“The Stars are beautiful tonight.”

  A young boy lay on the grass, hands folded behind his head.

  His blue eyes drifted slowly across the immense stone vault suspended above him—the ceiling of the world, its surface studded with countless luminous points—the Stars themselves—embedded in the stone and glowing softly. They hung there, hundreds of meters overhead, distant and unreachable, yet impossible to ignore.

  “Come eat, Adlet!”

  His mother’s voice carried from the doorway of their modest farmhouse.

  He lingered a moment longer, gaze fixed on the giant stone ceiling, before finally pushing himself up. Reluctantly, he joined his parents at the table and took his seat.

  The vegetable soup was warm.

  Bland.

  He ate in silence, movements automatic, his thoughts already slipping away from the room.

  “Don’t forget school tomorrow,” his father said. His tone was gentle, but concern softened the edges of his words.

  “Try not to disappear the whole day again.”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  The spoon paused briefly in his hand, then resumed its steady rhythm.

  He finished the meal without comment, already feeling the pull of everything waiting beyond the walls of the house.

  “You still dream of becoming a Protector — I know,” his father continued.

  “But we can’t afford to hire a trainer. So at least try to learn as much as you can at school tomorrow. After all, it’s only one day a week.”

  Adlet drew a slow breath.

  “I don’t need a trainer,” he said quietly. There was no anger in his voice — only resolve.

  “I’ll become a Protector on my own.”

  He couldn’t let his parents sacrifice for a dream that belonged to him alone.

  Ever since he had first heard the stories of the Protectors years ago, something inside him had shifted.

  They were spoken of in fragments — travelers’ tales, half-remembered lessons, whispers exchanged between adults who thought children weren’t listening. Men and women who roamed the world, standing between humanity and creatures powerful enough to tear villages apart.

  Adlet had asked questions.

  At first, openly. Then more carefully.

  But answers were always vague. There was no clear path. No instructions. No one could tell him how a Protector truly came to be — only that it was dangerous, rare, and not meant for ordinary people.

  The only thing everyone seemed to agree on was this:

  To prove oneself, one had to face one of those legendary beasts…and bring it down.

  That was all.

  No one explained how.

  No one explained when.

  And no one explained what came after.

  A life bound to fields and fences could never satisfy that pull — not anymore.

  So Adlet began preparing in silence.

  Adjusting his routines.

  Pushing his body further each day.

  Learning the forest not as a place to live, but as a place to endure.

  Shaping himself, piece by piece, for a future no one could describe — but one he fully intended to claim.

  His mother’s eyes widened in alarm.

  “Trying to do that alone is madness! You can’t imagine how dangerous those creatures are!”

  Adlet hesitated, then gave a small shrug, forcing an easy tone.

  “I know. I’m not doing anything reckless.”

  He paused.

  “I just… think too much sometimes.”

  He took another spoonful of soup — deliberately ordinary — as if the subject carried no real weight.

  His father studied him for a moment, then let out a quiet sigh and returned to his meal. His mother followed, though the worry lingered in the tightness of her expression.

  The conversation drifted toward simpler things. Gradually, the familiar rhythm of dinner settled back over the table.

  When the meal ended, Adlet went to bed early, determined to rise with the dawn.

  Outside, the Stars remained fixed on the stone ceiling, unblinking and eternal. Their light slowly faded, dimming in a steady rhythm that signaled the coming night. His thoughts drifted briefly — toward what lay beyond the village — before fatigue finally claimed him.

  Morning arrived with timid rays of Starlight slipping through his window.

  Adlet dressed quickly, brushing his unruly brown hair into something vaguely acceptable. His thoughts were already racing. He hadn’t woken for school.

  He had woken for the forest.

  Behind him, the village of Eos lay peaceful — a small cluster of stone and timber homes surrounded by tilled fields and modest gardens. Life here moved at a steady, predictable rhythm, untouched by urgency or fear.

  The wider world felt distant.

  Almost theoretical.

  Yet to Adlet, that calm felt fragile.

  Not comforting — but limiting.

  Beyond the fields and familiar paths, the forest waited. Not as a threat, but as a boundary. And Adlet couldn’t help wondering what lay beyond the edges of a life that seemed already decided for everyone else.

  By mid-morning, he reached the forest’s edge.

  The trees thinned gradually, their shadows loosening their grip on the ground, until the undergrowth gave way to a familiar landmark.

  Adlet knelt beside a low bush — his usual hiding place. With practiced movements, he brushed aside the leaves and reached beneath the roots, retrieving the bundle he had hidden there.

  His bow came first.

  Smooth wood, carefully shaped by hand, its surface marked with faint scratches only he could recognize. Each one told a story — a mistake corrected, a lesson learned. He checked the string’s tension, adjusted it by a finger’s width, and nodded, satisfied.

  Then the fishing rod.

  Cruder in appearance, but no less deliberate. A flexible branch, reinforced at stress points, its line coiled neatly despite repeated use.

  Each tool had been crafted with care.

  Not rushed.

  Not improvised.

  He slipped the strap over his shoulder and stepped into the forest.

  His pace slowed immediately. Not out of caution — but habit. Here, movement mattered. He let his feet find the ground instead of forcing them forward, feeling the give of soil, the resistance of roots beneath the leaves. A snapped twig would echo longer than a careless step.

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  Sound came first.

  The rustle of foliage disturbed by something small.

  A birdcall, sharp and abrupt — not alarmed, but alert.

  Far off, the muted splash of water striking stone.

  Each noise carried meaning. Or didn’t.

  Learning the difference had taken years.

  He passed through the trees as if borrowing space rather than claiming it, eyes moving constantly, never lingering too long in one place. Every step was a rehearsal — patience over speed, observation over instinct.

  By noon, hunger finally tugged at him.

  The forest opened into a gently lit clearing where a river wound its way through smooth stones and moss-covered banks. One side rose sharply into a sheer rocky wall, its surface climbing toward the immense stone vault overhead.

  The Stars were fully ignited at this hour. They did not flicker. They did not drift. They simply burned — countless luminous marks etched into stone, fixed and absolute.

  At midday, their light reached its peak.

  Not harsh, but complete.

  It flooded the clearing without casting a single shadow of its own, a steady radiance that erased any sense of direction or depth. Time itself seemed measured by their intensity alone.

  Their reflections shattered across the river’s surface, broken by ripples and current, scattering sharp fragments of light over the stones below. The water carried the Stars in motion where the stone ceiling would not — bending them, stretching them, fracturing their perfect stillness into living patterns.

  Light and water intertwined, casting crystalline shapes that slid endlessly across moss and rock, shifting with every passing wave.

  Adlet sat near the bank and ate quietly.

  He kept his bow within reach.

  His eyes never stopped moving.

  Between bites, he scanned the tree line — the narrow gaps between trunks, the darker stretches where the forest grew deeper and more silent. Not out of fear, but curiosity.

  There were places beyond the paths. Places no one from the village visited without reason.

  He imagined what it would be like to walk farther. To keep going when the familiar sounds faded, when the world stopped offering easy returns.

  That was where he imagined the Protectors ventured.

  Not chasing danger for its own sake, but answering something quieter — the pull of the unknown, the promise that the world held more than fields, rivers, and routine.

  Adlet chewed slowly, eyes lingering on the forest’s edge, and felt it again — that restless urge to step beyond what he already knew.

  For now, the forest remained still.

  But Adlet knew better than to mistake silence for safety.

  He finished his meal slowly, wiped his hands on the grass, and rose without hurry. The day was far from over — and preparation never truly ended.

  After returning from the forest, Adlet took the time to clean himself properly.

  The scent of moss and river water still clung to his clothes, so he washed at the basin behind the house, scrubbing dirt from his hands and arms until the chill of the water bit into his skin. He changed slowly, carefully folding away his worn garments, as if delaying the moment he would have to step back into the village.

  His home stood on the outskirts of Eos, where the houses thinned and the paths slowly gave way to grass and trees. From there, the village stretched inward in a loose circle — modest stone homes, wooden fences patched and repatched over the years, smoke rising lazily from chimneys despite the early hour.

  As he walked toward the center, familiar sounds surrounded him.

  Merchants arranging their stalls in the small marketplace.

  Voices greeting one another by name.

  The rhythmic clatter of tools, the low murmur of routine life continuing exactly as it always had.

  Eos was not large, but it was alive in its own quiet way.

  The school stood near the marketplace, a low stone building whose walls bore the marks of decades of use. A handful of children had already gathered outside, their laughter carrying easily across the square. Most of them had known each other since they could walk.

  Adlet slowed his steps.

  He remained apart, as he usually did, leaning against a fence a short distance away. Solitude wasn’t something he endured. It wasn’t a choice, either.

  It was simply what he had grown used to.

  Among the group stood Florian — the merchant’s son. His clothes were cleaner, newer. His posture confident. He spoke loudly, gesturing as he talked, already accustomed to being listened to. Everyone knew he had begun training under a Protector.

  The knowledge stirred something unpleasant in Adlet’s chest.

  Irritation, sharp and fleeting.

  Then something quieter.

  Envy.

  The bell rang, cutting through the chatter, and the children filed inside.

  The classroom smelled of chalk dust and old wood, a familiar scent that carried memories of countless mornings just like this one. Adlet took his seat near the back as their teacher — a man well into his fifties, with tired eyes and a steady voice — pinned a large map to the board.

  “This,” he said, tapping it with a wooden pointer, “is the Kingdom of EFU.”

  The map stretched wide, filled with markings, borders, and names that felt both distant and immense.

  “Who can tell me where our village lies?”

  Florian stood immediately, confidence effortless.

  “The village of Eos,” he said, pointing without hesitation, “west of the central region surrounding Tray, the capital.”

  “Excellent,” the teacher replied. “Show us the other regions.”

  Florian traced the map carefully, his voice growing surer with each word.

  “Tray lies at the center. To the east is the Dryad Forest. Southeast, the Neraid Sea. Southwest, the Horus Desert. And to the north — Nest, where the royal Astrea family resides.”

  “These,” the teacher said, nodding, “are the main regions of the kingdom.”

  He paused, letting the map speak for itself.

  “Each is governed by noble families,” he continued, “tasked with protecting their people from the creatures that dwell within their lands.”

  The classroom grew quieter.

  “Beyond these regions lie dangerous zones,” the teacher said. “Places few dare enter. The creatures there are unlike anything most of you can imagine — strong, relentless, capable of wiping out entire settlements if left unchecked.”

  A murmur rippled through the room.

  “These places may be far from Eos,” he went on, “hundreds, sometimes thousands of kilometers away. Yet their influence reaches even the smallest villages. Forests that feel alive. Deserts that swallow travelers whole. Seas where enormous shapes move beneath the surface.”

  He straightened.

  “The Protectors,” he finished, “are what stand between humanity and extinction.”

  A shiver ran through Adlet.

  The threats felt distant — impossibly far — and yet terrifyingly real. His pulse quickened as images formed in his mind, vague and powerful. Protectors weren’t heroes from stories.

  They were necessity.

  A shield.

  His fists clenched beneath the desk.

  A snicker cut through the silence.

  “Look at him,” Florian whispered loudly to his friends. “Already imagining himself as a Protector.”

  Laughter followed.

  Adlet didn’t turn.

  He kept his back straight, eyes fixed on the map.

  Let them laugh.

  One day, they would choke on it.

  The bell rang.

  Adlet was the first to move, slipping out with practiced ease as voices and footsteps surged behind him. He cut through the crowd toward the village square, intent on leaving before anyone could stop him.

  The marketplace lay just beyond — familiar, open, and close to the road leading out of Eos.

  He was almost there.

  Almost free.

  Then Florian’s voice cut through the crowd — loud, deliberate.

  “My father said they found tracks in the western woods this morning. Giant ones. Something tore a deer apart. Blood everywhere.”

  Several children slowed.

  “No way…”

  “That close to the village?”

  Florian nodded, exaggerating his seriousness — smirking all the while.

  “They think a monster might be roaming there. A real one.”

  His gaze locked onto Adlet.

  “Well… if someone wants to be a Protector so badly, he should be brave enough to go check, right?”

  Laughter erupted.

  “Yeah, Adlet!”

  “Show us how fearless you are!”

  Heat rose to Adlet’s face. His fists clenched.

  “If something dangerous is near Eos,” he said evenly, “then someone has to make sure it doesn’t get closer.”

  More laughter.

  Adlet stopped walking.

  His heart pounded — not with fear.

  With resolve.

  Challenge accepted.

  He turned without another word and headed straight for home.

  Adlet pushed the door open, moving faster than usual.

  His father was bent over the worktable, repairing a worn tool. He glanced up immediately.

  “You’re back,” he said. Then paused.

  “You look restless.”

  Adlet stopped near the doorway, breathing a little harder than normal.

  “I’m fine,” he replied.

  “I just… don’t want to waste the rest of the day.”

  His father straightened slightly, studying him. There was no alarm in his eyes — only familiarity.

  “Going back to the forest?”

  Adlet nodded.

  “Yeah. I need to train.”

  A brief silence followed.

  Then his father returned to his work with a small nod.

  “Don’t stay out too late.”

  “I won’t.”

  Adlet was already turning toward the door.

  There was another pause. His father watched him — the stubborn posture, the fire in his eyes. Stopping him wouldn’t work.

  It never did.

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