The fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting long shadows across the worn bookshelves of Jackson's grandfather's study. Dust hung in the golden light like ancient spirits refusing to leave. Jackson sat cross-legged on the carpet, watching the old man's fingers as they moved across the spine of a leather-bound book.
"This one," Grandfather said, his voice gravelly yet warm, "isn't just a story. It's a memory passed down. You must never forget it."
Jackson, seventeen and always skeptical, tilted his head. "A memory of what?"
"Of another world. A place beyond dreams.
Where whispers guide your steps, and knowing the future can be a curse… or a gift."
He tapped the book. A symbol glowed faintly—three rings interlocking, like ripples on water.
Jackson reached out and touched it.
For a second, nothing happened. Then he heard it.
A whisper.
Faint. Delicate. Like a breeze curling around his ears in a language he'd never learned, but somehow understood:
"You were born with the sight… and the Realm remembers."
He yanked his hand back.
Grandfather smiled—sadly. "You heard it, didn't you?"
Jackson nodded slowly. "What is this place?"
"It's called the Forgotten Realm. But it's waiting for you, Jackson. One day soon, you'll be called."
He didn't believe him—not really. Just a bedtime story from a brilliant but aging mind.
But three days later, his grandfather was gone.
And the book was missing.