The Weight of Prophecy

Evelyn's fingers trembled as she clutched the ancient scroll. The words burned into her mind like a brand, each line heavy with meaning and foreboding. She read aloud in a hushed tone, her voice echoing through the chamber:

When the blood of kings runs cold and the stars fall from the sky, a warrior bound by fate shall rise. A shadow, masked and unseen, will challenge the world's balance. If the warrior falters, darkness will claim all.

Soren watched her intently, his expression grim. "Do you see now? This isn't just about the masked warrior. It's about you."

Evelyn shook her head, unwilling to accept the weight of the words. "How can this be? I'm just a soldier, Soren. A commander, yes, but not some fated warrior destined to change the world."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "And yet, everything you've done—the battles, the victories, the way you've defied fate time and time again—it all fits. The masked warrior is hunting you for a reason."

A silence stretched between them, thick with uncertainty. Evelyn's mind raced. If the prophecy was true, then her fight was far from over. It had only just begun.

She exhaled, gripping the parchment tighter. "Then we need to find out who the masked warrior really is. If they are my enemy, I must face them before it's too late."

Soren nodded. "There's more. Follow me."

He led her deeper into the chamber, past more inscriptions carved into the walls. Each told stories of past wars, fallen kingdoms, and warriors who had risen and fallen. But one carving stood out—a depiction of two figures locked in battle, one cloaked in shadow, the other bathed in light.

Evelyn felt a chill as she traced the carving with her fingers. "This battle… it hasn't happened yet."

Soren met her gaze. "No. But it will."