The Architect’s First Step

The village of Eldermere was on the verge of breaking.

The morning after the nobles departed, a heavy silence had settled over the village. Conversations were hushed, glances were quick and wary. The lines had been drawn—some saw Aric as their leader, others feared what he was becoming.

Aric stood near the eastern barricade, staring at the horizon.

The land stretched far beyond, a sea of hills and dense forests. A place that should have felt vast and open, but instead felt small.

Trapped.

Because now, they were surrounded.

Lord Vallis would return, and next time, he wouldn't come with scouts—he would come with an army.

And Eldermere would not survive.

Not like this.

----

Lira leaned against the wooden barricade beside him, arms crossed. "So? What's the plan?"

Aric exhaled slowly. "The village needs defenses."

"We have walls."

"We have wood and nails," Aric corrected. "That's not a wall. That's a fence pretending to be one."

Lira smirked. "Alright, so you're actually thinking about this. That's new."

Aric ignored the jab. "The question isn't whether we build. It's whether the village lets me build."

Lira's smirk faded. She glanced back toward the village square, where a gathering had formed.

The villagers were arguing.

Garrick stood on one side, his expression grim. "We barely survived the wolves. Now the nobles will come knocking with an army. We can't fight them."

A few men nodded in agreement. Others, like Old Mara, remained silent.

Then a younger hunter stepped forward. "And what do you suggest? We let them take everything? Let them claim our land, our homes?"

Garrick's eyes narrowed. "I suggest we survive."

Aric finally stepped forward, and the arguing stopped.

All eyes turned to him.

"If you want to survive," he said calmly, "then we start today."

----

They gathered inside the village hall—those willing to listen, willing to fight.

Aric spread a rough map of Eldermere across the table, using scattered stones and wooden figures to mark key locations.

"Our defenses are weak," he began. "If Vallis's men march in, we'll be cut down in minutes. If the Rift spawns another wave of creatures, we won't last a night."

Some of the villagers shifted uneasily.

"So what do we do?" one asked.

Aric tapped a point on the map—the river that ran near the village's western edge. "We divert this water. Turn it into a trench. Flood it if necessary."

Garrick scoffed. "That will take weeks."

"We don't have weeks," Aric admitted. "But we start now."

He moved another marker. "The eastern approach is the weakest. That's where they'll come from." He looked at Lira. "I need people who can scout. We need to know what Vallis is doing, how fast he's moving."

Lira grinned. "Spying on nobles? Sounds fun."

"And we need weapons," Aric continued. "Our bows are old, our swords rusted. I can improve them."

The blacksmith, a broad-shouldered man named Corvin, frowned. "And how do you plan to do that?"

Aric hesitated.

Because he knew.

He knew how to build war machines, how to forge steel that could cut through armor.

He could see the designs in his mind—blueprints from a past life, knowledge from the Rift itself.

But how did he explain that?

In the end, he didn't.

"You'll see soon enough," Aric said simply.

----

That night, as the village set to work, Aric found himself standing near the crater.

The Rift had grown… louder.

Not in sound, but in presence.

The air near it felt thin, stretched. The ground pulsed faintly, as if something beneath the surface was breathing.

Kael approached from the darkness, his golden eyes gleaming. "You're pushing yourself too fast."

Aric sighed. "We don't have time to go slow."

Kael studied him for a moment before glancing at the Rift. "You feel it too, don't you?"

Aric hesitated, then nodded. "It's calling."

Kael exhaled. "Then maybe it's time you answered."

Aric looked back at the Rift.

And for the first time, he stepped forward.

The world lurched.

His vision fractured.

And suddenly—he wasn't standing in Eldermere anymore.

----

The ground beneath him was smooth, polished obsidian.

Massive pillars stretched into the sky, their surfaces engraved with runes that burned with golden fire.

And at the center of it all—a throne.

A throne carved from the bones of an ancient beast, its back twisted into curling horns.

And he was sitting on it.

Not him.

Not Aric.

But Aelthar.

He wore a crown of burning gold, his armor black and trimmed in silver. The air around him crackled with power.

In front of him knelt three figures. Soldiers. Generals. Men who had sworn their lives to him.

"We await your command, Emperor."

Aric's breath hitched. This was real.

This was him.

And then—the vision shattered.

He collapsed to his knees, gasping. His hands dug into the dirt, his body trembling.

Kael knelt beside him, eyes sharp. "What did you see?"

Aric's voice was hoarse.

"A throne," he whispered. "And a war waiting to begin."

----

By the time Aric returned to the village, his mind was racing.

The vision had been real.

Not a dream. Not an illusion. A memory.

He had once ruled.

And now, he was about to fight again.

Because as dawn broke over Eldermere, the first riders from Lord Vallis's army arrived at the outskirts.

Not a full force—but a warning.

They carried a single banner.

A demand for surrender.

Aric took it, read it.

Then he smiled.

"Looks like we're out of time."