Rovan's breathing grew shallow, his chest tightening with the crushing weight of despair. He pressed his palms flat against the veil, its surface cold and unyielding like a wall of iron. The connection to his body—his very existence in the mortal world—was slipping away.
He felt it in the trembling of his legs, in the dimming light around him. The centaur stepped back, shaking his head, his strong form suddenly seeming frail. "I don't think there's a way through," the centaur muttered, his voice laden with defeat.
"No!" Rovan shouted, his voice hoarse. "I can't give up!"
But even as he spoke, the veil seemed to tighten its grip on him, leeching the strength from his limbs. He dropped to his knees, his head spinning, his breaths short and erratic.
In the mortal world, those tending to him were at their wits' end.
"He's slipping away," one of the women whispered, her hands trembling as she wiped his fevered brow.
"His heart… it's barely there," said another, pressing a hand to his chest.
The elder among them shook his head, his shoulders sagging in resignation. "We've done all we can. His spirit must find its way back on its own."
Tears pricked at their eyes as they watched the blacksmith's body weaken further, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
In the realm of the gods, the centaur lowered his head. "I'm sorry, blacksmith. I have guided you as far as I can. This journey may end here."
"No," Rovan croaked, though his own voice sounded hollow to him. He clenched his fists, slamming them against the veil, but it did not budge. The light around him flickered, growing dimmer by the second.
As he leaned forward, his head bowed, a faint whisper brushed against his ears. At first, he thought he imagined it. But then it came again, stronger this time.
"Rovan…"
He lifted his head slowly, his eyes wide with disbelief. From the swirling shadows of the veil, a hand emerged.
It was slender and pale, its fingers outstretched toward him. The sight of it made his heart lurch, fear and hope warring within him.
The centaur stiffened, his ears flattening as he stepped back cautiously. "What is this?" he murmured, his voice uneasy.
Rovan stared at the hand, unmoving. Then a voice, calm yet urgent, came through the barrier.
"Come back, Rovan."
His breath hitched. He knew that voice.
"The woman in green…" he whispered, his throat dry.
The hand remained steady, beckoning him. But doubt gnawed at him. Was this truly her? Or another trick of the gods, playing with his fragile resolve?
"Rovan," the voice came again, softer now. "You must hurry."
His fingers hovered near hers, trembling. He looked back at the centaur, whose expression was unreadable.
The veil pulsed ominously, its colors shifting again, darker this time. Time was running out.
Rovan took a shaky breath, his heart thundering in his chest. Would he trust the hand or stay trapped in the limbo between worlds?
Rovan's fingers tightened around the hand, its warmth pulling him forward as the veil's light flickered like a dying flame. The sensation was both painful and liberating, as though his very essence was being wrenched free from a grip that refused to let go.
A blinding flash surged through the veil as he crossed it, his spirit tumbling back into his body. His chest heaved, his breaths sharp and desperate, as though he had been underwater for hours.
In the mortal world, gasps of relief echoed around him.
"He's breathing!" one of the women exclaimed, her face lighting up with hope.
The elder leaned closer, his hand on Rovan's wrist. "His pulse… it's stronger now. He's back."
Rovan groaned, his eyelids fluttering open. The room was hazy, the faces around him blurred. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry, his voice barely a whisper.
"Where… where am I?"
"You're safe," said the elder, helping him sit up. "Rest now. You've been through much."
But even as the elder spoke, Rovan felt a strange emptiness. Memories danced at the edges of his mind, fleeting and fragmented. The veil, the centaur, the gods—they were all there but shrouded in fog.
He knew, deep in his soul, that he had paid a price. Yet he couldn't remember what it was.
The family that had saved him took him in, offering food and a place to recover. Rovan stayed with them for three days, regaining his strength. Each day, fragments of memory teased him, coming and going like shadows in the night.
On the third day, as he sat outside their modest home, watching the sun rise over the hills, the sound of hooves and steel echoed down the road.
A group of armored guards arrived, their faces stern as they dismounted.
"Blacksmith Rovan," their leader called out. "By order of the council, you are to come with us."
Rovan stood slowly, his muscles still sore. "What does the council want with me?" he asked, his voice calm but guarded.
The guards exchanged glances. "You'll know when you arrive."
Rovan crossed his arms. "I'm not leaving until someone tells me what this is about."
Before the guards could respond, a familiar figure stepped out from the shadows of the convoy. The woman in green.
Her presence silenced the group, her emerald cloak shimmering as she approached. Her eyes met Rovan's, her expression unreadable.
"You'll come with me," she said simply, her voice carrying an authority that brooked no argument.
Rovan hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to resist, but there was something about her gaze—something that promised answers he desperately needed.
Wordlessly, he followed her to the waiting cart. The air was tense as they rode back toward the city.
At the council chambers, a heated meeting was underway. The room buzzed with tension as advisors, mages, and nobles argued over the growing unrest.
"All the gifted are changing," one mage declared, his voice rising. "Their powers are becoming unstable, and some are losing control entirely!"
"They're a danger to the land," a noblewoman countered. "We must act swiftly before chaos consumes us all."
"Enough!" the head of the council barked, silencing the room. "This is an emergency. We must decide how to proceed."
As the debate raged on, the cart carrying Rovan and the woman in green approached the chamber doors.
The heavy oak doors of the council chamber groaned open as the woman in green swept in, her emerald cloak trailing behind her. All eyes turned toward her, the room falling silent as the tension thickened.
With a commanding voice, she announced, "The blacksmith has the solution to the unrest plaguing the land."
Gasps rippled through the chamber. Whispers broke out like wildfire among the council members, the princes exchanging uncertain glances.
All attention turned to Rovan. He stood still, his shoulders tense, his eyes scanning the room filled with nobles, mages, and guards. The weight of their expectations bore down on him, and for a moment, his voice was lost.
The silence stretched painfully.
"What is it?" one of the mages finally demanded, impatience laced in his tone.
"Speak!" urged another, a nobleman leaning forward in his chair.
Rovan took a deep breath, his voice steady but quiet. "The answer lies in the chamber."
Confusion painted every face in the room.
"What do you mean, 'the chamber'?" a prince asked, his tone sharp.
Rovan didn't respond. Instead, he turned on his heel and began walking toward the ancient doors leading to the chambers of the gifted.
"Follow him!" someone hissed, and soon, the entire room shuffled to their feet, trailing behind the blacksmith.
The group moved in tense silence, the echo of their footsteps the only sound in the stone hallway. When they reached the massive iron doors of the chamber, Rovan stopped, turning to face the crowd.
His eyes met theirs, calm yet resolute. "If I do not make it out," he began, his voice ringing clear, "know that I tried."
A murmur spread through the crowd, fear and uncertainty growing like a shadow.
Rovan held their gaze, his next words heavy with purpose. "Promise me this. Tell the princes to make a covenant with the gifted—that they will never call upon foreign gods or use their powers for evil again in this land. If you do this, my death will not be in vain."
The room erupted in gasps and protests.
"Death? What do you mean, 'death'?" one of the princes demanded, stepping forward.
"What lies beyond that door, blacksmith?" another noble asked, fear creeping into his voice.
But Rovan did not answer. Instead, he placed his hand on the cold iron handle of the door.
The air was thick with suspense, the tension palpable as the council and nobles exchanged nervous glances.
The woman in green stood off to the side, her face a mask of unreadable calm, though her eyes followed Rovan closely.
Rovan glanced back one final time, his gaze lingering on the crowd. Then, without another word, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.