: The Forbidden Sigil

Chapter 2

The morning light in Elarion rarely betrayed its secrets. It rose obediently, spread across the sky in violet-pink hues, and warmed even the most forgotten corners of the realm. But that morning, in the quiet village at the edge of the Obsidian Peaks, even the birds didn't sing. There was a hush, an invisible weight clinging to the air.

Nezutsu stood near the dried creek, his fingers still tingling from the dream that refused to fade. He hadn't slept after the pulse — that strange heartbeat — had struck him. Instead, he had wandered out into the woods while the village still slumbered.

There, on the muddy ground, he knelt and traced the same symbol he saw every night: three curved lines wrapping around a central spiral. It was etched so clearly into his mind, it felt like memory rather than imagination.

He did not notice the old man approach until the stranger's shadow fell across the mark.

"Where did you learn that symbol?"

Nezutsu turned sharply. A man in tattered robes stood behind him, his face obscured beneath a hood stitched with silver thread that shimmered faintly in the dim light. His voice was like gravel soaked in prophecy — coarse, but strangely powerful.

"I... didn't," Nezutsu replied. "I just… know it."

The man lowered his hood. His eyes glowed faintly — not with magical power, but with something stranger. Recognition.

"You shouldn't be able to draw that."

Nezutsu stared. "Why? What is it?"

The man didn't answer. Instead, he stepped forward and waved a single finger above the drawing. The earth pulsed faintly. The lines Nezutsu had drawn glowed with violet light and a distant hum, like a bell being rung inside the bones of the mountain.

"This is the Sigil of Silence," the man said grimly. "One of the Forbidden Marks. It was erased from the world over a thousand years ago — after the War of the Celestarchs."

Nezutsu's breath caught in his throat.

"I've only ever seen it in my dreams."

"Then your dreams are echoes of a deeper truth," the man whispered. "And if this sigil appeared to you on the night the stars danced… then it is already too late."

Before Nezutsu could ask what that meant, a rumble trembled beneath their feet.

The ground to the east cracked. A circle of ancient stone—hidden for centuries—rose slowly from beneath the earth, wrapped in tangled roots and old magic. In its center: a glowing hand of stone, covered in faint runes, fingers curled like it was grasping for something.

The old man stepped back, panic in his voice.

"Run, boy. NOW!"

But Nezutsu couldn't move.

He was drawn to the stone hand. Something in his chest — the second heartbeat — beat faster. Louder.

A sound, like breathing, filled his ears.

But it wasn't his breath.

"He has returned."

The voice wasn't from the old man.

It was from beneath the earth.

The sigil on the ground flared, and the sky darkened instantly — not with clouds, but with shadow. Not a natural one — a dome, massive and suffocating, blocking the sun.

Villagers began screaming in the distance.

Children cried out. Cows bellowed. Magic surged uncontrollably, flickering from chimneys, from wells, from hands.

The old man turned to Nezutsu, gritting his teeth.

"You need to hide your soul. They will come for you now. The Seekers of the Veil will smell the Sigil. And when they find you... even the gods won't be able to intervene."

"But I don't have magic," Nezutsu said.

The old man's face twisted.

"Exactly."

The stone hand shuddered, then slowly crumbled into dust. From its center, something woke — a whisper, not of sound, but of intent.

A sigil flashed again in Nezutsu's chest, though unseen by others. The old man saw it reflected in his eyes.

"You bear the Last Seal," he whispered in awe. "The one even the gods tried to erase."

"What am I?" Nezutsu asked, barely louder than a breath.

The old man looked toward the shadowed sky.

"A storm. A mistake. Or... a savior."

Far above, a black raven with glowing blue eyes circled — then shrieked.

And the shadow moved.

[TO BE CONTINUED…]