The scent of rain lingered in the night air, though the heavy clouds held back. Dorin stood at the village's edge, staring into the dark fields beyond Lyranth. A deep restlessness gnawed at him, a quiet but relentless weight that made the village's familiar routine feel distant. He couldn't shake the thought that his life wasn't his own, that he was bound to a bloodline he'd never wanted.
He reached down, fingers tightening on the hilt of the sword Calen had entrusted to him. It was more than a weapon—it was a reminder, a symbol of a legacy he still struggled to understand. The past few days had been an internal tug-of-war: part of him longed to believe he was just a blacksmith's apprentice, while another part felt the stirring of something ancient and dangerous, calling from deep within. It was as if the whispers of an old, haunting song had returned, voices that floated in and out of his mind, slipping away whenever he tried to grasp them.
He turned back toward the village and caught sight of Selene. She stood a short distance away, her face lit by the soft moonlight, a mixture of concern and understanding in her eyes. There was no fear, no pity—only a quiet empathy, as if she somehow understood what he himself could not. And for reasons he couldn't fully explain, that frightened him most of all.
"Dorin," she called softly, moving toward him with that calm grace that always made her seem older than her years. "You've been distant. Everyone can see it." Her voice was gentle but steady. "What's happening?"
He didn't want to answer, didn't want to reveal the gnawing dread that had taken root inside him, the sense of impending fate. But Selene's quiet patience drew him out, her presence a balm to the chaos within.
"I don't know," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper, and almost broke. "I thought I was just a blacksmith's apprentice, but… the dreams, the voices—they want something from me, something I don't understand."
Selene's face softened, and she moved closer, her warmth a comfort he hadn't realized he'd needed. "You're not alone, Dorin," she said quietly. "There are people here who care about you. You don't have to carry this alone."
He shook his head, unable to accept the comfort she offered. This burden, the weight of a forgotten prophecy, the power bound to his bloodline—it was his alone to bear. He felt it coiling around him, tightening with each passing day, pulling him toward something inevitable.
"I wish it were that simple," he muttered. "I can't even explain it. It feels like I'm on the edge of something, something that can't be undone once I step forward. There's no going back."
For a long moment, she was silent, the only sound the gentle rustle of wind through the trees. "Maybe it's time to stop running, Dorin. Maybe it's time to face what you are."
Her words struck him like a blade. It wasn't just what she said, but the quiet certainty in her voice. It was as if she'd already accepted something he wasn't ready to confront. A thousand thoughts swirled in his mind, part of him desperate to flee, to leave it all behind. But another part, darker and more resolute, knew that was no longer an option.
The next morning found Dorin in the village square, though he barely registered the noise and motion around him. Merchants called out their wares, townsfolk bartered and haggled, children darted between stalls in play—but his mind was far from the bustling square. The memories of his conversation with Selene lingered, mingling with Kale's warnings and the whispers of fate that seemed to press against his thoughts, growing louder with every passing moment.
He glanced up and saw the soldiers again, their armor catching the morning sun as they moved with purpose through the crowd. They'd been here every day since their arrival, always watching, always searching. Though they didn't look directly at him, Dorin felt their attention lingering, as if they sensed something about him that even he couldn't yet understand.
Instinctively, his hand moved to the sword at his side. The cool metal grounded him, its weight a reminder of the choices he had yet to make. It was as though the weapon held a life of its own, urging him toward action, whispering to him to stop waiting and take control. But how could he? He wasn't a soldier, wasn't a leader. Yet in the quiet of his mind, a voice told him that he might one day have to be both.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. One of the soldiers turned toward him, their gazes meeting in a moment of silent intensity. Dorin's heart thudded in his chest, but he held the soldier's stare, refusing to look away. He had come too far to retreat now.
"Are you Dorin?" The voice cut through the marketplace noise, sharp and commanding. The officer who had arrived days earlier now stood before him, eyes narrowed with an unreadable expression.
Dorin didn't hesitate. "I am."
The officer's gaze darkened, and for a moment, Dorin thought he might reach for his blade. But instead, he gestured to the soldiers behind him. "We've been looking for you."
Dorin's pulse quickened. He didn't know if it was fear or anticipation that gripped him, but he could feel a chain snapping, the final shackle that had held him back. The time had come to face whatever fate awaited him, to step forward into the unknown.
That night, alone in his room, Dorin sat on the edge of his bed, his fingers trailing along the blade Calen had given him. The polished steel caught the dim candlelight, reflecting his face—a face that felt like a stranger's. The man in the reflection looked older, harder, as though he'd already endured battles that hadn't yet been fought. A prince? A warrior? Or simply a pawn in a game much larger than he could comprehend?
The whispers in his mind grew louder, their words clearer, their call impossible to ignore. It wasn't just the soldiers, or the sword, or even the strange tension that had settled over the village—it was everything, all the threads of his life converging in a single, inevitable path. He closed his eyes, taking a long, steadying breath, his grip tightening on the hilt.
Images flashed through his mind: a throne shrouded in darkness, a battlefield stained with blood, faces both familiar and unknown, all watching him with expectant eyes. The weight of history pressed down on him, every choice he'd ever made, every step he'd ever taken, all leading to this moment.
There would be no more hiding. No more running. The truth he'd feared for so long was here, and it demanded to be faced.
As he opened his eyes, he felt a strange calm settle over him. The fear was still there, but now it was joined by a quiet resolve, a determination he hadn't realized he possessed. Whatever lay ahead, he would meet it—not as the blacksmith's apprentice he had once thought himself to be, but as the man he was destined to become.
With a final look at his reflection, he stood, the sword heavy but reassuring in his hand. He didn't know what the future held, but he knew this: he would not face it with hesitation.
The truth had arrived.
And he would not turn away.