The Gathering Storm
The hours before dawn were a blur of activity. Joran packed a satchel with supplies—dried food, water flasks, and a collection of charms he claimed would ward off the illusions of the Wastes. Elias doubted their effectiveness but didn’t argue.
Alina was sharpening her dagger when Elias approached her. She glanced up, the firelight reflecting in her eyes. “You should get some rest. We’ve got a long road ahead.”
“I can’t sleep,” Elias admitted, sitting beside her. “Every time I close my eyes, I hear it.”
“The harp?”
He nodded. “It’s getting louder. More insistent.”
Alina studied him for a moment. “It’s trying to wear you down. You can’t let it.”
“I don’t know how to fight it,” Elias said, frustration creeping into his voice. “It’s not just a sound—it’s in my head, in my thoughts. Like it knows me.”
Alina placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think. The harp chose you for a reason, Elias. Maybe it sees something in you that you don’t.”
Elias wasn’t sure if that was comforting or terrifying.
By the time the first rays of dawn touched the city, they were ready to leave. The streets of Erythion were still, the usual chaos of the markets replaced by an eerie calm.
Joran led them to a small gate at the edge of the city, hidden behind a tangle of vines and crumbling stone. He paused before opening it, his hand resting on the latch.
“This is your last chance to turn back,” he said, his tone grave. “Once we step into the Wastes, there’s no guarantee we’ll come out again.”
Elias glanced at Alina, who met his gaze with quiet determination. “We’ve come this far,” he said. “There’s no turning back now.”
Joran nodded and pushed the gate open. Beyond it lay a vast expanse of sand and stone, stretching endlessly into the horizon.
The first day in the Wastes was grueling. The sun blazed overhead, and the sand seemed to radiate heat with every step. Joran navigated with a small compass and a worn journal, his movements precise despite the featureless landscape.
Elias tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, but the harp’s melody was growing louder. It wasn’t just a sound anymore—it was a feeling, a pulse that seemed to vibrate in his chest.
By midday, the horizon began to shimmer, and Elias’s vision blurred. He stumbled, catching himself before he fell.
“Elias?” Alina’s voice was sharp with concern.
“I’m fine,” he lied, though his head was pounding.
Joran turned back, his expression unreadable. “The Wastes are already working on you. Focus your mind. Don’t let it wander.”
Elias clenched his fists, trying to push the melody aside, but it was no use.
As night fell, they made camp near a cluster of rocks that offered some shelter from the wind. Joran lit a small fire, its glow casting long shadows across the sand.
“We’ll reach the first marker tomorrow,” he said, gesturing to his map. “An ancient obelisk. If the texts are accurate, it’s the last known waypoint before the true dangers of the Wastes begin.”
Alina frowned. “The true dangers?”
Joran nodded. “Illusions. Beasts that shouldn’t exist. And the remnants of the Spire’s wards. We’ll need to be careful.”
Elias barely heard them. The harp’s melody was a roar now, drowning out everything else. He gritted his teeth, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Elias?” Alina’s voice was distant, muffled.
“I… I can’t…” he murmured, his hands clutching his head.
The world around him seemed to dissolve, replaced by a swirl of light and sound. He was standing in the ruins again, the harp glowing in the darkness. A voice—soft and melodic—whispered in his ear.
You are mine, Elias. You cannot escape me.
“No,” he said, his voice trembling. “I’m not yours.”
The voice laughed, a chilling, otherworldly sound.
“Elias!” Alina’s voice cut through the illusion, and he blinked, finding himself back by the fire.
Alina was gripping his shoulders, her expression filled with worry. “What happened?”
“The harp,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It’s… it’s trying to take control.”
Joran’s face darkened. “Then we don’t have much time. If it’s already this strong, the closer we get to the Spire, the harder it will be to resist.”
Elias took a deep breath, his hands trembling. “I can do this. I have to.”
Alina nodded, though her eyes betrayed her doubt.
As the fire crackled and the desert winds howled, the three of them sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. The journey ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: the harp’s power was growing, and it wouldn’t wait for them to catch up.
Dawn came sluggishly over the Wastes, the horizon bathed in hues of pale gold and orange. The sand, once cool underfoot, began to radiate warmth as the sun climbed higher. Elias awoke to the sound of Joran muttering to himself, poring over his journal. Alina sat nearby, sharpening her dagger, her eyes darting toward the horizon every so often, wary of unseen threats.
“Anything out there?” Elias asked, his voice rough from sleep.
“Not yet,” Alina replied. “But the Wastes are quiet. Too quiet.”
Joran glanced up from his journal. “The silence won’t last. We’re nearing the obelisk. The closer we get, the more… unpredictable things will become.”
“Unpredictable how?” Elias asked, pulling himself to his feet.
“Hallucinations, if we’re lucky,” Joran said bluntly. “Other things, if we’re not.”
Elias shivered despite the heat. The memory of the harp’s voice from the night before was still fresh in his mind. He’d managed to resist its pull, but barely.
“Eat quickly,” Joran said. “We need to reach the obelisk before midday. The shadows it casts will guide us further, but only for a short time.”
The journey toward the obelisk was grueling. The sand shifted unpredictably under their feet, and the horizon seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. The heat was oppressive, and every step felt like a battle against an invisible force.
By the time the obelisk came into view, the sun was high, casting stark shadows across the dunes. The structure was massive, its dark stone surface etched with runes that glowed faintly in the harsh light. It stood alone, a solitary reminder of a long-forgotten age.