The flickering glow of candlelight was absent tonight. Instead, the pale moon cast its ethereal glow through the high-arched windows of the sanctum, illuminating the stone corridors in a ghostly silver hue. Zerathis tread carefully, his mind burdened with the weight of unanswered questions, each step an echo of his lingering doubts.
Selene Vaelcrest. A warrior. A seeker of truth. A mother who had left him behind for a purpose.
His fingers curled into a fist, frustration simmering beneath his skin. High Priest Aedric had given him just enough to stir his curiosity, but not enough to form a complete picture. His mother had not abandoned him out of neglect…. but what had she been running from? Or rather, what had she been preparing him for?
The sanctum's main hall smelled of burning incense. A few robed priests murmured prayers near the altar, their voices blending into a low hum that seemed to vibrate against the stone walls. The sanctum was peaceful, yet beneath that peace, Zerathis felt something else...something unseen.
There was something about this place, something hidden beneath layers of reverence and routine.
He would find it.
The following days passed in a cycle of training, prayer, and study. Zerathis threw himself into his daily routine with a renewed sense of purpose, sharpening his skills in both combat and scripture.
Under the watchful eye of Malrik, he honed his swordsmanship each strike more precise, each movement an extension of his will. His instructors noticed the shift in his demeanor. He wasn't just fighting to improve anymore; he was fighting to understand.
"You're pushing yourself harder than usual," Malrik observed one evening after a particularly grueling sparring session. He leaned on his training blade, studying Zerathis with a measured gaze. "Something on your mind?"
Zerathis exhaled sharply, wiping sweat from his brow. "Do you believe in fate, Malrik?"
The older warrior narrowed his eyes slightly, as if measuring his words before speaking. "Fate is a convenient excuse for those who refuse to carve their own path."
Zerathis considered that. "But what if your path was set before you were even born? What if __" He hesitated. "What if someone chose it for you?"
Malrik remained silent for a long moment before finally responding. "Then I would ask: do you accept it? Or do you defy it?"
Zerathis had no answer.. not yet
The library called to him again.
Late one night, long after the priests had retired to their chambers, Zerathis found himself walking through the candlelit aisles, his fingers trailing over the spines of ancient tomes. His instincts guided him deeper, past the familiar shelves and into the older sections where dust clung thick to forgotten knowledge.
His footsteps halted before a particular shelf. One book stood out among the rest, its leather-bound cover worn but intact.
"The Chronicles of the Forgotten War."
Zerathis pulled the book free, its weight heavier than he expected. He turned to a nearby reading desk, carefully opening the aged pages. The script was old, the ink slightly faded, but legible.
"And so, in the age before reckoning, when the heavens waged war upon the earth, the forsaken ones were cast into the abyss—bound by chains unseen, their names erased from time itself. Yet in the echoes of fate, their blood still lingers, waiting to be called forth once more…"
His pulse quickened.
The words felt too close. Too personal.
Before he could read further, a voice broke the silence.
"You should not be here at this hour, Zerathis."
He looked up sharply. High Priest Aedric stood near the entrance, his expression unreadable.
Zerathis hesitated, but then slowly closed the book. "I was looking for answers."
Aedric stepped forward, his gaze lingering on the tome. "And did you find them?"
Zerathis shook his head. "Only more questions."
Aedric sighed. "Some truths reveal themselves when the seeker is ready. Be patient, Zerathis. In time, the path will unfold before you."
Zerathis met the priest's gaze. "And if I don't want to wait?"
Aedric smiled faintly. "Then you must be prepared to face what you find."
The moonlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the library walls. And in that moment, Zerathis knew—his search was only just beginning.
The following week, his training sessions became more rigorous. Not just in the art of the blade, but in discipline, patience, and mental fortitude. Malrik pushed him harder, testing the limits of his endurance. And still, in the quiet moments, his mind wandered back to the book, to the war, to the forsaken ones.
One evening, after a particularly intense sparring session, he found himself standing before Aedric's chamber door. A moment of hesitation, then he knocked.
"Come in, Zerathis."
He entered, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room. Scrolls, relics, and tomes lined the walls. Aedric stood near the fireplace, hands folded behind his back.
"You seek answers," the priest said without turning.
Zerathis clenched his jaw. "Yes."
Aedric finally faced him. "Then tell me—do you wish to know your origins, or do you wish to understand them?"
The distinction made Zerathis pause. "Both."
Aedric nodded. "Then you must listen carefully. For the truth is not always kind."
A heavy silence filled the room.
"You were never meant to be ordinary, Zerathis," Aedric said at last. "And the blood that runs through your veins is proof of that. Your mother... she was not merely a warrior. She was part of something far greater, something that even I do not fully comprehend. And you, whether you wish it or not, are bound to that legacy."
Zerathis felt the weight of those words settle deep within him.
The truth was beginning to surface and he was no longer sure if he was ready for it