Sereyna sat on the edge of her four-poster bed, her hands trembling as they rested against her temples. Cold sweat slicked her brow, a testament to the lingering terror that gripped her heart. The encounter with Zoyra replayed in her mind like a dark melody, each word and movement tightening the invisible web that now ensnared her.
To Sereyna, she was no more than a helpless fly caught in Zoyra's intricate snare, struggling against bonds that had no beginning or end. There was no method of escape, no clear path to freedom. The suffocating realization pressed on her chest like a heavy stone.
Her gaze fell to the floor, staring into the void as though it might offer answers—or at least solace. The question haunted her, gnawing at the edges of her thoughts: Who is Zoyra?
No, she corrected herself with a shiver that coursed down her spine. It wasn't a matter of who. It was something far worse. What is Zoyra?
Her thoughts churned like stormy seas, a tempest of fear and uncertainty. She thought of the void in Zoyra's voice, the way her presence seemed to twist the air and darken the light. Was she even human? Could she be?
The soft tick of the grandfather clock broke through the silence, pulling Sereyna back to the present. She turned her head slowly, her mind still clouded, and noticed the hour. The realization struck her like cold water: she needed to prepare, to dress and present herself as the dutiful daughter of the king.
With a deep breath that did little to steady her nerves, she rose from the bed. Her limbs felt heavy, as though the weight of her thoughts had seeped into her very bones. She moved to her wardrobe, her fingers brushing over fine silks and velvets, but her mind remained trapped in the shadow Zoyra had left behind.
Whatever Zoyra was, Sereyna knew one thing for certain: the night ahead would hold no answers, only more questions. And, perhaps, deeper shadows.
~~~
The clock struck nine, each chime reverberating through the castle like a solemn reminder of the hour. Sereyna stepped into the dining hall, her crimson dress catching the light of the glass chandelier above. It clung to her form with elegance, the fabric rippling like liquid fire as she moved. Her beauty seemed otherworldly, yet it carried a quiet strength that silenced the murmur of servants as her footsteps echoed on the marble floor.
The hall stretched before her, grand and imposing, lined with towering portraits of past kings, queens, and heroes immortalized in paint. A massive oak table dominated the room, its polished surface gleaming beneath the chandelier's glow. Ten chairs flanked its sides, with a throne-like seat at either end. Beneath it, a red carpet embroidered with intricate patterns softened the edges of the grandeur, its ornate stitching telling stories of battles and victories long past.
Sereyna took her place to the left of her father, the king, whose presence was as unyielding as the marble pillars that framed the room. The seat to his right remained conspicuously empty, an unspoken tension lingering in the air. The nobles and heroes gathered at the table exchanged glances but said nothing, their silence heavy with the weight of expectation. Each figure radiated authority, their mastery of their respective fields almost tangible. Yet it was the absence of one that commanded the room.
The fireplaces at either end of the hall crackled softly, their warmth unable to dispel the cold unease creeping through the chamber. Sereyna's gaze flickered to the empty chair, her thoughts unspoken but mirrored in the unease of the gathering. Zoyra. Always enigmatic, always late. The flames cast shadows that danced on the walls, as if mocking the quiet anticipation.
And so they waited, the ticking of the grand clock filling the chamber with an oppressive rhythm, each metallic chime sharpening the weight of expectation. The warm light of the chandelier cast long shadows that flickered across the walls, the faint crackling of the fireplaces the only other sound. Sereyna sat stiffly, her hands clasped together under the table as though to anchor herself. The question lingered, unspoken but heavy: what storm would Zoyra bring when she finally arrived?
Across the table, voices rose and fell in hushed murmurs as the nobles and warriors exchanged guarded words, their attempts at casual conversation failing to mask the tension that thickened the air. Two seats remained empty: the one beside the king, meant for Zoyra, the Oracle, and another directly across from him, reserved for a hero whose absence only deepened the unease.
The king's jaw tightened, his fingers drumming against the gilded armrest of his chair. His patience, already frayed, finally snapped. "Where is that damned Oracle?" he muttered under his breath, his voice low but carrying across the room like the first rumble of distant thunder.
As though summoned by his words, the great doors of the hall creaked open, their sound cutting through the murmurs like a blade. Silence fell. Zoyra entered, her stride slow but deliberate, each step a silent proclamation of dominance. She was draped in an ensemble that was both alien and exquisite, its design intricate and otherworldly, as though spun from the void itself. Her height was unnerving, her towering frame casting long shadows that stretched toward the table.
She moved like a force of nature, the air itself seeming to ripple in her wake. Her veil, a delicate yet foreboding piece, obscured her features, leaving only the impression of eyes that saw too much. Without so much as a glance to anyone, she claimed her seat beside the king, her presence filling the room like a storm cloud ready to burst.
The conversation did not resume. Instead, the weight of her arrival pressed down on everyone present. Even the king, though frustrated, seemed to temper his irritation as her dark aura settled over the table. Sereyna, unable to stop herself, glanced up at Zoyra, her heart pounding. She felt as though she were in the presence of something not entirely human, something vast and unknowable, and the thought chilled her to the bone.
The silence in the room was suffocating, like the oppressive stillness before a storm. It was the king who finally shattered it, his voice resonating with an icy authority that demanded attention.
"Welcome," he began, his tone sharp and deliberate, slicing through the tension like a blade. His gaze swept over the gathered assembly, lingering on each guest as if to remind them of their place. "I trust you all understand the weight of this gathering. Your presence here is not a courtesy; it is a necessity."
He straightened in his seat, his imposing frame seeming to draw the very light of the chandelier toward him. "Now that our Oracle has deigned to join us—" his eyes flicked to Zoyra for but a moment, the faintest edge of disdain in his voice tempered by careful respect, "—and despite the regrettable absence of the swordsman, we shall proceed without delay."
The king's words carried an undercurrent of restrained power, his deep voice weaving through the room like a slow-moving tide, drawing everyone into its pull. "In light of Zoyra's revelations, I have decided to forego any preliminary matters. The time for ceremony is over. What awaits us is no trifling concern, and we would do well to heed her insight."
His gaze settled on Zoyra, his expression unreadable, though the faintest trace of unease flickered in his eyes. "Oracle," he said, his voice softening into a dangerous calm, "the floor is yours. Speak your truth."
Zoyra rose slowly, the room darkening in her shadow as though even the light feared her words. Her voice, smooth yet laden with an edge of foreboding, carried across the chamber.
"A great shadow stirs, one born of fire and fury. It comes from beyond the mountains, where the earth is scorched and silence reigns—a beast older than the bones of this world."
She tilted her head slightly, her veil swaying as she continued, her words deliberate.
"This creature will not creep upon us unnoticed. No, it will announce itself with the roar of the heavens and the quake of the earth. Its wings will blot the sun, and its rage will set the skies ablaze. Villages will crumble to cinders, fields to barren wastelands. Yet, mark me well—its path is not random, nor is its purpose blind destruction."
Her unseen gaze turned toward the empty seat opposite the king.
"It comes seeking a reckoning, a contest long overdue. This is no simple beast—it is a force of nature, a trial etched into the very marrow of this land. But trials are meant to be faced. Challenges… meant to be overcome."
The room seemed to hold its breath as she leaned forward slightly, her voice softening, yet gaining an unnerving intensity.
"The dragon is mighty, yes, but not invincible. Its scales will shatter when struck with resolve. Its flames will falter before a heart steeled by purpose. The stories carved into the tower walls… they are not mere tales. They are a promise—one forged in blood and triumph, one awaiting a champion to see it fulfilled."
Zoyra straightened, her presence casting a long shadow over the table. Her final words came like a blade cutting through the tension.
"Victory will demand more than strength. It will demand cunning, sacrifice, and the courage to face despair and still rise. This is not a battle to be won easily. It is a crucible, and only those who endure its fire will see its end."
She sat, the air heavy with her pronouncement. Yet, beneath the dread her words inspired, a faint spark of hope flickered—a glimmer of possibility for those willing to take up the impossible burden.
The expressions of those gathered darkened. The nobles glanced uneasily among themselves, no doubt thinking of the lands they might lose, the loyal soldiers who would never return. The heroes shifted in their seats, knowing the weight of such a foe would fall squarely on their shoulders. Zoyra's words hung over them like a stormcloud, each syllable a raindrop adding to the deluge of inevitability.
The king, however, remained unmoved. Rising to his feet, his voice carried the authority of a man who had endured far worse than whispered prophecy. "It is time to plan our—"
The doors of the hall creaked open with a groan, drawing every gaze. For a moment, the room was silent, save for the soft drip of liquid hitting the floor. A figure stepped through the threshold, tall and broad, the kind of silhouette that seemed to command its own gravity. His armor was battered, streaked with blood both dried and fresh, as though he had just stepped out of battle and into this very meeting.
The figure strode forward casually, almost too casually, considering his grim state. His dark hair was tousled, and his gloved hand rested lightly on the hilt of a blade that hung at his side. He stopped just short of the table, tilting his head slightly, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Forgive my tardiness, Your Majesty," he said, his tone almost mocking in its lightness, as though he were addressing an old friend rather than a king. "I was... occupied. Some rebellious fools thought it wise to disrupt the peace near the outskirts of the kingdom. Naturally, I persuaded them otherwise. They won't be troubling us again, I assure you."
The king narrowed his eyes, irritation flashing across his face. "Lucius Goldsmith," he said, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. The name carried weight, not just in the hall but in the air itself, as if the very stones of the castle recognized it.
The nobles murmured among themselves, but Lucius seemed utterly unfazed. In fact, he smirked, removing his bloodied gauntlet with deliberate slowness and tossing it onto the table. "Ah, there it is," he said lightly, as though savoring the sound of his own name. "You always did have a flair for the dramatic, Your Majesty."
The king's expression hardened, though there was no real malice in his tone. "You damned swordsman. You would live and die on the battlefield if we let you. Sit down. We were just about to discuss the Oracle's words, and I would hate for you to miss yet another important detail."
Lucius chuckled, his armor clinking softly as he moved toward an empty seat. "Important details are for scholars and strategists, not swordsmen, Your Grace. Just point me toward the beast, and I'll see it done."
A tense silence followed his words, as if the weight of the task had momentarily stilled even the air in the room. The king looked around the table, his gaze settling on each attendee as though daring them to falter. "Very well," he said finally, his voice firm. "Now that we are all present, let us prepare for what lies ahead. This beast will not destroy our lands without consequence. Together, we will ensure it meets its end."
Lucius leaned back in his chair, an almost lazy grin playing on his lips. "Well said, Your Majesty," he murmured, his hand brushing the hilt of his blade. "Let's get to it."
The room settled, the tension thick but tempered by resolve. Outside, the wind howled faintly, carrying with it the foreboding of the storm to come.
~~~
Benedict and his sole companion tore through the forest, their lungs burning with each desperate gasp of air. The dense canopy above cast fragmented beams of moonlight onto the uneven ground, turning roots and shadows into cruel traps underfoot. Behind them, the deafening roar of clashing forces echoed like a tempest tearing through the heavens. Only when the cacophony abruptly ceased did they dare slow their pace, the sudden silence as ominous as a predator's stare.
Lucius had thrown Benedict clear of the fray, his grip unyielding as he hurled him into the underbrush with terrifying ease. Before Benedict could rise, a barrier had erupted between them, shimmering with raw mana. It wasn't merely a wall—it was a construct of immense power, its surface rippling with an energy that distorted the air around it, rendering all attempts to breach it futile.
On the other side of the barrier, the battle raged with a ferocity that defied human comprehension. Each blow struck like a hammer against the earth, sending shockwaves that rattled the very forest. Blades of mana howled through the air, their edges so keen that they cleaved through ancient trees with an effortless finality. The ground beneath their feet fractured under the relentless onslaught, and the sky above seemed darker, as though the stars themselves recoiled from witnessing such destruction.
Benedict could do nothing but watch, helpless and awestruck. His companion clutched at his sleeve, their trembling hand a stark contrast to the sheer chaos beyond the barrier.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the battle was over. There was no thunderous climax, no blinding flash of light. One moment, Lucius and the venerable were locked in their deadly struggle; the next, they were gone. The forest stood eerily still, the air thick with the metallic tang of burnt mana and splintered wood.
"They disappeared…" Benedict murmured, his voice rough and uncertain. He stumbled forward, his boots crunching against the blackened ground. The space where they had fought was a scar upon the earth, a jagged crater radiating with lingering heat and something far more unsettling—a faint, otherworldly hum.
His companion whispered, her voice trembling, "Did they destroy each other… or did something take them?"
Benedict didn't immediately answer. He remained motionless, his eyes distant. The shock still gripped him, and his mind struggled to process the overwhelming brutality of what he had just witnessed. Finally, after a long pause, he spoke softly, his words carrying the weight of exhaustion. "I can't say. But it's best we return to the manor... there's no telling what might happen next."
"Right…" she murmured, her voice hollow, as if the shock of it all had left her too drained to form coherent thoughts. Her head lowered, her hands trembling slightly.
~~~
The journey back to Blackwood Estate felt longer than it should have. The once familiar road now seemed to stretch endlessly before them, mirroring the heaviness in Benedict's chest. He walked with slow, measured steps, the weight of the day pressing down on him. The chaotic clash between Lucius and the venerable, the old man's death, the sheer force of that fight—it all replayed in his mind.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they arrived at the estate. The sprawling grounds came into view—well-kept gardens, towering oak trees, and the grand manor looming in the distance. It had always been a symbol of status and comfort, but tonight, it felt like a hollow shell.
As they entered the manor, a servant—dressed in formal attire, his face neutral and practiced—noticed their disheveled appearance. His eyes widened in concern. "Good heavens! What ill fortune has befallen young Master Blackwood?" he exclaimed, rushing forward.
Benedict couldn't muster the strength to offer a smile or words of reassurance. He simply nodded in response to the butler's distress. His voice was low, strained. "A fresh outfit… and a bath, please. Quickly."
The servant, sensing the gravity of the situation, didn't ask further questions. "Of course, sir. Right away."
Turning on his heel, he gestured for them to follow. Benedict's companion walked beside him, her silence more telling than any words could be. They made their way through the grand halls, the once-comforting atmosphere of the manor now feeling alien to Benedict, like a distant memory of a life that no longer seemed attainable.
In the bathing room, Benedict sat in silence as the butler prepared the warm water. He sank into the tub with a quiet sigh, the heat of the water doing little to ease the storm inside him.
For a long moment, he simply stared at the ripples in the water, lost in his thoughts. The chaos of the day lingered in his mind. The death, the power, the incomprehensible battle—it all seemed so far beyond him, beyond anything he had trained for. Was he really prepared for this?
The water sloshed gently, and as his thoughts spun in circles, the flickering light from the candles seemed to dance with shadows, only adding to the growing unease inside him. There was no easy answer to the questions he faced, no simple way to make sense of the world he now found himself in.
All he knew was that this was only the beginning.