The Tiller's Prophecy

Chapter 1: The Farmer's Awakening

Kael

The sun was barely up when I stepped out of the cottage, the cool morning air filling my lungs. It was always quiet in the early hours—just the birds, the wind, and me. I could hear the distant sound of water dripping from the well and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. For a moment, everything felt normal.

I grabbed the sickle, its weight familiar in my hand. Same routine every day—work the fields, tend to the crops, maybe patch up the fence again if the sheep had gotten restless overnight. My mother always said it was a good life, and in truth, I had no reason to disagree. Durnwood was a small village, tucked away in the shadow of the Everpeak Mountains, far from the troubles of the world. No one ever came here unless they were lost or had business with the harvest.

That was the life I knew, and I was content. Or at least, I had been. Until today.

I don't know why it had been pulling at me for weeks, but there was something about the grove at the edge of the farm, hidden behind the Ironspine trees, that I couldn't shake from my mind. It was a forbidden place—my parents had made that clear since I was a boy. But no one ever explained why, and the older I got, the more I wondered what was really out there.

Still, there was work to be done. The wheat had grown tall in the summer sun, and if we wanted to make the market this season, there was no time to waste. I bent down and swung the sickle, feeling the familiar strain in my back as I worked my way through the fields. It should have been enough to keep my thoughts focused, but my mind kept wandering, back to that grove, to the shadows beneath the trees.

There was something out there. Something waiting.

By noon, I couldn't ignore it anymore. I dropped the sickle and wiped the sweat from my forehead, glancing toward the Ironspine Forest, where the dark shapes of the trees seemed to bend and twist in the light. My father had always warned me about that place. Nothing good comes from poking around the old things, he'd say. But today, I didn't care.

My feet carried me to the edge of the field before I could stop myself. The wind shifted as I neared the treeline, colder, sharper, like the very air didn't want me there. But that only made me more curious. What was it my parents were so afraid of?

The underbrush was thick, but I pushed through, my heart beating faster with every step. The trees grew denser the deeper I went, their branches hanging low as if trying to hide something. And then, through a break in the trees, I saw it—an ancient stone archway, half-covered in moss and vines. It looked like it had been there for centuries, forgotten by everyone.

I should have turned back then. Something about the place felt wrong, like the very ground beneath me was holding its breath. But I couldn't. Something—no, someone—was calling me forward.

I stepped closer to the arch, running my fingers over the stone. It was cold, much colder than it should have been, and the surface was covered in strange symbols—markings I'd never seen before. As my hand brushed one of the symbols, a faint glow flickered beneath my fingers. My heart skipped a beat.

There was no going back now.

Beyond the archway was a small clearing, and in the center, something caught my eye—an old stone pedestal, almost completely swallowed by the earth. And on top of it, an ancient book. It looked untouched by time, despite the vines and roots growing all around it.

I don't know what possessed me, but I stepped forward, my breath coming in shallow gasps. The air in the clearing felt thick, heavy, like the weight of centuries was pressing down on me. Every instinct I had screamed to turn around and run, but my feet wouldn't listen.

I reached out, my fingers trembling as they touched the book. The leather was cracked, worn from age, but the moment I laid my hand on it, the symbols on the cover began to glow. A warmth spread through me, like a spark that had been buried deep inside suddenly flaring to life. I opened the book.

The pages were filled with more symbols—ancient runes that seemed to shift and twist before my eyes. But somehow, I understood them. The words formed in my mind, not in the language I knew, but in something older, something that resonated deep inside me.

"When the shadow of the moon devours the sun, and the last breath of summer carries the cry of the raven..."

I could barely breathe. The words were speaking to me, filling my mind with images I couldn't understand—cities in flames, mountains crumbling, a figure shrouded in darkness. And then the final line echoed in my mind:

"Azrathos, Bringer of Ruin, shall walk the lands once more... but from the soil of the humble shall rise the one foretold."

The ground beneath me trembled, and I stumbled back, dropping the book. My hands... they were glowing, faintly at first, but growing brighter with each heartbeat. Panic surged through me, but there was no escaping it. The power was inside me now, running through my veins, awakening something I didn't even know existed.

I fell to my knees, gasping for air. The light faded slowly, but the feeling didn't go away. The warmth, the power—it was still there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting.

I don't know how long I sat there, staring at my hands, but one thing was clear.

Whatever I had been before, that life was over.