Eryndor sat in the dim light of his cabin. First time he didn't go out to hunt ever since he settled here. His mind swirling with thoughts he couldn't escape. The nightmares were growing worse, more vivid, and more revealing. The visions of his blood sisters, the Nightborn creatures hunting him, and the ominous laughter in his dreams painted a picture he didn't understand but couldn't ignore.
He knew he couldn't run any longer. Answers were the only way forward. And for answers, he needed Asvarion, the firebird who had saved his life years ago and had become a silent guardian in the years since.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the desolate land, Eryndor stepped out of his cabin. He stood in the clearing, closed his eyes, and raised his hands to the sky.
"Asvarion," he called, his voice steady but tinged with desperation. "I summon you. I need your guidance."
The air grew still, the wind ceasing its whispers through the trees. Then, a crackling sound filled the silence, followed by a burst of warm, golden light. The firebird appeared in a flash, its radiant feathers shimmering like molten gold and crimson embers. Asvarion landed gracefully before him, its piercing eyes locking onto Eryndor.
"You have summoned me, young sorcerer," Asvarion said, its deep, melodic voice resonating in the air. "What troubles you?"
Eryndor hesitated, the weight of his question pressing down on him. Finally, he spoke.
"I've been having nightmares—visions of my sisters. They've risen, and they're after me. Dark creatures haunt me in my waking hours, and I can feel their malice. I need to understand why this is happening. I need to know the truth about my lineage and the sorcery that flows through me."
Asvarion tilted its head, its expression unreadable. "The answers you seek will not be easy to bear," it warned. "But I will guide you."
With a sweep of its fiery wings, the firebird gestured toward the cabin. "Begin where your bloodline's secrets lie, beneath the foundations of this home."
Eryndor's heart sank. The cabin, a humble structure nestled in the wilderness, had been his sanctuary since his mysterious teleportation. He had lived there for years, avoiding the world and the responsibilities of his powers. To think that the answers lay beneath his feet all this time felt both frustrating and terrifying.
Without hesitation, he grabbed a spade and began to pry up the wooden floorboards. Dust rose in the dim light, and the scent of earth and decay filled the air. Asvarion watched silently, its glowing form casting eerie shadows across the walls.
After hours of digging, Eryndor's spade struck something solid. Clearing away the dirt, he uncovered a small, ancient chest. Its surface was covered in intricate carvings of runes, their meanings lost to time. He hesitated before opening it, feeling the weight of his decision.
With a deep breath, he lifted the lid. Inside was a collection of weathered scrolls, a dagger with a hilt adorned with blood-red gems, and a thick, leather-bound tome. The tome seemed to hum faintly, as though it was alive.
"What is this?" Eryndor asked, looking at Asvarion.
"These are the remnants of your ancestors' sins," Asvarion said gravely. "They contain the truth you seek."
Eryndor carefully opened the tome, the brittle pages crackling under his fingers. The text was written in an ancient language, but as he stared at it, the words began to shift, rearranging themselves into something he could read.
The story it told chilled him to his core.
Thousands of years ago, his ancestors were powerful sorcerers, feared and revered across the land. But with power came great responsibility and terrible consequences. The sorcery in their bloodline was a curse as much as a gift, drawing the ire of spirits and dark forces. To escape this fate, they sought to sever the connection to magic entirely.
The scrolls detailed their solution: a ritual sacrifice of all female offspring. It was believed that by eliminating the possibility of female births, the cycle of sorcery would be broken, as their magic relied on the duality of male and female balance.
"For centuries," Asvarion explained, "your ancestors carried out this ritual in secret. Every girl born into your family was sacrificed before her first breath. They believed it would appease the ancient spirits and end the bloodline's connection to magic."
Eryndor's stomach churned. The thought of his lineage committing such atrocities was almost too much to bear.
"They were wrong," Asvarion continued. "The spirits were not appeased—they were enraged. While your ancestors believed the sorcery had ended, it had merely gone dormant, waiting for the right moment to awaken again. That moment came with you, Eryndor."
"Why now?" Eryndor asked, his voice trembling. "Why me?"
Asvarion's eyes burned brighter. "Because the spirits have returned, empowered by the souls of your sacrificed sisters. They have risen, fuelled by the hatred and pain of their unjust deaths. Their vengeance is not only against humanity but against you, their brother, the sole inheritor of the magic they were denied of life."
Eryndor stumbled back, his mind reeling. The visions of his sisters in his nightmares suddenly made sense. They weren't just figments of his imagination; they were real, and they were coming for him.
"What do they want?" he whispered.
"They want to destroy you," Asvarion said plainly. "You are the last sorcerer, the culmination of your ancestors' sins and the bearer of the magic they were denied. To them, you are an abomination."
Eryndor clenched his fists, anger and despair bubbling within him. "This isn't fair," he said, his voice breaking. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask to be born with this curse!"
Asvarion stepped closer, its fiery presence radiating warmth. "Life seldom grants us the choices we desire, young sorcerer. But it is not by chance that you were born into this bloodline. You alone have the power to end this cycle of hatred and destruction."
"How?" Eryndor demanded. "How am I supposed to fight against spirits fuelled by thousands of years of pain and suffering?"
"You must first accept your magic, fully and without hesitation," Asvarion said. "The power within you is vast, but it is raw and untamed. You have avoided it out of fear, but fear is what weakens you. Embrace your magic, and it will become your greatest weapon."
Eryndor fell silent, his thoughts racing. The truth of his ancestors' sins weighed heavily on him, but so did the revelation of his sisters' torment. He couldn't help but feel responsible, even if the sins were not his own.
He closed the tome and stared at Asvarion, his jaw set. "I'll do it," he said, his voice firm. "I'll face them. But not because I want power or glory. I'll do it to end this madness once and for all."
Asvarion regarded him with a mix of pride and caution. "Be warned, Eryndor. The path ahead is fraught with danger. Your sisters are not the only threat, there are others who will seek to exploit your power or destroy it."
"I don't care," Eryndor said, his eyes burning with determination. "I'll face whatever comes, no matter what it takes."
Asvarion spread its wings, the light from its feathers casting away the shadows in the room. "Then we must prepare. The battle for your destiny begins now."
"And before I leave, young warlock, there's a better way to summon me, by using spells. Calling my name is not one of it. I answered because I haven't taught you how to."
As the firebird disappeared into the night, Eryndor stared at the open chest, its contents a grim reminder of his family's dark past. He knew the journey ahead would test him in ways he couldn't yet imagine.
But for the first time, he was ready to face it.