Eltoria: Summoned, Not chosen

CHAPTER 1 — The Walk Up Ridgeway Street

Morning air clung to Roman Lancaster's skin like a thin sheet of cool silk, fresh enough to wake him but not quite cold enough to bother him. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, the familiar weight settling across his shoulder as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Same cracked pavement. Same sleepy neighborhood. Same route he had taken a thousand times before.

Another day, he thought, watching a small group of early risers jog past him. Same routine. Same quiet.

It wasn't that he hated mornings—they were peaceful, predictable, and gave him time to think. And Roman always had a lot on his mind, even if nobody could tell by looking at him. His face remained the usual blank slate: unreadable, calm, almost stern. People often mistook that for irritation or boredom, but really, it was just how he'd always been. Stoic to the core, even back when he was little.

His long, pitch-black dreads swayed slightly as he walked, brushing lightly against his jawline. A few strands drifted forward with the breeze, and he pushed them away out of habit. The sun, still low on the horizon, hit his sharp crimson eyes—eyes that had made more than a few strangers stare twice. Some called them beautiful; others called them unsettling. Roman didn't have a strong opinion either way. They were just...his.

He tugged at the sleeve of his oversized hoodie. Baggy clothes were comfortable, easy, and most importantly, they hid the lean muscle definition he disliked showing. Years of sports—football in the fall, track in the spring, and anything competitive in between—had carved a naturally athletic shape into him. People praised him for it, admired it, even, but that only made him want to cover it more.

A delivery truck rolled by, the engine rumbling. Roman's ears twitched slightly—sensitive as always. His heightened senses were both a blessing and a curse. He could hear conversations from across the street, smell the distant scent of a bakery preparing fresh dough, and notice small movements in his peripheral vision that others would miss. But it also meant the world was...loud. Busy. Constantly buzzing.

At least mornings are quiet, he thought.

He stepped over a familiar spot on the sidewalk—a faint chalk scribble from neighborhood kids. It had been there for weeks. Little things stuck around in his mind. Little routines. Little details. Maybe because everything else in his life felt...empty wasn't the right word. Just uncomplicated. Simple.

Roman wasn't unpopular. People liked him well enough. Teachers respected him. Classmates admired him from a distance. But close friends? He had two. Only two. And honestly, that was enough. He'd meet up with them later at school, probably hear their usual early-morning arguments or jokes. They added color to his life—bright, chaotic color—something he'd never admit he appreciated.

He exhaled slowly, watching a faint white puff fade into the air.

If someone wrote a book about me, he mused dryly, the first chapter would probably put them to sleep.

His deep, smooth voice stayed inside his head, never spoken aloud. That was normal. Most days, Roman didn't use his voice until someone spoke to him first. Not because he didn't like talking—he just didn't see the point unless he had something real to say.

A flock of birds scattered overhead, their wings flapping in synchronized arcs. Roman glanced up at them, quietly admiring the pattern. He always noticed patterns. Movements. Sounds. Scents. Things most people didn't think twice about.

But despite all that, despite being observant, capable, and physically gifted...his life remained painfully ordinary.

School. Homework. Sports. Home. Repeat.

Another day of that cycle waited for him beyond the hill ahead. Another day where nothing interesting was supposed to happen.

He took a left turn onto Ridgeway Street, boots thumping steadily against the pavement.

"...Just a normal morning," he muttered under his breath—soft, deep, and barely audible.

But for reasons he couldn't explain, Roman felt something tug at him in the air. A whisper of unease. Or anticipation.

Something different.

Something new.

He ignored the feeling and kept walking.

After all, today was supposed to be just another boring day.