Echoes of the forgotten Realm

The wind carried whispers through the Valley of Nareth, where time seemed to sleep. Elara knelt beside the stream, her hands stained with the juice of crushed moonberries. The petals glowed faintly beneath the twilight sky, but her mind wasn’t on the herbs—something ancient stirred deep in her bones. “Daydreaming again?” Old Mirell called from behind the herb shed, her crooked frame outlined against the lantern light. “That won’t fill the tonic jars.” Elara blinked. “Sorry, Mistress.” Mirell huffed, waving a bony hand. “The stars are out early. Bad omen. Hurry along now, girl.” Elara stood, brushing her hands on her apron. The willow tree near the stream rustled louder than usual, though the wind had died. Its silvered leaves shimmered under the growing moonlight. She paused. Something... called her. Drawn like a moth to flame, she stepped beneath the branches. The tree’s roots curled into the earth like ancient fingers gripping forgotten secrets. At its base lay a hollow, partly hidden by moss. She knelt, curiosity overriding fear, and pulled the moss aside. There, embedded in stone, was a hilt. Not rusted. Not broken. Clean—smooth—etched with unfamiliar runes. A sword, buried in the roots of the willow. She reached out instinctively. Her fingers brushed the metal, and a sharp jolt raced up her arm. Her vision swam. The world blurred The sky was black. Stars burned like dying embers. Before her stood a massive throne of obsidian, and atop it, a woman with hair like shadow and eyes of fire. “Elara,” the voice echoed in her skull. “The realm remembers.” She gasped and fell back, her breath ragged. The vision faded, the sword glowing faintly with inner fire. Her heart thundered. She scrambled to her feet, backing away, leaves crunching underfoot. “Elara!” It was Mirell again, her voice sharp. “Where are you?” Elara turned back to the willow. The sword was gone—vanished, as if it had never been there. Back inside the cottage, Elara stirred the tonic with trembling fingers. Mirell eyed her. “You’ve seen something.” Elara hesitated. “A sword. In the willow.” Mirell’s spoon clattered against the pot. Her eyes narrowed. “The sword has appeared?” she whispered, pale as ash. “You know it?” Elara asked, breath catching. Mirell leaned in. “No more dreams, girl. No more talking of whispers or willows or realms long dead. If the sword’s calling, trouble’s close behind.” Elara opened her mouth to argue, but a deep, distant horn sounded—three low blasts, then silence. Both women froze. “No,” Mirell murmured. “Not now. Not again.” Elara’s blood turned to ice. From the window, smoke rose over the ridge. Horses thundered in the valley. Shadows moved in the dark. Riders. Coming fast.