Beneath the silver canopy of dawn, the island of Tarethil stirred with a quiet music. The mists rose from the sea like the breath of some ancient beast, curling around the black cliffs that guarded the shore. In the forests of towering oaks, dew fell like stars upon the leaves, and the air was sweet with the scent of pine and earth.
Upon a low ridge, overlooking the sea's restless song, stood a figure: a young lion whose mane was the color of sunrise, deep gold shot through with amber. His name was Kaelar, and though his frame was broad and his eyes bright with courage, his heart was yet untested by the trials that awaited him.
He had come to this place at the bidding of a dream—a dream of fire and water, of stone and air. In it, he had seen the face of an ancient owl, shrouded in moonlight, speaking words he could not remember upon waking. But the feeling of the dream clung to him still, like the hush of the dawn or the weight of an unshed tear.
Kaelar drew a slow breath, feeling the crisp air settle in his lungs. He placed a paw upon the earth, as his father had taught him, and let his thoughts drift down into the soil, where roots coiled like sleeping serpents. He felt the pulse of the world there: slow and deep, a heartbeat beneath the stone.
"My father," he murmured, his voice soft as the morning mist. "You walked these woods before me. May your strength guide me now."
Behind him, the path to the village of Thalran wound like a ribbon of pale stone through the forest. There, the beasts of the island—stags with antlers like living branches, wolves whose songs echoed in the night, badgers with the patience of the hills—went about their daily toils. Yet Kaelar knew that his steps led elsewhere: to the fortress-monastery of the Order of Peace, whose white spires crowned the cliffs like a circlet of ivory.
He had heard the Order's summons weeks ago: a whisper borne on the wind, calling those who felt the stirrings of the Magia in their bones. It was said that none chose the Order, but that the Order chose them. And so he had set out from the hearth of his kin, driven by a certainty he could not name.
As he walked, the forest seemed to lean close around him. The pines rose like pillars in some vast hall, their trunks dark and fragrant, and the undergrowth was a tapestry of moss and fern. Here and there, half-hidden by roots and fallen leaves, lay the relics of the old world: rusted cogs and broken gears, half-swallowed by the earth, reminders of the beasts' ancient love for machine and craft.
Kaelar paused beside a shallow pool, its surface still as glass. Beneath the water, he saw a flicker of light: a pale flame that danced and wove, though there was no wind to stir it. He bent closer, his breath sending ripples across the mirrored face of the pool.
In that wavering image, he saw himself: mane tangled by the forest's fingers, eyes bright with questions. And behind him, for the briefest instant, he saw the owl from his dream: feathers white as moonlight, eyes like twin moons. It spoke no words, yet Kaelar felt its meaning in his bones.
The path is before you. But you must choose to walk it.
The vision faded as swiftly as it had come, leaving only the whisper of leaves and the hush of the morning air. Kaelar rose, his resolve firm as the ancient stones beneath his paws.
He turned his steps toward the cliffs, where the white walls of the Order waited. There he would learn the old songs of water and flame, of earth and sky. There he would find his place in the weaving of the world's great song.
And as he went, the forest seemed to sing to him: a low, murmuring music, ancient and endless. It spoke of roots that ran deeper than memory, of winds that carried the voices of the past, and of a fire that burned in every heart—waiting, patient, for the one who dared to claim it.
Thus began the journey of Kaelar of the Golden Mane, called by the elements, chosen by fate. And though the path was shadowed by doubt and the promise of sorrow, his heart beat with the courage of those who came before.
For in the world of Eshara, where the Magia lay in every leaf and every star, even the smallest soul could kindle the flame that would light the darkness.