"The Northern and Southern Empires have been at war for almost thirty years. Why do you think that is?"
A youth with dark hair and honey-glazed eyes furrowed his brows in thought. He looked at the old man sitting across from him and shook his head.
"I thought they were fighting over dominion of the Northvault."
"They are! But why?" The old man's eyes gleamed with a bit of madness as he spoke, his gaze condescending and his tone like that of a father guiding his child.
"Think… The answer has been right before your eyes; it exists within you!"
"... The relics?" the youth asked, unsure.
"Bravo! The relics!"
"But… Why? I heard that each empire has a relic of its own. What does Northvault have to do with the relics? If they were after relics, why don't they attack each other directly? They're already enemies."
"Let me tell you a story." The old man began, standing up from his lotus position and walking around the cave. His tattered robe looked like a rag, his tangled and dirty beard and hair emitting a foul stench.
"Once upon a time, there was a man who killed a god. He retrieved three pieces of the god's body and gave two out. End of the story!" The old man revealed a maddened smile, his teeth brown and crooked, his breath foul.
The youth suddenly became quiet, his brows furrowed deep in contemplation. The candlelight at the center of the cave reflected off his brown skin.
He didn't seem to mind that what the man had said sounded gibberish. How does one kill a god? And if one did, weren't gods supposed to be ethereal beings? How could they leave behind a body?
"This… the relics? There are three of them?"
"Yes. Each empire has one. The godslayer is dead. Where is the third one?"
"The Northvault?" the youth asked, uncertainty thick in his gentle voice.
"Both empires are almost equal in power, but what do you think would happen if one of them suddenly gains an extra relic?!" the old man laughed madly.
"But why? I mean, how do they know it's supposed to be there?" The youth was confused, unable to understand how it was all connected.
"Because… Northvault is the origin, the genesis, the beginning and the end. Northvault is where the godslayer slayed a god. Northvault is the land of blasphemy!"
The old man's expression was now truly crazed. His black pupils were deep with red veins crawling around them, his smile so large it almost reached his ears. His old and haggard figure trembled as if trying to hold back laughter, looking diabolical.
"Northvault…" the youth muttered absentmindedly. He raised his head a moment later, staring at the seemingly mad man with an unbothered gaze.
"And where do all these lines meet? All these conspiracies, how deep do they go?"
"No one knows. Not even the so-called leaders. Well, at least as to your question of how deep they go."
"What do you mean?"
"The lines, young Ichor. They all meet at the center, a certain center in the form of a youth. A certain youth who looks just like you. No, he is you."
"Me?" The youth looked genuinely shocked, his honey brown eyes widening as he pointed to himself.
"Yes, you!" the old man replied fervently, a bit of spit flying out of his mouth.
"How? What does this have to do with me?"
The old man's expression suddenly switched. All of his madness was gone. His smile vanished, but his eyes became wider. No, his madness didn't leave; it instead settled, like a turbulent sea suddenly becoming calm.
The youth felt a cold shiver down his spine but his gaze remained on the old man.
"Don't tell me that you don't know… I see it, they all see it. That's why they've finally set their attention on you recently. That's why they've begun a new scheme, one meant just for you. It's because they are scared, we all are. After all, no one wants to see a repeat of history. That… that bloody day…"
This time, there was fear in the old man's eyes. A deep primal fear stemming from trauma, one branded into his soul.
"What do they see?" the youth asked, though every fiber of his being screamed for him not to. He felt that knowing the answer would likely change his life.
But he asked anyway, because he was curious. He asked because he hated being the last one to know. And he asked because while a part of him yelled at him not to, another part yearned to know. He felt it, a deep rumbling, like his blood was boiling.
The old man paused, his foul breath ragged, his dark pupils trembling as he stared into nothing. He saw a mirage, a myriad of memories.
Then he turned around and returned to his seat, his expression becoming listless, his eyes losing all madness, seeming to age a few years more.
With his back facing the youth, he drew a raspy breath and with a voice as gentle as willows, he spoke,
"A shadow... The shadow."
"What shadow?" the boy asked gently.
The old man turned around and sat in his previous spot, taking the lotus-style sitting posture. He closed his eyes as his lips parted,
"We all see it... The shadow of the godslayer, the greatest commander of mankind, the apotheon, the true phalanx, his majesty, Einar Anteros. We see his shadow in you..."
The young boy stood in a daze, his eyes blurred and his body dimmed. He wasn't lost in a trance; no, he was fading away.
He reached out to touch the man, wanting to ask who the commander was, why he was so feared, and why the name Einar Anteros tugged on his heartstrings.
But it was futile. His eyes widened in realization.
He's dead. The old man is dead.