The road stretched on for weeks, and with each passing day, Arin felt the pull of his powers grow stronger. He practiced under Eryndor's watchful eye, learning how to channel the energy within him, to control its flow. But the more he learned, the more questions arose. Why had this power awakened in him? What connection did he have to the Old Ones, the ancient guardians of the realm?
One night, as they camped near the edge of a vast, dark forest, Arin dared to ask. "Why me? Why is this happening now?"
Eryndor's gaze lingered on the fire, his expression unreadable. "The Old Ones chose their heirs long ago. Their blood flows through only a few in each generation. You are one of those few. But more importantly, the prophecy foretold of a time when the Dark Lord Morvath would return. You, Arin, are tied to that prophecy. Whether you like it or not, you are the one who must face him."
The words hung heavy in the air. Arin had suspected as much, but hearing it said aloud filled him with dread. He wasn't a hero, just a boy thrust into a war he didn't understand.