventeen years ago, when it shattered, the world broke with it — birthing demons, warping Aether, and leaving humanity to survive in the ruins of what once had been order.

  He stood alone at the training field, staring at the practice dummy he hadn’t even managed to dent. Other villagers’ strikes carved deep, brutal gouges into it.

  His own?

  Barely scratches.

  His wooden sword lay at his feet.

  Joren, seventeen, slight and narrow-shouldered, looked smaller than his own shadow. His messy black hair fell across silver-ringed eyes, hiding the embarrassment burning inside them. His blue gi hung loosely off his frame — more boy than warrior.

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  I’m not strong. Everyone knows it.

  Heavy footsteps approached behind him.

  “Still beating yourself up over a bad swing?” came a deep, familiar voice.

  Joren turned slightly.

  Bran, twenty-nine, tall and broad like a walking wall of muscle, stepped into the lantern glow. His reinforced leather armor creaked as he moved. A trimmed beard, stern brows, and steady brown eyes made him look carved from the earth itself.

  Joren muttered, “…I barely scratched it.”

  Bran chuckled, placing a large, calloused hand on his shoulder — grounding, warm.

  “That’s because you’re trying to break yourself, not the dummy.”

  Joren managed a weak smile.

  Bran let the silence breathe for a moment before he spoke again.

  “Get some rest. We’ve got the council meeting first thing in the morning. Rowan will skin us alive if we’re late.”

  Joren sighed and picked up his wooden sword.

  As he walked home under the moon’s pale glow, he felt something unusual in the air — a heaviness, a stillness, like the night itself was holding its breath.

  He glanced toward the dark tree line.

  Something… watched.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that life as he knew it was already shifting.

  Already cracking.