The chamber was dim, save for the soft glow of the mosaics that lined the walls—each one a piece of draconic history, its golden light casting fleeting shadows that danced as though alive. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, a mix of sandalwood and myrrh, creating an atmosphere both sacred and foreboding. At the center of the room sat King Arman, his gaze as sharp as the antlers that crowned his head, a silent weight pressing down on him as he looked toward the table where the council was gathered. Beside him stood Queen Daenerys, her face serene, yet the tension that radiated from her every movement betrayed the turmoil she kept hidden behind her calm demeanor.
Lysander stood at the far end of the room, her presence almost ethereal in the flickering light. The royal seer had always been an enigma to those around her—her golden eyes, glowing faintly with the power of foresight, peering into futures that no one else could see. Yet for all her power, she was just as bound by her visions as anyone else. The future was not always clear, and it was never simple.
She had seen it. The coming darkness. The Abyss had awoken, and with it, the Shadowborne. She could feel it in the very weave of the kingdom's magic—a tremor in the air, a pulse of something ancient and malevolent stretching its fingers toward the heart of the kingdom.
But what troubled her most was the shadow that had passed over the royal family, something she had glimpsed but could not fully understand. The life force of the prince—Theros—had flickered and weakened, as if he were caught between realms, struggling to hold onto life as the Abyss threatened to swallow him whole. And yet, the more she peered into the future, the more she realized the kingdom was not just at war with the Abyss. It was at war with destiny itself.
"Your Majesty," Lysander's voice broke the silence, her tone carrying the weight of an unspoken burden. "The Abyss is waking. I have seen it. The Shadowborne are returning, and the very fabric of this kingdom is being torn apart by forces we do not fully understand."
Arman's golden eyes hardened. The king had always trusted Lysander's visions, but the weight of what she was saying was too great to dismiss. His eyes flickered to his son's faint life force, still alive, but distant and strained. It was as if Theros were trapped in a place between worlds—fighting against something that even Lysander could not predict.
"What else do you see?" Arman asked, his voice low but steady, though his concern was evident in the tightness of his jaw.
Lysander hesitated. She had always been the bearer of bad news, the one to bring forth the uncomfortable truths no one wanted to hear. But this... this was different. There was something about the Abyss, something it was hiding from her.
"There are... pieces of the future I cannot decipher," she admitted, her golden pupils flickering as she reached into the weave of the kingdom's magic. "I know what is coming, but I do not know how to stop it. The Abyss is sentient, and it is pulling at the very threads of fate. I can see the destruction it will bring, but I cannot see what it will cost us."
A murmur rippled through the council. Arman's brow furrowed as he exchanged a glance with Daenerys, who remained calm on the outside but could not hide the flicker of fear in her eyes.
The room fell silent. The weight of her words hung in the air like a thick fog, suffocating all who heard it.
"Are you certain?" Daenerys finally spoke, her voice sharp with a mother's instinct.
Lysander closed her eyes, her fingers curling into fists. "I do not know for sure. The future is not set in stone. I cannot say what will happen."
The king's gaze turned steely. "We must prepare for the worst," he said, his voice cold and commanding.
Lysander nodded, but as she did, her mind churned with uncertainty. The threads of fate were shifting, and she could not make sense of all that was happening. Her vision was clouded by something dark—an unknown presence that threatened to eclipse everything she had ever seen. The Abyss was not just a force of destruction; it was a force of change, and it had a will of its own.
As the council began to disperse, Lysander remained where she stood, staring out of the chamber's wide windows at the horizon. She could sense the changes in the air, the way the weave in the kingdom was warping, shifting in response to the Abyss. But there was something else—something she hadn't seen before.
A figure stepped into her line of sight. It was Partok, the commander of the defense forces, his armored form casting a long shadow across the room. He approached her slowly, his expression unreadable.
"Lady Lysander," Partok said, his voice low. "The king is relying on you. The fate of the kingdom rests in your hands."
Lysander turned to face him, her gaze weary but resolute. "I know," she whispered. "But what if I am wrong? What if I cannot see all the pieces?"
Partok studied her for a moment, his eyes softening. "You're only a seer, Lysander, not a God. But your visions have saved us before. The king believes in you. We all do."
She swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a physical force. She knew the truth in them, but it did little to ease the growing dread inside her. The future was a web of countless threads, each one connected to another, each one leading to a different outcome. And somewhere, hidden within that web, was the key to the Abyss—the key that might save them all, or destroy them.
As she left the council chamber, Lysander couldn't shake the feeling that something had already begun—something that even she, with all her power, could not foresee. The future was shifting, and she could no longer tell whether she was leading the kingdom to salvation... or to its doom.
Later that Night: Bioluminescent light hung low over the kingdom, casting a pale light across the underwater city. Lysander stood alone on the balcony of her chambers, her mind spinning with the weight of her visions.
In the distance, she could feel the pull of the Abyss. It was calling to her, its dark presence ever present, waiting for her to uncover its secrets. She knew it was not just a threat—it was an invitation, a lure that promised knowledge but threatened madness.
She closed her eyes, reaching deep into the weave, trying to make sense of the future that eluded her. But the more she sought, the more the darkness seemed to pull her under. The threads twisted and coiled, forming shapes that made no sense.
And then, she saw him—Theros, standing at the heart of the Abyss, his figure silhouetted against a backdrop of swirling shadows. He was not alone. A figure stood beside him, dark and formless, its presence crushing the light.
Lysander gasped as the vision shifted. Theros was gone, swallowed by the darkness, and in his place stood a different figure—one she could not recognize, one whose fate would shatter everything.
Her heart pounded in her chest as the vision ended, the threads of fate unraveling before her eyes. She was no longer certain if Theros would survive—if any of them would survive.
For the first time in her life, Lysander wasn't sure of the future. And that uncertainty terrified her.