The village of Bramble Hollow was quiet that morning, cloaked in dew and birdsong. A gentle breeze carried the scent of wild herbs from the woods, and the sun filtered through the canopy like golden lace. To the outside world, it was just another nameless hamlet nestled at the edge of forgotten hills—but for Lysander Varian, it was the only home he had ever known.
He stood barefoot on the grass behind the cottage, staring into the horizon, his arms crossed as the morning wind tangled his dark curls. There was a tightness in his chest he couldn't name—a weight that had settled in his bones long before he understood what it meant to carry a burden.
Today was his seventeenth birthday.
And something felt… wrong.
He'd woken before dawn, shivering, drenched in sweat from a dream he couldn't remember. Just flashes: an ivory tower cracking in moonlight, a crimson sigil dissolving into dust, voices shouting names he didn't know—names that still made his heart ache. He felt them more than remembered them.
He turned toward the woods. They always calmed him, but lately even they felt distant, like a melody he once knew but couldn't hum anymore.
"Lys!"
He turned at the sound of her voice. Elara came bounding across the field, her braid bouncing behind her and a bundle of wildflowers in her hand.
She beamed. "You forgot to meet me, birthday boy."
He smiled faintly. "Sorry. I didn't sleep well."
Elara's smile faltered as she approached. "Another dream?"
He didn't answer. She didn't press. She never did.
Instead, she handed him the flowers. "Happy birthday. These aren't magical, but they smell nicer than your socks."
Lysander laughed—a real one, this time. "That's not hard to beat."
But Elara noticed the shadow behind his eyes. It was the same look she'd seen every time he stumbled out of a dream, every time he stared at the horizon like he was waiting for something to return.
They walked in silence to the grove beyond the cottage, the same place they'd spent countless afternoons since they were children. There was comfort in its familiarity—the tall birch trees, the moss-covered stones, the half-broken statue at its heart. They called it *the Sentinel*, though they didn't know where it had come from.
As they settled into the grass, Elara studied Lysander. "Have you ever felt like you're… someone else?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Like… like there's this version of you inside, waiting to wake up. Someone stronger. Someone who knows things you don't. But you can't reach them."
Lysander swallowed. "Yeah," he said quietly. "All the time."
The wind stirred again, sharper this time, and Elara felt a pulse in her chest—a strange pull, like something ancient calling from deep within the earth. Her fingers brushed the stone of the Sentinel, and for a brief moment, she swore it was warm.
Neither of them noticed the faint shimmer that rippled through the air around them.
---
### **Elsewhere: Vespera Tower**
High above the city skyline, in a penthouse built of obsidian and glass, Valen Vespera stared at the wall of magical sigils projected across his chamber. Threads of light danced between them—search patterns, bloodline traces, fragmented magical imprints. All of them pointed to one name.
**Lysander Varian.**
They still hadn't found him, but the signals were strengthening. His powers were awakening. That meant the others wouldn't be far behind.
A woman entered the room—silver-haired, dressed in deep emerald. Isolde Ironwood. Her presence was like a storm waiting to break.
"You felt it too," she said without preamble. "The pulse."
Valen turned, eyes gleaming. "The Chosen One stirs. The first phase has begun."
"Do we act now?"
"Not yet," Valen said. "We let him come to us. When he's stronger, more sure of himself. That's when he'll be most useful… or most vulnerable."
---
### **Back in Bramble Hollow**
Later that night, as the village slept, Lysander stood alone by the Sentinel once more. The moon hung low, and the air crackled with something he couldn't explain.
He held out his hand.
And the wind obeyed.
It coiled around his fingers like a living thing, swirling in a spiral, responding not to words or gestures—but to thought.
Then, without warning, the earth beneath him trembled. Not much—just a subtle shift, like something deep underground had exhaled.
Lysander stumbled back. His heart pounded.
"What the hell—?"
Behind him, a light flared.
Elara stood in the clearing, eyes wide. A translucent barrier shimmered around her—an orb of pure energy that had erupted around her like a reflex.
"I didn't mean to—" she began, staring at the barrier. "I just felt something dangerous, and… it happened."
Lysander's breath caught.
"You have magic too," he whispered.
Elara looked at him, her eyes glowing faintly gold. "I think… I always have."
They stared at each other, the space between them alive with unsaid things.
Then, the Sentinel stone cracked.
A pulse of light erupted from its core, flooding the grove in a wave of ancient magic. In that blinding instant, Lysander's vision fractured—he saw flashes of people he didn't know, fire and water dancing in his hands, voices shouting his name, a shield raised above a battlefield, seven figures standing in a circle.
And then—darkness.
---
### **Unknown Location: The Maelroth Crypts**
Far beneath the city, in the chamber of bones lit by green fire, Elias Maelroth opened his eyes.
He rose from the circle of ash, his voice a whisper of dread.
"They're awakening."
He turned to the skeletal attendants. "Send word to the Ashwoods and Vesperas. Tell them the hunt begins anew."
He stepped into the shadows. "We will not let the Seven rise again."
---
### **Back in the Grove**
Lysander collapsed to his knees, gasping. Elara caught him, her hands shaking.
"Lys! Are you okay?"
"I saw them," he rasped. "I saw… everything. I think… I think we're not who we thought we were."
Elara's eyes widened. "Who are we, then?"
He looked at her, trembling.
"We're the last of them. The Seven Families. And someone's coming for us."