Lucien awoke to silence. No battle cries, no clang of steel, no wind howling through the valley. The world around him was still, suffocating in its absence of sound. His body felt heavy, like the weight of the world itself had fallen upon him, pressing him into the cold earth beneath. His chest burned with the remnants of pain, a lingering ache that gnawed at him like the shadow of something terrible.
His eyes fluttered open, but the world he saw was not the battlefield. Instead, he was surrounded by a thick, misty fog, its tendrils curling around his limbs, its cool touch sending shivers through his spine. The ground beneath him was soft, yielding to his touch like damp earth—but it was unfamiliar, foreign in its quiet, oppressive emptiness.
"Elira?" Lucien's voice was a rasp, barely more than a whisper, but it felt like it should have been louder. His throat burned as he spoke, the words heavy on his tongue. But there was no response, only the distant echo of his own voice that seemed to fade as quickly as it was spoken.
He pushed himself up slowly, every movement causing a new wave of pain to radiate through his body. His hand pressed against his side, but the wound he had sustained earlier was gone. There was no blood, no sign of injury. In its place, a strange, tingling sensation thrummed under his skin, as though something had been changed, altered within him.
What was happening? Where was he?
His gaze swept over the fog-filled landscape, trying to find something—anything—that could offer him a clue as to where he was. But there was nothing. The mist stretched endlessly in all directions, obscuring any landmarks or signs of life. It was as though he was trapped in a place between worlds, suspended in time itself.
A soft, almost imperceptible sound broke through the silence. It was faint, but unmistakable. A voice, low and unsettling, calling his name. His heart skipped a beat, his instincts screaming that he knew this voice, had heard it before, perhaps in a dream or a memory long forgotten.
"Lucien..."
The voice echoed again, this time much closer, cutting through the fog like a blade. Lucien's breath caught in his throat. He knew that voice. It was the same voice that had whispered to him in the shadows of the battlefield, the same voice that had promised fate could not be escaped.
Before he could react, a figure emerged from the mist. Tall, cloaked in dark, flowing robes, the figure moved with purpose, its presence dominating the air around them. Lucien's pulse quickened, his heart racing as the figure stepped forward, its face still obscured by the hood.
"Who are you?" Lucien demanded, his voice hoarse but filled with defiance.
The figure did not answer immediately. Instead, it tilted its head slightly, as though studying him with a mixture of curiosity and pity. The air grew heavier with every passing second, and Lucien felt the familiar weight of destiny settle over him like a thick cloak.
"I see you are awake," the figure said at last, its voice cold and smooth, like the whisper of winter winds through bare trees. "How long I have waited for this moment. You were always meant to arrive here, Lucien Verelion. Always."
Lucien stepped back, his eyes narrowing. "You... you're the one. The one behind everything."
The figure did not deny it. Instead, it simply inclined its head, as though acknowledging a simple truth. "Indeed. I have guided the threads of fate, pulled them tight, and now the time has come for you to understand."
Lucien's mind raced. He knew this wasn't a mere dream or hallucination. He was standing in the presence of something far greater, something ancient and powerful—something that had been manipulating the events of his life since before his birth.
"What do you want from me?" Lucien asked, his voice firm, though his body trembled with a mixture of fear and adrenaline. "Why have you chosen me?"
The figure's laugh was soft, but it reverberated through the mist, sending a chill down Lucien's spine. "Chosen? You misunderstand. You were never chosen—you were fated. The prophecy, the ancient powers at play, they were never about choice. You are a piece in a much larger game. A game that is nearing its end."
Lucien's mind reeled, the weight of the words sinking in with terrifying clarity. The prophecy, the battles, the manipulation—it was all part of something far more vast and incomprehensible than he had ever imagined.
"You... you're controlling everything," Lucien said, his voice shaking with realization. "All of this, the war, the third faction, the prophecy... it's all been a game to you."
The figure stepped closer, its form shrouded in an aura of darkness. "It was never a game, Lucien. It was a test. A test of fate, of power, and of destiny. You may fight it, struggle against it, but in the end, there is only one path for you."
Lucien's breath caught in his throat. "And what path is that?"
The figure's lips curled into a thin smile, the expression chilling in its coldness. "The path of the ascended. The one who will either break the chains of fate or become the instrument that tightens them forever."
The world seemed to shift around Lucien, the fog swirling faster, the air growing denser with every word spoken. It was as though the very fabric of reality was being altered, reshaped by the figure's words. Lucien could feel the weight of it, the terrible pressure bearing down on him, threatening to crush him under its force.
"Your journey has only just begun," the figure said, its voice low and insistent. "But you will not be able to escape what lies ahead. Fate will always find you. It always does."
Lucien's heart raced. He didn't want to believe it, didn't want to accept that his life had been nothing more than a string pulled by unseen hands. But as the figure's cold gaze locked onto his, he couldn't shake the feeling that everything he had done, every choice he had made, had led him here. To this moment. To this choice.
The figure took one final step forward, its presence overwhelming, and whispered just before the darkness consumed him again:
"You will come to understand. You will have to."
The world around Lucien shattered, the mist swallowing him whole, and the storm outside—the one he had left behind—seemed to howl louder than ever before.