The aftermath of the attack left the village in ruins. Smoke drifted in the dawn light, and the villagers gathered in the square, searching for the missing and mourning the dead. Arin stood apart from the crowd, his hands still trembling from the surge of power that had coursed through him during the battle. What had he done? The glow, the energy—it had felt like something deep within him had woken for the first time.
Eryndor approached, his eyes grave but filled with a strange satisfaction. "The power inside you is real, Arin. It is ancient, tied to the Old Ones who once protected these lands. You have only begun to scratch the surface of what you can do." Arin recoiled, shaking his head. "I don't want this," he said, his voice low. "I'm just a farmer."
But Eryndor's expression hardened. "You cannot deny your destiny. The dark forces will not stop. They will hunt you until either you rise to meet them or you fall. Come with me, Arin. I will teach you how to control this power before it consumes you."
Arin hesitated, the weight of his choice pressing on him. He could stay, live the life he had always known. Or he could follow Eryndor and embrace the terrifying unknown.