Welcoming the Reckoning

Xymóra watched as the figure drifted toward the Orūzh, their presence a shadow against the ruinous remnants of what once stood proud. The decay of the land stretched before her, curling and creeping in unnatural forms, yet it was the sight of the figure nearing the sacred relic that sent ice through her veins.

"You must not approach!" Her voice carried across the hollow space, sharp and insistent. "It is forbidden. None may approach the Orūzh."

The figure did not falter. "And yet it calls."

Xymóra's breath came unsteady. "That does not grant us the right."

"Does it not?" The figure's voice was smooth, unwavering, steeped in something older than defiance. "What is right but the echo of those who have chained the past to their fears?"

A sound cut through the stillness. A murmur of movement. Distant at first, yet with every passing second, it grew, shifting earth, measured steps, and then, the flicker of light.

Xymóra's pulse quickened. She turned sharply, eyes narrowing against the darkness. "There is something, someone, they are approaching."

The figure neither slowed nor acknowledged her growing distress. Another light emerged, and then a third, glowing like spectral embers in the mist.

"Do you not hear me?" Her voice wavered, though she fought to keep her composure. "We are not alone. We must leave. Now!"

Still, the figure advanced. The space between the figure and the Orūzh grew small with an inevitability that made her stomach twist. The relic stood at the heart of the ruin, its once glorious frame now fractured, yet its presence was undiminished. Even in decay, it commanded reverence. To touch it, even to stand so near was an act of transgression beyond forgiveness.

"You cannot do this," she insisted, positioning herself with the weight of her fear tethered her to the ground. "You know the laws as well as I do. To interfere with the Orūzh is to summon punishment beyond reckoning."

"I invite the reckoning. Let it come." The figure's voice was a whisper against the howling silence.

Xymóra's breath caught. "You do not understand the gravity of this."

"Perhaps I understand it more than you."

The footsteps behind her grew louder. No longer distant echoes but near—too near. The lights burned brighter now, casting elongated shadows through the ruins. Xymóra turned slowly, dread pooling in her stomach.

"They are close," she whispered, her voice barely her own. "If they see us, if they know what we have done—"

"They have always known," the figure murmured, still moving toward the Orūzh. "It was only a matter of time."

A terrible stillness settled over her, pressing against her ribs. The air seemed thick with unseen forces, heavy with unspoken words. The mist shifted, parting just enough for her to see them.

They emerged from the fog with measured grace, their robes heavy with the weight of tradition. Figures draped in shadow and their faces unreadable.

Xymóra's throat closed. Her body turned to stone.

There was no plea, no justification that could change what had already been seen.