Eternal Realm: Shadows and Radiance

Volume One: “Omen of Fate”

Chapter 1: Ominous Night

The wind, a biting, cruel thing, gnawed at the edges of Oakhaven, howling through the gaps in the poorly mortared stone walls and snapping at the canvas awnings that hung limply before the shops. It whipped in from the western plains, a land of endless grass and whispered secrets, and carried the frigid breath of the approaching mountains on its icy breath. Night had fallen hard over Erechia, draping the small frontier town in a suffocating cloak of deep indigo, reluctantly pricked by the distant, cold fires of the stars.

Oakhaven was not a place that invited grand pronouncements or witnessed heroic deeds. It existed as a place of dust and mud, of rough-hewn timber and the ever-present smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat. Its people were as weathered and unyielding as the harsh landscape that birthed them: farmers with calloused hands that clutched worn tools and squinting eyes that searched the horizon, traders who knew the clink of a silver coin better than the soothing cadence of any priest’s words, and a scattered few souls who had wandered to the edge of civilization seeking solace – or desperately fleeing terrors – they couldn’t escape in the crowded cities further east.

Elvin, barely a man grown, stood just outside the wavering, uncertain circle of light cast by the town’s single, overworked oil lamp. He leaned heavily against the rough bark of an ancient oak, its branches reaching, gnarled and twisted, like the tormented limbs of some slumbering giant. He was a lean youth, built more for relentless endurance than explosive brute strength, with a shock of dark, unruly hair that perpetually fell across his brow, obscuring his thoughts. His eyes, the restless color of a stormy sea just before the squall breaks, usually burned with a quick, eager curiosity, but tonight they remained fixed upwards, narrowed against the encroaching darkness, searching, scanning.

Around him, Oakhaven settled uneasily into the hushed rhythms of the night. The raucous laughter that had erupted from the tavern, the aptly named ‘Crooked Tankard,’ had begun to soften to a low, guttural rumble, occasionally punctured by a drunken bellow that echoed in the stillness. The rich aroma of stew and ale still hung thick and heavy in the frigid air, mingling with the earthy scent of the stables and the faint, metallic tang of the blacksmith’s forge, now cooling slowly for the long night. Most folk were already indoors, seeking the meager warmth and precious respite from the biting wind, content with the simple, hard-won comforts of hearth and home.

But Elvin remained rooted to the spot. He had felt it first, a sudden, icy prickling unease that crawled up the nape of his neck, a distinct sense that the familiar world had subtly shifted, ever so silently, on its ancient axis. Then, his eyes caught it. Not at first, not in a direct stare, but as he let his gaze slowly drift upwards, past the soot-stained rooftops that jutted against the dark sky and the skeletal silhouettes of the winter-bare trees that clawed at the heavens, to the vast, immeasurable expanse of the night sky. He blinked, stared harder.

It began as a subtle shimmer, a faint, almost imperceptible distortion in the intricate tapestry of stars, like heat rising off sun-baked stone on a sweltering day. Then, streaks of light, utterly unlike anything he had ever witnessed in his short life, began to unfurl languidly across the heavens. They were not the steady, predictable paths of shooting stars that streaked and vanished, nor the soft, ethereal glow of the aurora he’d heard awestruck travelers whisper about from the frozen north. These were distinctly, unnervingly different. These writhed as vibrant, pulsing ribbons of pure color, shifting through impossible hues of emerald green that burned the eyes, sapphire blue that chilled the soul, and a deep, unsettling crimson that throbbed with an unseen power, weaving intricate, dizzying patterns against the black velvet backdrop of the cosmos.

He straightened abruptly from his slouch against the oak, his breath suddenly catching sharply in his throat, stilling his lungs. He felt a prickle of sweat break out on his brow despite the biting cold. He wasn’t alone in his bewildered observation, though few in Oakhaven possessed the patience, the curiosity, or the simple inclination to truly lift their heads and look at the vast indifference of the sky. Old Man Hemlock, the town’s self-proclaimed sage and purveyor of patently dubious remedies, had emerged creakily from his cluttered shop, his thin, white hair whipping wildly around his gaunt face in the wind’s sudden gust. Hemlock, usually hunched and whispering dire prophecies of doom about weevils and crop failures, now stood ramrod straight, his spine surprisingly unbent, his cloudy eyes, grotesquely magnified by thick spectacles perched precariously on his nose, widened with a strange, unsettling mixture of raw fear and something unsettlingly akin to triumph. He pointed a trembling, bony finger towards the sky.

“Mark it, young Elvin!” Hemlock rasped, his voice thin as brittle parchment, yet somehow carrying clearly in the strangely still night air. “Gaze upon it! Remember! Mark it well! The heavens themselves weep ink tonight!”

Elvin frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion, pulling his worn woolen cloak tighter around his shivering shoulders. Hemlock was notoriously prone to dramatic pronouncements, often seeing sinister omens in spilled milk and crow droppings. But even Elvin, in his youthful skepticism, found himself unable to completely dismiss the sheer strangeness of what was undeniably unfolding directly above them. He glanced at Hemlock, then jerked his gaze back to the sky.

“Ink?” Elvin asked, his voice low, barely a murmur. “What ink, Hemlock?”

Hemlock turned his magnified gaze on Elvin, his eyes gleaming strangely in the dim light. “The ink of fate, boy! The ink of prophecy! Can’t you see it? It’s written there, for those with eyes to witness!” He gestured wildly at the sky, his spectacles nearly slipping off his nose.

The streams of light suddenly intensified, burning brighter, becoming bolder, more sharply defined. And then, they undeniably appeared – runes. Not in the familiar sense of carved symbols on weathered stone or aged wood, but luminous, ethereal characters of pure light, flashing and fading within the vibrant, swirling colored streams. They were angular, impossibly complex, utterly unlike any alphabet Elvin had ever encountered in the tattered, dog-eared books he occasionally borrowed from the traveling peddler, a man who valued a good trade more than literacy. They danced and pulsed, flickering into existence, forming fleeting phrases that shifted and rearranged themselves, then abruptly dissolving back into the chaotic beauty of the celestial display. Elvin stared, mouth agape.

A few more townsfolk, reluctantly drawn by Hemlock’s fervent pronouncements or perhaps their own gnawing unease, began to tentatively trickle out onto the muddy street, peering upwards. A burly farmer, Jedediah, his face ruddy from ale and evening exertion, squinted at the sky, scratching his thick, untamed beard with a calloused hand. “Just northern lights, old man,” he grumbled, though his voice noticeably lacked its usual booming conviction. “Heard tell of ‘em from travelers. Pretty lights, that’s all. Nothing to fuss about.” He shrugged, but his eyes remained glued to the spectacle above.

A woman, Martha, her face careworn from years of hard labor but her eyes still sharp and intelligent, emerged from the doorway of the bakery, wiping flour from her worn apron with a practiced hand. She studied the sky with a more discerning, critical gaze, her head slightly tilted. “Northern lights don’t flash like that, Jedediah,” she said, her voice calm and steady, cutting through the farmer’s bluster. “And they certainly don’t make shapes. Not shapes like… like actual writing.” She pointed upwards, her finger trembling slightly. “Did you see that? It looked like… a word.”

Elvin watched, his heart now pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a drumbeat in his chest. He felt a strange stirring deep within him, something far beyond simple, idle curiosity. It was a visceral sense of… recognition. As if, somewhere buried deep within his very bones, he somehow understood, or at least instinctively sensed, the profound significance of these impossible celestial markings. He couldn’t possibly decipher the strange runes, they remained stubbornly alien, but their sudden, vibrant appearance resonated with a long-dormant, forgotten part of him, a hidden part he hadn’t even known existed until this very momentous, unsettling moment. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

He thought of the hushed stories his grandmother used to lovingly tell, tales whispered by the crackling fireside on long, dark winter nights. Stories of Erechia’s ancient, shrouded past, of forgotten gods and potent, untamed magic, of prophecies intricately etched in the stars themselves and softly whispered on the restless wind. He had always dismissed them as just stories, fanciful old wives’ tales meant only to amuse impressionable children and frighten the easily gullible. But now, gazing intently at the impossible sky, a stubborn seed of doubt began to tentatively sprout in the fertile, unprepared ground of his youthful mind. Could there actually be more to those fantastical stories than he had ever, in his youthful arrogance, seriously imagined?

The luminous runes pulsed even brighter, then just as quickly dimmed again, as if the very heavens themselves were slowly, deliberately breathing. The vibrant colors shifted and swirled, the complex patterns morphing and reforming in a mesmerizing, almost hypnotic dance that held his gaze captive. Elvin felt a strange, irresistible pull, an almost physical urge to somehow understand, to somehow decipher the cryptic celestial message being relentlessly written across the night sky. He felt a nascent sense of destiny, however vague and ill-defined, tentatively stirring deep within him, a powerful feeling that this particular night, this undeniably ominous night, was destined to be far more than just a fleeting spectacle of light and vibrant color. It felt overwhelmingly like a momentous beginning.

He remained rooted there, staring upwards, long after the other townsfolk, their initial awe fading into skepticism and practical concerns, had reluctantly retreated back to their meagerly warm hearths and their comfortable, skeptical dismissals. He watched intently as the celestial display stubbornly continued, the runes flashing and fading, the colors endlessly shifting and swirling, until the first faint, watery streaks of dawn began to hesitantly paint the eastern horizon a pale, watery grey. The luminous writing in the sky slowly began to dim, its vibrant, impossible colors gradually fading into the encroaching light of day, until finally, with a last, faint flicker, it was completely gone, silently swallowed by the relentlessly rising sun.

Elvin stood utterly alone in the muddy street, the now sharp chill morning air suddenly biting cruelly at his exposed skin, raising gooseflesh on his arms. The sky above was now a deceptively clear, innocently blue, completely devoid of any lingering trace of the previous night’s breathtaking spectacle. Had it all truly been just a vivid dream? A cruel trick of the light and the whispering wind? He turned his head slowly, looked back at the ancient oak tree, its gnarled branches still reaching towards the now empty, indifferent sky, and a sudden shiver, colder than the morning air, inexplicably ran down his spine, a shiver that had absolutely nothing to do with the biting cold. He knew, with a chilling certainty that suddenly settled deep in his gut, that what he had just witnessed was undeniably real. And that it profoundly meant something. Something undeniably significant. Something that would irrevocably change absolutely everything.

The wind still whispered insistently through Oakhaven, but now it seemed to carry a distinctly different, heavier message, no longer just the familiar chill of the endless plains, but a breath of ancient, long-forgotten secrets, a palpable premonition of momentous, unavoidable things yet to come. And young Elvin, standing motionless beneath the rapidly dawning sky, finally felt the first, undeniable tremor of approaching fate relentlessly ripple through his very soul.

《永恒之境：暗影与光辉》卷一《命运预兆》

第一章：暗夜异象

这风，像刀子一样，冷，且锋利。

它似乎不愿有片刻停歇，没日没夜地刮过这名叫橡木镇的地方，从西边那无垠的草原尽头，挟裹着远山呼啸而来的寒意，肆意撕扯着简陋的石墙缝隙，拍打着店铺前早已褪色的旧布招牌。夜幕已然降临，将这埃雷希亚边陲的小镇笼罩在一片深沉的靛蓝之中，唯有天边几点寒星，闪烁着微弱的光芒，似不愿屈服于这浓重的黑暗。

橡木镇算不得什么人杰地灵之所，既无英雄豪杰在此驻足，亦无传奇轶事流传于世。这里有的，只是尘土、泥泞，粗糙的木屋，还有空气中永远弥漫着的柴火和烤肉的混合气味。镇上的人们，如同这片贫瘠的土地一般，粗犷而坚韧：满脸风霜的农夫，手里紧握着磨损的农具，眯缝着双眼望向地平线；精明的商人，比起教堂里祭司冗长的祷词，他们更熟悉银币碰撞发出的清脆声响；还有一些流浪至此的旅人，他们或许是为了寻求内心的安宁，或许，是为了逃离在东方繁华都市中挥之不去的梦魇。

艾尔文，一个还未完全褪去青涩的年轻人，独自站在镇上唯一一盏油灯投下的昏黄光圈外。他倚靠着一棵古老的橡树，这棵老树的枝干虬曲盘旋，宛如沉睡巨人扭曲的肢体，在夜色中张牙舞爪。他身形瘦削，却透着一股子韧劲，不似那种力拔山兮的壮汉，倒像是为长途跋涉而生的旅人。一头乌黑的乱发总是随意地垂落在额前，遮住了他的思绪。他的眼睛，如同风暴来临前的大海，焦躁不安，往日里总是闪烁着好奇的光芒，而今夜，却紧盯着无边的黑暗，搜寻着，探查着什么。

橡木镇在夜幕的笼罩下，渐渐沉寂。那间名为“歪把酒壶”的酒馆里传出的喧嚣声逐渐低沉，只剩下几声粗犷的吼叫，偶尔打破夜的宁静。炖肉和麦芽酒的浓郁香气依旧在寒冷的空气中弥漫，混合着马厩的泥土味和铁匠铺那还未完全冷却的金属气息。大多数人都已回到家中，围坐在火炉旁，享受着这来之不易的温暖和宁静，满足于这简单而艰辛的生活所给予他们的一切。

但艾尔文却像生了根一般，一动不动地站在那里。他最先察觉到异样，一种莫名的不安，像冰冷的爬虫，沿着他的脖颈向上蔓延，让他感到熟悉的世界，似乎在悄无声息地发生着某种微妙的变化。然后，他看见了，起初，并非直视，而是当他任由目光缓缓上移，越过被煤烟熏黑的屋顶和光秃秃的树枝，望向那片广袤无垠的夜空时，他看见了。他眨了眨眼，又用力地看了看。

起初，只是一抹微光，像是夏日阳光炙烤下的石头上升腾的热气，又像是星空中一丝难以察觉的扭曲。接着，一道道光带开始在天空中缓缓展开，与他以往见过的任何景象都截然不同。它们不似流星那般转瞬即逝，也不像他听北方来的旅人描述过的极光那般柔和飘渺。这些光带，诡异地扭动着，闪烁着耀眼的光芒，变幻着令人目眩的色彩：那绿色，如同燃烧的翡翠，灼烧着双眼；那蓝色，如同深海的蓝宝石，冰冷刺骨；还有那令人不安的深红色，仿佛蕴藏着某种未知的力量，在跳动着。它们在夜空中交织成一幅幅繁复而令人晕眩的图案。

他猛地站直身体，倒吸了一口气，仿佛要把这诡异的景象永远烙印在视网膜上。尽管寒风刺骨，他的额头却渗出了一层细密的汗珠。他并非唯一一个注意到这异象的人，尽管在橡木镇，很少有人会抬起头来，真正地观察这片浩瀚而冷漠的星空。老亨洛克，镇上自诩的智者，也是那些真假难辨的药剂的兜售者，此刻正从他那杂乱不堪的店铺里颤颤巍巍地走出来。他那一头稀疏的白发在风中狂舞，瘦削的脸庞上，一双浑浊的眼睛，透过厚厚的眼镜片，被放大得有些骇人。此刻，他那双眼睛里，闪烁着恐惧，却又夹杂着一丝近乎狂喜的神色。他平日里总是佝偻着背，嘴里嘟囔着关于麦虫和歉收的不祥预言，但此刻，他的背却挺得笔直，令人难以置信。他伸出一根颤抖的手指，指向天空。

“看到了吗，年轻人艾尔文！” 亨洛克的声音嘶哑，如同风干的羊皮纸，却在这诡异的静谧中，清晰可闻。“好好看看！记住这一刻！苍天在用墨水书写！”

艾尔文皱起眉头，下意识地裹紧了身上那件破旧的羊毛斗篷，他知道亨洛克总喜欢说些耸人听闻的话，经常把洒出来的牛奶和乌鸦的粪便都看作是不祥之兆。但即使是年轻气盛，向来对鬼神之说嗤之以鼻的艾尔文，也不得不承认，此刻在他们头顶上空所发生的一切，着实诡异至极。他瞥了一眼亨洛克，又猛地将视线转回天空。

“墨水？”艾尔文低声问道，声音轻得几乎听不见。“什么墨水，亨洛克？”

亨洛克将他那双被眼镜放大的眼睛转向艾尔文，眼中闪烁着异样的光芒。“命运的墨水，孩子！预言的墨水！你难道看不见吗？它就写在那里，写给那些有眼睛去看的人！” 他激动地指着天空，眼镜差点从鼻子上滑落下来。

光带突然变得更加明亮，更加耀眼，也更加清晰。然后，人们确信无疑地看到了——符文。不是那种刻在石头上或木头上的符文，而是由纯粹的光芒组成的，飘渺的符号，在那些扭动的彩色光带中闪烁、隐现。它们有着棱角分明的形状，结构复杂得令人难以置信，与艾尔文在那些破旧不堪的书籍中见过的任何一种文字都截然不同。那些书还是他从一个行脚商人手中借来的，那商人更看重的是生意，而非知识。这些符文跳动着，闪烁着，组成一个个转瞬即逝的短语，然后又迅速消散在色彩斑斓的星空中。艾尔文张大了嘴巴，看得目瞪口呆。

更多的人被亨洛克的话语所吸引，又或许是被内心深处那股莫名的不安所驱使，纷纷从屋子里走出来，聚集到泥泞的街道上，抬头望向天空。一个名叫杰迪的壮汉，满脸通红，分不清是因为喝了酒还是因为劳作，他眯着眼睛看着天空，用一只粗糙的手挠着他那浓密的络腮胡子。“不过是北极光罢了，老头子。” 他嘟囔着，声音却明显没有了往日那般洪亮。“我听那些旅行者说过。不过是些漂亮的光罢了。没什么大惊小怪的。” 他耸了耸肩，但眼睛却始终没有离开天空中的景象。

一个名叫玛莎的妇人，脸上写满了生活的艰辛，但她的眼神依旧敏锐而聪慧。她刚从面包店里走出来，熟练地用手擦去围裙上的面粉。她用一种更加审慎、更加批判的目光注视着天空，头微微地歪向一边。“北极光可不会像这样闪烁，杰迪。” 她平静而坚定地说，打断了杰迪的嘟囔。“而且它们也不会组成形状。不像…不像真正的文字。” 她指着天空，手指微微颤抖。“你们看见了吗？那看起来像…一个词。”

艾尔文站在那里，心跳如鼓。他感到内心深处有一种奇怪的东西在涌动，远远超出了单纯的好奇。那是一种发自肺腑的…似曾相识的感觉。仿佛，在他身体的最深处，他能够理解，或者至少能够本能地感知到这些出现在天空中的符号的深刻含义。他当然不可能解读这些奇怪的符文，它们依旧是那么的陌生，但它们突如其来的出现，却与他内心深处某个沉睡已久的部分产生了共鸣，一个他甚至不知道自己拥有的隐藏的自己。他用力地咽了一口唾沫，喉咙突然变得干涩无比。

他想起了祖母曾经在炉火旁给他讲过的那些故事，在那些漫长而黑暗的冬夜里，在噼啪作响的炉火旁。那些关于埃雷希亚古老而神秘的过去的故事，关于被遗忘的神灵和强大的魔法的故事，关于那些铭刻在星辰之中、在风中低语的预言的故事。他一直都把它们当作故事，当作老妇人用来哄骗孩子和吓唬胆小鬼的无稽之谈。但此刻，望着这不可思议的天空，一颗怀疑的种子开始在他那年轻的心中生根发芽。难道那些奇幻的故事背后，真的隐藏着比他想象中更多的东西吗？

那些发光的符文跳动得更加剧烈，然后又迅速黯淡下去，仿佛天空正在缓慢而有节奏地呼吸。色彩不断地变幻，图案不断地重组，形成一种令人着迷的、近乎催眠的舞蹈，牢牢地吸引着他的目光。艾尔文感到一种奇怪的、无法抗拒的吸引力，一种几乎是生理上的冲动，想要去理解，去解读那些写在夜空中的神秘信息。他感到一种模糊而又朦胧的命运感，正在他内心深处缓缓苏醒，他强烈地意识到，这个夜晚，这个不祥的夜晚，注定不仅仅是一场转瞬即逝的光影表演。它更像是一个开端，一个意义重大的开端。

他就这样站在那里，一直仰望着天空，直到其他镇民们最初的敬畏逐渐消退，变成怀疑和出于对实际生活的担忧，才不情愿地回到他们温暖的家中，回到他们舒适的怀疑和对现实生活的妥协中去。他一直看着，看着那些符文闪烁、隐现，看着那些色彩不断地变幻、交融，直到第一缕微弱的曙光开始出现在东方的地平线上，将天空染成一片淡淡的灰色。那些写在天空中的发光文字也逐渐黯淡下去，它们那鲜艳的、不可能的色彩，在晨光的照耀下逐渐消退，直到最后，随着最后一丝微弱的闪光，它们完全消失了，被冉冉升起的太阳吞没。

艾尔文独自站在泥泞的街道上，清晨的寒风无情地吹打着他裸露在外的皮肤，让他的胳膊上起了一层鸡皮疙瘩。此刻的天空，呈现出一种具有欺骗性的清澈的蓝色，丝毫看不出昨晚那场壮观景象留下的任何痕迹。难道这一切真的只是一场生动的梦境？是光影和风的恶作剧？他缓缓地转过头，看向那棵古老的橡树，它那虬曲的枝干依旧伸向那片空旷而冷漠的天空，一股寒意，比清晨的空气还要冷，沿着他的脊梁骨蔓延开来，这股寒意与寒冷无关。他突然意识到，他刚才所目睹的一切，是真实存在的。而且它意义非凡，某种意义重大的东西，某种将彻底改变一切的东西。

风依旧在橡木镇上空呼啸，但此刻，它所携带的信息却截然不同，不再仅仅是那片无垠草原上吹来的寒风，而是某种古老的、早已被遗忘的秘密的气息，一种对即将到来的重大事件的预感。而年轻的艾尔文，站在黎明前的天空下，终于感受到了命运的第一次震颤，在他灵魂深处，无情地荡漾开来。