In the quiet village of Oakhaven, nestled between
the lronwood Forest and the Silver River, lived a
boy named Elian. Elian was unremarkable to most, except for a peculiar, star-shaped patch of silver hair on his left temple. He was an orphan, raised by the village blacksmith, and possessed a
strange talent: he could hear things that others couldn't-the whispers of the wind, the creaking of the ancient trees, and, most strange of all, the faint humming of stones.
Oakhaven was a peaceful place, but in recent years, the winters had grown longer, and the Whispering Stones—a ring of ancient, obsidian monoliths at the edge of the forest-had fallen silent.
"They are just rocks, boy, Silas the Blacksmith would say, hammering at a piece of iron. "Focus on the forge.
"They are just rocks, boy, " Silas the Blacksmith would say, hammering at a piece of iron. "Focus on the forge."
But Elian knew better. One crisp autumn morning, as he brought fresh coal to the forge, the hum he usually ignored changed into a sharp, vibrating pitch. He stopped, dropped his basket, and
clutched his head. The humming wasn't just in his ears; it was in his bones.