Nastal's hand was sweaty. His gaze was fixed on the pulsing colors of the orb. He felt a discomfort in his head, something akin to an itch, but he resisted the temptation to respond. The colors became intoxicating, and slowly, his mind crossed into another dimension—a moment stuck in time, as if he were seeing a dream so real it was indistinguishable from a normal human experience. He was inside someone else's body. In his hands, he felt a weight: an iron fist clasped in his grip, two fingers missing, and the hold was weak. The vision was dark, one eye dead, and in the other hand was a curved sword.
I see through Arsik, Nastal thought, his thoughts confused, mixed with those of the man. Rage and fear flooded his mind—the skeletal face of a wizard, the souls at the bottom of the ocean, all tangled together like a wall. Behind it all, he saw the face of a beautiful elf woman, her skin black, her hair white, the memory of her fueling his rage.
Nastal had no control over Arsik's movements; he was there only as an observer. Arsik turned behind him and looked at the companions following. One was a knight, an old man with long white hair and a beard, his sword bare in his hands—Odarion Whiteshield, the Time Lord, and brother of King Vheod Whiteshield, the first king of Lothen. Beside him stood the large figure of Morgeth the Black, the Dragon King, the legendary warrior who had stood against Oligorious, his brother, the red dragon who had wreaked havoc centuries ago in Vitallia, burning dozens of cities in his wake. Finally, with them was a young swordsman with long white hair and leather armor. The sword he wielded was thin and simple, but its power was immense. They were the Blade Guardians, the last living heroes of the old world, the swordsmen who had stood against Nedel and other dark forces that had pounded Vitallia over the years.
"We're getting close," Arsik said. "I remember this place all too well."
Fear filled his mind. It was obvious that this thought had settled there for a long time, an obsession that wouldn't go away.
"We feel it," Odarion replied and moved ahead. "You have shown us the way, young man. You don't have to fight. You got away with it once; you won't get a second chance."
Arsik was relieved, and Nastal felt part of the emotion. But shame and anger immediately covered that feeling. He knew that, as a warrior, he could not stand beside these giants. Yet he wanted to fight—not just for revenge and certainly not for honor, but because he was eager for death. He wanted to be near Maestra again.
Morgeth stopped him, grabbing him by the shoulder. "Stay here, lad. This is our job. The three of us can take on the Lich. We've seen worse."
Arsik smiled, his mouth empty of teeth. There was a spark in Morgeth's gaze; in Odarion's, there was the weight of ages. Blood flowed from his armor before the battle had even begun.
It is true, Nastal thought. The wound from Nedel's sword in the Battle of the Gods. The legend was true. Odarion had taken a blow from the dark god, his path slightly interrupted by Enya, the Goddess of Time, who had sacrificed herself by falling like a shield before him. With a final spell, she had frozen Odarion's body in time, the wound slowly opening through the centuries. The pain would be permanent, but the knight would live—until the wound finally opened, the blow was fulfilled, and Odarion would die. He had lived all these centuries, knowing that eventually, the spell would wear off and his body would succumb.
Looking the third youth in the eye, Arsik saw a shadow of doubt in the legendary swordsman's gaze. Iliandor Irion had been a Saint of Swords after Odarion in Lothen and had become a Blade Guardian, wielding the sword of Folkoner when he himself died. But despite the titles, the beautiful swords, the legends, and the fame, Arsik knew Iliandor looked like someone about to jump ship. He had seen many sailors forget oaths, honor, and glory, abandoning their allies at the height of battle.
The voice of reason in his mind said no, but every hair and bone in his body said yes. When they finally passed in front of a shattered amber wall and came face to face with the Lich of the Seas, Iliandor slipped into the shadows and disappeared, leaving his comrades stranded at the worst possible moment.
Odarion turned and looked up in wonder. The sadness in his eyes was so profound that it made Arsik wince. Rage flared up inside him, and at that moment, he knew he couldn't leave them. He may not have been a legendary warrior, he may not have been a Blade Guardian, but he was there. He was Arsik Derois, and he was no longer the bastard who cheated at dice; he was the one who had traveled with Karadra to save the Vespia Sea from the threat of the monster. And that was exactly what he would do, for the second time.
"We meet again," he heard it said from afar—a horrible, familiar voice speaking with the mouths of thousands of souls.
Nastal opened his eyes and took two steps back, letting the orb slip from his hands for a moment. Sweaty and bedraggled, he wiped the moisture from his forehead and the tears from his eyes. He was not yet ready to face the next part. Arsik's images, thoughts, and feelings were too many; he could not restrain them. He burst into tears and leaned into a corner, hugging his knees. He felt foolish and small. He began to babble the names he saw in the vision. How could he have been so stupid? So ignorant? He could have helped. He wished he could have been there with them, that he was a hero too, fighting evil. He wished he'd treated Arsik better when the sea washed up at his feet in Ayaton, after all. If only he had helped him and guided him. He wished he could go back in time to help him, but he couldn't. Because of his ignorance, he had lived on the island, distracted by the small problems of the place, unaware of the huge threats that lay beneath his feet, ignoring the signs the gods were so clearly sending. He hated himself and felt ashamed.
"I failed you," he said, standing up again. "Never again," he swore. "Never again will I look the other way. I swear this, I, Nastal, or by the gods, I'll be dust in the wind."
His oath echoed through the hall, and Nastal knew the gods had heard him. There was weight in his words. He looked at the orb again, took a deep breath, and continued his vision.