Eryndor was 18 years. The night was quiet, but Eryndor's mind was anything but at ease. The revelations of his lineage and the atrocities committed by his ancestors weighed heavily on him. Sitting cross-legged in the dim glow of his cabin's single lantern, he stared into the flickering flame as if it held the answers to the chaos swirling in his thoughts.
Asvarion appeared silently, its radiant form bathing the room in a soft golden light. The firebird regarded him with an intense gaze, its ancient wisdom evident in the way it moved, slow and deliberate.
"You called me again," Asvarion said, its voice calm yet firm.
Eryndor nodded, his hands gripping his knees. "I need to understand more," he said. "I need to see what they saw, to know why they did what they did—and what it means for me. I don't think I can fight my sisters unless I know the full truth."
The firebird tilted its head. "Understanding comes with pain, young sorcerer," it warned. "Are you willing to endure what you will see?"
"I have to," Eryndor replied. His voice was steady, though his heart raced.
Asvarion spread its majestic wings, and the air around them began to hum with energy. The flames in the lantern flared and extinguished, plunging the room into darkness except for the light emanating from the firebird.
"Close your eyes," Asvarion instructed.
Eryndor obeyed, and the world around him shifted. He felt as though he was being pulled through an invisible vortex, his body weightless but his mind racing with anticipation. When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer in the cabin.
Eryndor stood in the middle of a grand hall, its walls adorned with intricate carvings of runes and ancient symbols. The air smelled of burning incense and something metallic. A circle of robed figures surrounded an altar at the center, their voices chanting in a guttural, otherworldly language.
"This is the past," Asvarion's voice echoed around him, though the firebird was nowhere to be seen.
The figures in the circle were his ancestors. Their faces were obscured by hoods, but Eryndor could feel their intensity. On the altar lay a swaddled infant, crying softly. His breath caught as he realized what he was witnessing.
"They sacrificed every girl born into their bloodline," Asvarion said, its voice solemn. "Every life taken to sever the connection to magic."
One of the robed figures raised a ceremonial dagger, its blade gleaming ominously in the firelight. The chanting grew louder, the energy in the room crackling with power.
Eryndor wanted to look away, but he couldn't. The dagger descended, and the infant's cries ceased. The air was filled with an unholy energy, a dark mist swirling around the altar before dissipating into nothingness.
"They believed this act would end the curse," Asvarion continued, as the vision shifted. "But in their ignorance, they fed the very forces they sought to escape."
The scene dissolved into darkness, replaced by another vision. This time, Eryndor stood in a vast, barren landscape, the ground cracked and lifeless. The sky above was a swirling vortex of black and crimson, and the air was thick with the stench of decay.
In the distance, he saw them—his sisters. They stood in a line, their forms shadowy but unmistakable. Each one radiated an aura of dark power, their eyes glowing with malevolence.
"This is the future," Asvarion said, its voice tinged with sorrow. "Your sisters have risen, their spirits corrupted by the pain and hatred of their deaths. They are no longer human—they are avatars of destruction, bound to the will of an ancient, dark force."
Eryndor watched as the sisters began to move, their steps slow but deliberate. Wherever they walked, the ground turned to ash, and the air around them seemed to ripple with raw power. Behind them, armies of monstrous creatures emerged from the shadows—twisted forms with glowing red eyes and jagged claws.
"They march to destroy the world," Asvarion said. "But their ultimate goal is you. They see you as the embodiment of the magic they were denied, the culmination of your ancestors' sins. You are their greatest enemy."
Eryndor's heart pounded as he watched the sisters' dark army spread across the desolate landscape, consuming everything in its path. Villages crumbled into dust, forests burned, and rivers ran dry.
"How can I fight this?" he whispered, his voice shaking. "I'm just one person. They're… unstoppable."
The vision shifted again, this time showing him a massive battle. He saw himself standing alone, his hands crackling with magical energy. Before him stood his sisters, their forms towering and monstrous, their power overwhelming.
"You have the potential to stop them," Asvarion said. "But only if you embrace your magic and the responsibility it brings. Your power is great, Eryndor, but it is raw and untamed. Without mastery, you will fall before them."
Eryndor watched as the battle played out. He saw himself fighting valiantly, wielding fire, water, and earth against his sisters' dark magic. But he was outnumbered and overwhelmed. The vision ended with him collapsing, his body broken, and the world consumed by darkness.
The vortex pulled him back, and Eryndor found himself in the cabin once more. He was on his knees, his breath ragged, his body trembling from what he had seen.
Asvarion stood before him, its gaze filled with compassion. "Do you understand now?" it asked.
Eryndor nodded, though tears streamed down his face. The weight of the past, the terror of the future, it was almost too much to bear.
"I didn't ask for this," he said, his voice breaking. "I didn't ask to be the one to fix their mistakes."
"No one asks for their destiny," Asvarion replied. "But it is yours, and only you can decide how to face it."
Eryndor wiped his eyes and stood, his legs shaky but his resolve hardening. "I won't let the world burn," he said. "And I won't let them win. If this is my destiny, then I'll face it head-on."
The firebird regarded him for a moment, then nodded. "Then we begin," it said.
Asvarion's wings flared, filling the room with light once more. The journey ahead would be perilous, but Eryndor knew he couldn't turn back now. The fate of the world—and his very soul—depended on what he did next.