The Final Omen

The air inside the ruined temple thickened as Ragnar locked eyes with the ghostly figure before him. Its presence felt ancient, as though it had existed for millennia, guarding secrets that even the gods had forgotten. The dark energy that swirled around it made the very stones of the temple tremble, but Ragnar stood his ground, the Sword of Anarchy humming softly at his side.

The figure didn't move closer, but Ragnar could feel its gaze probing him, as if trying to read his very soul.

"I have seen many come and go," the figure rasped, its voice like a low growl echoing through the chamber. "Men, beasts, and beings beyond your comprehension. All sought the power within these walls. None succeeded."

Ragnar's jaw clenched, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "I am not them."

"No, you are not," the figure whispered, its glowing eyes narrowing. "You are different, but that does not mean you are worthy."