The Weight of Destiny

Tharion sat in silence, his back resting against the cold stone wall of the chamber. His breathing had steadied, but his mind was still racing. The vision had felt too real to be a simple illusion. The golden warrior's voice still echoed in his ears—commanding, powerful, and undeniably connected to him.

Ceyla paced restlessly nearby, her brows furrowed. "So, let me get this straight," she said. "You just touched that thing, blacked out, and now you're convinced some ancient warrior is waiting for you on a battlefield of gods?"

Tharion let out a slow breath. "Yes."

Ceyla stopped pacing and gave him a long, hard look. "Do you hear how insane that sounds?"

He met her gaze, his expression unwavering. "I do. And yet, I know it's true."

She sighed, rubbing her temples. "Okay. Let's assume, for a moment, that this isn't just some elaborate hallucination caused by touching an ancient glowing orb in a cursed ruin. What does this actually mean for us? For Windfell?"

Tharion glanced at the now-dimmed orb on the pedestal. "I think... it means my power isn't mine alone. It belonged to someone else before me. And now, for some reason, I'm supposed to continue what they started."

Ceyla crossed her arms. "And what exactly did they start?"

Tharion exhaled. "A war."

A Hidden Enemy

The words hung heavy in the chamber. Ceyla looked away, processing what this could mean. Tharion stood up, stretching his tense muscles. "We should get back to Windfell," he said. "There's nothing more for us here."

She nodded, though her expression was still clouded with doubt. "Agreed. But if we're going to tell the others what we found, we need to be careful. People are already on edge."

Tharion retrieved his makeshift blade, and together, they made their way back up the stone staircase. The air felt different as they ascended—heavier, like something unseen was pressing down on them.

As they reached the surface, the first thing they noticed was the unnatural silence. The wind had died, and the birds that had been chirping earlier were gone.

Ceyla's hand immediately went to her bow. "I don't like this."

Neither did Tharion. He scanned their surroundings, his instincts on high alert. Then he noticed something—near the treeline, barely visible through the mist. A figure.

It stood perfectly still, watching them. Unlike the shadow creatures they had fought before, this one had a defined form. A man, draped in dark robes, his face obscured beneath a hood.

Ceyla slowly drew an arrow. "Who the hell is that?"

Tharion stepped forward. "Only one way to find out."

The hooded figure raised a hand, palm facing outward—a gesture of either greeting or warning. Then, in a voice that carried eerily through the still air, he spoke.

"You have awakened something that should have remained buried."

Tharion's grip tightened around his weapon. "Who are you?"

The figure tilted his head slightly. "A messenger."

Ceyla's grip on her bow tightened. "A messenger for who?"

The figure chuckled, the sound hollow. "You will find out soon enough."

Then, before either of them could react, the figure dissolved into mist, vanishing like he had never been there.

A cold chill ran down Tharion's spine. Whoever—or whatever—that was, he knew one thing for certain: the war he had seen in his vision wasn't just in the past.

It was coming for them.