Kaelin sat in silence, his back pressed against the trunk of a massive tree, staring down at the blade resting across his knees. Its surface gleamed faintly, almost as if it were alive, catching what little light filtered through the thick canopy above. The weapon was familiar, yet alien, carrying an aura he couldn't quite describe. The longer he stared at it, the more he swore it pulsed faintly, a vibration he could feel in his bones.
He didn't know how long he had been sitting there, struggling to steady his trembling hands. The events of the battlefield replayed in his mind on an endless loop: the clash of swords, the cries of his men, Cyran's cold eyes, and the sting of betrayal. He had trusted Cyran with his life. They had fought side by side through countless battles. And yet… Cyran had driven that blade into his back without hesitation, without remorse. The memory alone made Kaelin's chest ache with a pain that had nothing to do with the wound.
His hand moved to his chest instinctively, fingers brushing the spot where Cyran's sword had pierced him. He expected to find torn flesh, blood, or at least a scar, but there was nothing. His skin was smooth, unblemished, as though the battle had never happened. And yet the pain remained—sharp, vivid, and unrelenting. It wasn't the kind of pain that could be healed with rest. This was the ache of betrayal, of failure.
He let out a shaky breath, his head falling back against the rough bark of the tree. The forest around him was quiet—too quiet. There were no birds, no rustling of leaves, not even the distant hum of insects. The silence was unnatural, oppressive, as though the very air had stilled in anticipation of something unknown. The damp earth beneath him smelled faintly of moss and decay, and the massive trees surrounding him cast long, twisting shadows that seemed almost alive.
"Where… am I?" he muttered, his voice hoarse and barely audible.
There was no answer. Only the silence and the faint hum of the blade. Kaelin looked down at it again, his grip tightening on the hilt. It felt heavier than he remembered, as though it carried a weight far beyond its physical form. The blade was the only thing that had followed him here, wherever here was. It was the last remnant of the world he had left behind, the world he had failed to protect.
Am I dead? The thought struck him like a hammer. It was the only explanation that made sense. He had died on the battlefield—he was certain of that. He had felt Cyran's sword pierce his chest, felt the life drain from his body as darkness claimed him. And yet… he was here. Breathing, thinking, alive in a way that defied all logic.
Kaelin closed his eyes, trying to steady his racing thoughts. "If this is death," he whispered, "then what kind of hell have I been sent to?"
The answer came not in words but in a sensation—a faint pull at the edge of his awareness. It started as a tingling at the base of his neck, a subtle pressure that grew stronger with each passing moment. It wasn't painful, but it was impossible to ignore. It was as though something in the distance was calling to him, beckoning him forward.
Kaelin opened his eyes, his grip tightening on the sword. The sensation wasn't natural. It felt foreign, alien, yet strangely familiar at the same time. Against his better judgment, he pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his muscles protested the movement. His body felt heavy, as though he had been running for hours, but he forced himself upright.
The pull grew stronger, insistent. It wasn't just calling to him—it was guiding him. He couldn't explain how he knew, but there was no denying it. His instincts, honed over years on the battlefield, screamed at him to follow it. And so, gripping his sword tightly, he began walking.
The forest was dense, the massive trees towering over him like ancient sentinels. Their gnarled roots broke through the earth, twisting and intertwining to create a labyrinthine path. The air was thick with moisture, heavy and damp, clinging to his skin as he moved. The ground beneath his boots was soft, uneven, littered with fallen leaves and the occasional jagged rock.
Kaelin's senses sharpened as he walked. The pull wasn't just guiding him—it was heightening his awareness. He could hear the faintest rustle of leaves, the distant drip of water, and even the soft crunch of his own footsteps with startling clarity. Every sound, every movement seemed amplified, as though the forest itself was alive and watching him.
After what felt like hours, the trees began to thin, and Kaelin stepped into a clearing. The sight before him stole the breath from his lungs.
In the center of the clearing stood a massive stone structure, worn with age and covered in creeping vines. It was ancient, its surface etched with carvings that glowed faintly in the dim light. The structure was shaped like a shrine, its design both alien and familiar, as though it belonged to a time before the world he knew.
Kaelin approached cautiously, his sword held at the ready. The carvings were unlike anything he had ever seen—spirals, jagged lines, and symbols that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them. At the heart of the shrine was a single pedestal, and upon it rested a small orb of light. The glow was faint, pulsing like a heartbeat, and yet its presence filled the entire clearing.
The pull Kaelin had felt since awakening was strongest here, almost overwhelming. It was as if the orb was alive, waiting for him. He hesitated, his instincts warring with his curiosity. Everything about this place screamed danger, but something deeper urged him forward.
He stepped closer, each movement slow and deliberate. The orb flickered as he reached out a hand, his fingers trembling. The moment his skin brushed the light, searing pain shot through his body. Kaelin cried out, falling to his knees as the world around him shattered.
Images flooded his mind—fragmented, incomprehensible, and overwhelming. He saw worlds beyond imagining: cities floating among the stars, vast deserts where the sun never set, and oceans that stretched into infinity. He saw figures cloaked in shadow, their eyes burning with an unnatural light. And above it all, he saw the shattered remains of a great forge, its pieces scattered across countless realms.
The visions burned themselves into his mind, leaving him gasping for air as they faded. His body trembled, his muscles weak as though he had been fighting for hours. Slowly, he looked up at the orb, now dim and lifeless. The pull was gone, replaced by a hollow emptiness that settled deep in his chest.
Kaelin pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaky but firm. The sword at his side pulsed faintly, as if acknowledging the change within him. Whatever had happened, whatever he had seen, he couldn't stay here. There were answers to be found, and he wasn't going to get them by standing in a forest.
Taking a deep breath, Kaelin turned away from the shrine and began walking. He didn't know where he was going, but for the first time since his death, Kaelin felt a flicker of determination. He was no longer a general of Velnor. He was something else now, something greater—or perhaps something far worse.
Only time would tell.