The seasons turned with gentle, steady rhythm, and peace settled deep into the bones of the land like warm sunlight into stone. Yet even amidst the blooming orchards and golden harvests, something quiet and strange began to stir—not the sharp, jagged threat of old, but a soft, persistent hum that seemed to rise from the very earth itself. It woke in the whispering leaves, in the rushing waters, in the light that spilled each morning over the eastern peaks. And it called to me.
I felt it first in my dreams—visions of ancient forests, of starlight woven into living things, of voices speaking in a language older than memory. I would wake with my heart racing, silver light clinging faintly to my fingertips, words I could not quite remember lingering on my tongue. At first I kept it to myself,
