As he stepped into the chamber, a voice echoed in his mind.
Why have you returned, Blacksmith?
Rovan froze, his eyes darting around. The room was empty, yet the voice seemed to come from everywhere at once.
"I need answers," he said aloud, his voice firm. "What are you doing to the children? What's happening to this land?"
The runes brightened, their glow filling the room with a strange warmth.
The children are the key, the voice replied. They are vessels, chosen to hold the balance of power. But the balance has been broken.
"Broken?" Rovan frowned. "How do I fix it?"
Sacrifice, the voice said, its tone cold and final.
Before Rovan could respond, the runes flared, and a golden figure materialized in the center of the room. It was the child he had carried, but they looked different now—ethereal, their eyes glowing like molten gold.
"You," Rovan whispered, taking a cautious step forward.
The child's voice echoed, layered with something ancient. "You cannot stop what is coming, Blacksmith. The land demands balance. The blood that was spilled is not enough."
Rovan's chest tightened. "What are you saying?"
"The emperor's sacrifice calmed the chaos, but it was only a beginning," the figure said, their golden eyes locking onto his. "More will be required. The children are not ready, and the land grows restless."
Rovan's fists clenched. "There must be another way!"
The figure tilted their head, as if considering his words. "Another way exists, but it is not without cost."
Before Rovan could ask what the cost was, the chamber trembled. The runes on the floor cracked, releasing beams of light that shot upward like columns. The figure began to flicker, their form unstable.
"Wait!" Rovan shouted. "Tell me what to do!"
The child's golden form began to fade, their voice echoing faintly. "You will find the answer... beyond the veil."
"Beyond the veil? What does that mean?" Rovan demanded, but the figure disappeared, leaving him alone in the glowing chamber.
The runes dimmed, and the oppressive energy lifted slightly. Rovan staggered back, his mind spinning.
Rovan exited the chamber, his face pale and his heart heavy with unanswered questions. The child he had carried was still slumped against the wall, unconscious but breathing steadily.
He picked them up and walked back toward the sanctuary's main hall. The Silent Sisters watched him as he passed, their expressions hidden beneath their hoods.
As he reached the courtyard, one of the sisters approached him.
"You've seen the truth," she said softly.
"No," Rovan growled, his anger bubbling to the surface. "I've seen riddles. Tell me what's happening!"
The sister shook her head. "The truth is not ours to give. Only the gods can show you the way."
Rovan clenched his jaw, his frustration mounting. "Then take me to the gods."
The sister's lips curved into a faint smile. "The path to the gods is not one you walk lightly, Blacksmith. You must choose wisely, for the cost is high."
As Rovan left the sanctuary, the weight of what he had learned—or failed to learn—pressed down on him. The streets were bustling with activity, but something felt off. People whispered his name as he passed, their gazes filled with awe and fear.
At the edge of the town square, a small altar had been erected. Candles flickered around a crude statue of him, fashioned from clay.
Rovan stopped, his stomach twisting.
"What are they doing?" he muttered.
A woman approached, her hands clasped in prayer. "Blacksmith, savior of the land, we offer our thanks."
Rovan shook his head, stepping back. "No. Stop this. I'm not your savior."
But the woman didn't listen. She knelt before the altar, murmuring a prayer.
Rovan turned and walked away, his heart pounding. This wasn't right. The land was still in chaos, and now the people were worshipping him as if he were a god.
Determined to find answers, Rovan returned to the sanctuary, but the large wooden doors refused to open. He pounded on them, his frustration boiling over.
"Let me in!" he shouted.
The doors remained closed, their surface smooth and unyielding.
A voice echoed from behind him, soft and familiar. "The way is shut to those who doubt."
Rovan spun around to see another Silent Sister standing behind him. Her face was hidden, but her presence was commanding.
"What does that mean?" he demanded.
The sister tilted her head. "Your path is not yet clear, Blacksmith. Until you find your purpose, the doors will remain closed."
Rovan stared at her, his fists clenching. "And how am I supposed to find my purpose if you won't let me in?"
The sister said nothing, her silence heavier than words.
The cold bit deep into Rovan's bones as he sat slumped against the massive doors of the sanctuary. Days had passed, yet he refused to leave. His determination was unshaken, even as his body grew weaker.
Snow began to fall, dusting his hair and shoulders. He barely noticed. The world around him blurred, and his thoughts turned sluggish. His last coherent memory was the flickering glow of the runes in his mind and the whispered words of the Silent Sister: The way is shut to those who doubt.
Rovan's consciousness drifted into what felt like a dream, though it was far from comforting. He found himself standing in a vast, barren landscape. The sky above was dark, streaked with crimson lightning. The ground was cracked and dry, the air heavy with the scent of ash.
In the distance, a figure approached. As it drew nearer, Rovan's eyes widened. It was a half-human, half-horse creature—a centaur, but unlike any he'd heard of in tales. The human half was aged, with long gray hair and deep-set, glowing eyes. The horse half was skeletal, its flesh barely clinging to its frame.
"Who are you?" Rovan asked, his voice hoarse.
The centaur tilted its head, studying him. "I am the Guide. You seek answers, do you not?"
Rovan nodded, his heart pounding. "Yes. Tell me what's happening. How do I fix this chaos?"
The centaur's lips curled into a faint smile. "You cannot fix what you do not understand. The gods hold the answers you seek, but their path is treacherous."
"Take me to them," Rovan said without hesitation.
The centaur's smile faded, replaced by a look of solemnity. "Very well. But know this—once you walk this path, there is no turning back."
Before Rovan could respond, the centaur turned and began to walk away. The ground beneath Rovan's feet crumbled, pulling him into a swirling abyss of light and shadow.
In the real world, Rovan's body lay motionless outside the sanctuary. His skin was pale, his lips blue, but his body burned with fever. A group of travelers passing through the area spotted him and rushed to his side.
"Is he alive?" a woman asked, her voice trembling.
"Barely," an older man replied, checking for a pulse. "We need to get him out of this cold or he won't make it."
They carried Rovan to their small, makeshift home on the edge of the forest. Inside, they laid him near the fire, covering him with thick blankets. His fever worsened, and he began to mutter strange, incoherent words.
"What is he saying?" the woman whispered, leaning closer.
The older man shook his head. "Something about gods and balance... I can't make sense of it."
For days, they nursed him, feeding him broth and keeping his body warm. His muttering continued, sometimes frantic, other times soft and pleading. Then, one night, the muttering stopped.
The woman panicked, her hand shaking as she touched his forehead. "He's not moving. He's so still!"
The older man checked Rovan's pulse, his face grim. "It's faint... too faint."
A younger man in the group stepped forward. "Is he—?"
"Not yet," the older man interrupted, his voice stern. "But he's close. We need to do something now."
The group fell into a tense silence, the fire crackling softly in the background.
Rovan's body remained motionless, his chest barely rising and falling. The older man began to prepare a medicinal brew, but his hands shook as he worked.
The woman knelt beside Rovan, tears streaming down her face. "He saved so many... He can't die like this."
As the group watched in worried silence, Rovan's lips parted slightly. A single word escaped—a word that none of them understood but sent chills through the room.
"Veil."
The fire flickered violently, casting strange shadows on the walls. The group exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of the moment pressing down on them.
Then, Rovan's breathing stopped.