The air becomes increasingly heavy as I approach the blackened stone altar. Every step I take feels like pulling an invisible chain weighing down on my shoulders. The cavern around me seems to narrow, as if the walls are closing in to suffocate me. The Mark on my forehead burns intensely, a searing pain that forces me to blink to avoid losing my balance. Yet something compels me to move forward. A mysterious force beyond my understanding seems to want to reveal a long-hidden truth to me.
As I move closer, my legs become as heavy as lead. I try to breathe, but the air is thick, laden with oppressive magic. I struggle to keep my vision clear, but it wavers. The walls of the cavern ripple around me, like an illusion created by a powerful incantation. The pain from the Mark becomes unbearable. I can't go on. My knees give out, and I collapse heavily onto the hard ground of the cavern. The last thing I see before losing consciousness is the altar, which seems to emit a mysterious glow, as if calling to me.
I wake up in a place that is both familiar and painful. The sun shines brightly in the clear sky, its dry warmth on my skin. I recognize this place, though it feels like it belongs to another life. Eyoma, my hometown, stands before me in all its splendor. The stone and earth houses are neatly aligned, each one built with care and love by the villagers' hands. Life here is simple but rich, bathed in sunlight and the warmth of communal bonds.
Eyoma is a place of sharing and mutual aid, a village where everyone finds their place within the community. The fields stretching as far as the eye can see are cultivated collectively, the harvests shared equitably among all members. Children play in the streets under the watchful eyes of the elders, their laughter mingling with the distant roar of lions and the heavy steps of elephants that roam the surrounding plains. Our people, with skin the color of the earth, live in harmony with nature. We take care of the land, and it repays us in abundance.
Our prosperity rests on a unique plant: elimo, a mystical herb that grows only in our valley. Elimo is a gift from the Ancients, a blessed resource that cures almost any ailment. It is said to be infused with the magic of the earth itself, its roots plunging deep into the heart of the world, drawing a beneficial energy from there. It is used to prepare healing potions, enchanted balms to heal wounds, and even mystical elixirs that enhance the abilities of warriors and sages.
In our society, everything is communal. Elimo harvests, fruits from the fields, products of hunting and gathering, all are shared equally. Our resources are never sold to the highest bidder because they are considered sacred, a common good meant to enrich the entire community, not an individual. There is no currency in Eyoma; exchanges are made through barter and sharing. Healers treat anyone in need, and blacksmiths forge tools for anyone who can use them. Everyone gives according to their abilities and receives according to their needs.
However, not everyone understands our way of life. The Mpaya, a people from beyond the mountains, are the first to take an interest in us. Their society is very different from ours. They believe that each person must accumulate wealth, that individual prosperity is more important than collective well-being. Their civilization is based on competition and acquisition, using currency to buy, sell, and enrich themselves at the expense of others.
The Mpaya first approached our village with trade offers, promising gold jewelry and precious artifacts in exchange for elimo. But we refused. To us, elimo is more than a plant; it is the heart of our culture, a part of our soul. It cannot be bought or sold like a mere commodity.
Seeing that negotiation wasn't working, the Mpaya decided to take what they wanted by force. They returned with armies equipped with weapons none of us had ever seen: flaming spears, enchanted swords, and bows capable of shooting arrows of light. Our people, who had never known war, were unprepared. We only had our rudimentary spears and wooden bows, forged for hunting, not for combat. We knew how to defend ourselves against the fierce creatures that roamed our plains, but not against disciplined soldiers armed with magic.
The day of the attack is etched in my memory. The sky had darkened, filled with black smoke from fires lit by the Mpaya. The rumble of frightened elephants and the roars of wounded lions mingled with the war cries of the invaders. My father, a strong man respected for his wisdom and courage, fought fiercely to defend our village. My mother, a healer with great knowledge, desperately tried to treat the wounded, using ancient incantations to close wounds and ease pain.
Despite our desperate resistance, we could do nothing against the strength of the Mpaya. They advanced methodically, destroying everything in their path. Our warriors fell one by one, overwhelmed by the power of magical weapons and the military discipline of the invaders. The elimo fields, our greatest wealth, were burned, destroyed in their blind fury.
I remember running through the village with my little brother, his hands clenched around my arm. He was terrified, and so was I. "Alaric, what are we going to do?" he asked, tears in his eyes. I had no answer for him. All I knew was that we had to flee, find a safe place away from this carnage.
We ran to our house, where my parents were fighting to protect our home. My father, his face covered in sweat and blood, fixed me with his piercing gaze. "Alaric, take your brother and go. Save him, save yourself. Don't come back. And never try to avenge us."
My mother added with a broken but determined voice, "Protect your brother, that's all that matters. Remember that, no matter what happens."
Their last look has haunted me ever since that day. I wanted to stay, to fight alongside them, but I knew I had to leave. I took my brother's hand and ran, tears streaming down my face. We left the village by a hidden path, a passage few people knew. With each step, the sounds of battle seemed to recede, but I knew they were still there, somewhere behind us.
We ran until our legs could no longer carry us. We found refuge in a hidden cave, far from the village. There, we waited, hoping the Mpaya would leave and peace would return. But days passed, and peace never came back. I later discovered that our village had been annihilated, that almost everyone had been killed or scattered. The elimo fields had been reduced to ashes, and the Mpaya had taken everything they could.
I also didn't know where my brother was. In the chaos of fleeing, he had slipped away from me, lost somewhere in the dense forest or captured by the Mpaya. Guilt gripped me every day, gnawing at me from within. I hadn't been able to protect my family. I hadn't been able to protect my brother.
It was in those moments of solitude and despair that the Mark appeared on my forehead. It manifested suddenly, burning with painful intensity. The pain tore a scream from me, but at the same time, I felt a new strength fill me. A strength I didn't understand, but which seemed to be a response to my pain, to my loss. I didn't know what it meant, or why it had appeared, but I felt it had a purpose. Maybe a final gift from the Ancients, or maybe a curse.
My parents' words still echoed in my head: never seek revenge. But how could I honor that request when rage and despair boiled within me? How could I go on without knowing what happened to my brother, without knowing if he was still alive? I vowed to survive, to find my brother, to discover the truth about the destruction of my people, and to understand what this Mark really meant.
I come back to myself with a jolt, panting, my heart racing. I am still in the cavern, surrounded by glittering crystals. The air is breathable again, but I still feel the throbbing pain of the Mark on my forehead. Memories of my past swirl in my mind, vivid and painful. I get up, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
The cavern seems different, narrower, as if it is pressing in on all sides. But I am no longer the same. I have confronted the ghosts of my past and have found a part of myself that I had lost. The pain of loss is still there, but it no longer paralyzes me. I must move forward, find my friends, and discover the truth about this Mark, about my brother's fate, and about what I am supposed to do with this power.
I approach the altar with renewed determination. "I am no longer a frightened child. I am Alaric of Eyoma, bearer of the Mark of Dawn. I will find my brother, discover the truth, and face what awaits me."
My hand rests firmly on the altar. This time, I am ready for what comes next.