Chapter 1: The Incubus Among Elves

  Lior had always known he was different.

  The elves of Sylva’ren were tall, their features graceful and sharp like the ancient oaks that wove their city into a tapestry of nature and magic. He, on the other hand, had skin touched by twilight, short horns curling back from his forehead, and eyes of molten gold that glowed faintly even in the dark.

  It had never been a question of whether he belonged. The elves had raised him as their own, taking him in when they found him as an infant near the Veilwood, wrapped in dark silk with a sigil of fire burned into the fabric. The elders had debated—some feared what he might become, others spoke of prophecy—but in the end, it was decided. Lior would be raised as an elf, taught their ways, and watched carefully.

  And so, he learned.

  The elves did not keep secrets from him. They told him what he was—a being of the lower realms, a creature born to feed on desire and wield dark charms. But they also told him that fate did not chain him. It was his choices that would define him.

  Lior had spent his years training with bow and blade, learning the flow of nature magic, and honing his mind against the whispers of his own instincts. Yet despite all his effort, the System had marked him differently.

  When his kin reached maturity, they gained their Class, chosen by their skills and deeds. Warriors became Bladesingers, hunters became Warden Striders, and mages walked the path of Eldertouched Sorcery.

  But when Lior reached the age of awakening, the notification burned into his vision:

  Class Acquired: Bound Incubus

  Primary Traits: Charisma, Dexterity, Magic Affinity

  Unique Skill: Dreambinder – Your touch weaves dreams and bends emotions. Stronger at night.

  The weight of those words had pressed down on him ever since. He was bound by his blood, his class shaped by his infernal origins. No amount of archery training or elven swordplay would change what the System saw him as.

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  And yet, he had sworn never to use it.

  The Call to Adventure

  The wind whispered through the golden leaves of Sylva’ren as Lior sat atop one of the high branches, overlooking the misty valleys below. His bow rested beside him, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Brooding again?”

  Lior turned to see Sylwen, his closest friend and rival, balancing effortlessly on the branch beside him. Her silver hair shimmered in the moonlight, her emerald eyes bright with mischief.

  “I don’t brood,” Lior muttered. “I reflect.”

  Sylwen smirked. “Reflection is useful. But you’ve been reflecting for weeks now. Ever since—” She hesitated. “Ever since the System gave you your Class.”

  Lior sighed. “I trained for years to be a Warden. But the System doesn’t care about training. It only sees what I am.”

  “And what you are is still my friend,” Sylwen said firmly. “The class doesn’t control you. The System may mark us, but we choose how to wield our strengths.”

  Before Lior could reply, a horn sounded from the outskirts of the city. It was a deep, urgent call—the kind that signaled danger.

  Sylwen’s expression sharpened. “Come on!”

  They leapt down from the trees, landing gracefully in the soft underbrush before sprinting toward the source of the alarm. As they reached the outskirts, a cluster of elven warriors had already gathered, bows drawn, magic humming in the air.

  Beyond them, at the edge of the Veilwood, stood a lone traveler. A human, cloaked in tattered robes, leaning heavily on a staff. His face was gaunt, his breath ragged. But what sent a chill through Lior’s spine was the symbol carved into his chest—an ancient rune of infernal origin, glowing faintly with red light.

  “I bring warning,” the traveler rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “The Chains of Oblivion have begun to break.”

  The elves exchanged wary glances.

  Lior felt a strange pull in his chest, as if something ancient and unseen had stirred at those words.

  The Chains of Oblivion. A name spoken only in the oldest of elven myths. A prophecy of something that should never come to pass.

  The traveler lifted his head, and though his eyes were clouded with exhaustion, they locked onto Lior with an unsettling certainty.

  “And you,” he said, his voice barely above a breath. “You are one of the keys.”

  The world seemed to still. Lior clenched his fists, feeling the weight of the truth pressing down on him.

  He had always fought against his nature, against what he was. But if his bloodline held answers to the rising darkness… then perhaps it was time to stop running.

  Perhaps it was time to step into the unknown.

  And so, the journey began.