Caelum Varrow groaned and pulled the blanket tighter over his head. The early morning sun peeked through the cracks in the wooden shutters, painting streaks of gold across the rough-hewn floor of the farmhouse. Outside, the lowing of cows and the creak of wagon wheels signaled the start of another day in Thistlebrook, but inside, Caelum was determined to ignore the world for just a bit longer.
"Caelum!"
His father's voice rang like a war drum through the walls.
"Up. Now."
With a sigh so heavy it might've bent iron, Caelum sat up. His black hair was a tousled mess, and his eyes held the quiet despair of someone about to face the worst enemy imaginable: manual labor.
Ten minutes later, he stood barefoot in the dirt behind the barn, holding a rusted pitchfork like it was a cursed weapon.
"You're late," Garron Varrow said without looking at him, tossing another sack of feed into the trough. The old man was built like a mountain, his once-polished armor now replaced by simple tunics and leather gloves. His left leg, stiff with age and an old injury, dragged slightly as he walked.
"Didn't sleep well," Caelum mumbled. "Had a weird dream again."
Garron paused. "The one with the sword and the wind?"
Caelum blinked. "You remember?"
"I remember everything," Garron said, voice gruff. "Especially things my son keeps trying to ignore."
Caelum wanted to argue, but he knew it wouldn't matter. He had dreams strange, vivid ones. In them, he stood at the heart of a storm, sword in hand, winds dancing at his command. But dreams were just dreams. And he was no warrior. He could barely lift a plow.
Still, that morning, something felt… different. The air carried a strange tension, like the hush before a thunderclap. Even the birds had gone quiet.
A distant rider approached on horseback, cloak fluttering. As the figure neared, Caelum recognized the shimmering silver emblem pinned to their chest: the crest of Arcvale Academy.
He blinked. "No way…"
The rider dismounted, handed a scroll sealed with deep blue wax, and spoke without preamble.
"Caelum Varrow. By decree of the Council of Arcvale, you are hereby summoned to attend entrance trials at the capital. You have been nominated by a recognized former knight."
Caelum's jaw dropped. He turned to his father, who was already wiping his hands and walking away without a word.
"You—what?! You did this?!"
Garron didn't stop. "You'll pack tonight. We leave at first light."
Caelum stood frozen, scroll in hand, the seal still unbroken. Arcvale. The most prestigious academy in the realm. A place for warriors, mages, and monster hunters.
And he couldn't even finish his chores on time.
He looked down at his dirt-streaked hands. Maybe the letter was a mistake. Maybe they meant to send it to someone else.
But somewhere, deep in his chest, that strange wind stirred again.