A_Seeker07

Synopsis:

In a world ruled by prophecy, fate is law—and the Oracle speaks it.

But when the sacred Temple of Tirael is destroyed in a mysterious fire, a strange young girl is found at the center of the ruins. She claims to be Eloryn, a reincarnated Oracle from centuries past, returned to correct the greatest mistake of her past lives: a prophecy that crowned a false king and set the world on a path to ruin.

Haunted by visions and hunted by those who would silence her, Eloryn must descend into the forgotten depths of the sacred mountain to destroy the Book of Stars—a tome that binds futures in divine ink. With reluctant allies, ancient powers stirring, and time unraveling around her, Eloryn must decide how much of fate can truly be rewritten… and what must be sacrificed to do it.

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Me and My fate

Eloryn awoke to the scent of burnt parchment and someone loudly arguing with a piece of furniture.

"No, no, no! You're clearly a shelf, not a chaise lounge! Stop trying to recline!"

She blinked. The Vault looked the same—stars overhead, faint glow of memory threads on the walls—but now there was a girl about her age, red-haired and freckled, chasing a shapeshifting bookcase with a wooden spoon.

Pennrick, calmly flipping through a floating tome, sipped from a mug labeled "Archivist, not Babysitter."

"Ah, you're awake," he said. "Eloryn, meet Fenn. Fenn, stop threatening the sentient furniture. Meet Eloryn."

The girl whirled around. "You're her! The Dreamwright who unsealed the Chain!"

Eloryn sat up, confused. "Yes, but… how do you—?"

"I've read everything about you!" Fenn gushed. "Well, everything you haven't written yet. Some of the books here are preemptively prophetic."

Maren, entering behind her, mumbled, "That explains so much and also nothing."

Fenn stepped forward, eyes wide with admiration and a grin far too mischievous. "I'm Pennrick's apprentice. Self-appointed. Also part-time prophecy thief and accidental firestarter."

Pennrick cleared his throat. "Mostly the firestarting."

"She'll help train you," he added. "And keep things lively."

"I'm great at both!" Fenn chirped. "Want to see how to turn a bad dream into a smoke bomb?"

Eloryn blinked. "Is that… useful?"

Fenn held up a blackened spoon. "Not really. But it's hilarious."

Maren leaned in to Eloryn. "I like her. She's like chaos in a scarf."

Eloryn allowed a smile. She hadn't realized how heavy her thoughts had been until Fenn burst in like a rogue thought on caffeine.

"Alright," Eloryn said. "Teach me."

Fenn clapped and darted to a circular loom in the center of the room. "Lesson one: not all memories are big and tragic. Some are tiny and stupidly powerful. You ever laughed so hard you forgot why you were sad?"

"Yeah," Eloryn said softly. "Once."

"Exactly. That's thread magic. Not epic fate-changing stuff—just life. You gather enough of that, and you don't break when the real darkness comes."

She touched the loom and a swirl of glowing threads rose into the air—laughing voices, dancing feet, the echo of something carefree.

It was the memory of someone—herself, possibly in another life—slipping on a banana peel during a speech about destiny.

"Oh gods," she whispered. "That was me."

"Welcome to being the Last Oracle," Fenn said, tossing her a spool. "We remember everything. Even the ridiculous."

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the archivist's Apprentice