The night after Kaelen's departure, Brindlemark was cloaked in an uneasy silence. The shard's glow seemed brighter, casting the village in sharp contrasts of blue and shadow. Its hum was louder than usual, a low, steady vibration that set Eryndor's teeth on edge. He sat by the window of his small home, his notebook open on the table before him. The visions Kaelen had spoken of lingered in his mind, intertwining with his own memories of the shard's whispers.
Kaelen's words had awakened something in him—an urgency he couldn't ignore. He needed answers, and the shard was the key.
Eryndor stood, his frail body trembling with a mix of fear and determination. His mother, Lyra, had already gone to bed, her soft snores echoing faintly from the adjoining room. It was better this way. She wouldn't stop him, but her worried gaze would make him hesitate.
Clutching his notebook and a pouch of small Abyssal fragments he had collected, Eryndor slipped out into the cool night air. The village was quiet, its streets deserted. Most of the villagers had retreated to their homes, uneasy after Kaelen's warning.
The shard stood tall in the center of the square, its crystalline surface glowing faintly with shifting hues of blue and violet. Eryndor approached it cautiously, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the shard's low hum.
As he drew closer, he felt it again—that pull, like an invisible thread tying him to the shard. The whispers returned, faint and fleeting, dancing at the edge of his hearing. He stopped a few feet away, staring up at its jagged edges.
"Why me?" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the shard's hum. "What do you want from me?"
The shard didn't answer, of course. But its glow brightened, and the whispers grew louder, overlapping into a chaotic symphony that made his head spin. He dropped to his knees, clutching his head, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
Images flooded his mind, faster and sharper than before. He saw the void again, swirling with darkness, and the brilliant light shattering into countless shards. But this time, the visions didn't stop there. He saw a great chasm filled with writhing shadows, a colossal figure rising from its depths. Its form was indistinct, a mass of shifting darkness with burning eyes that seemed to pierce through him.
The figure reached out, and Eryndor felt a searing pain in his chest. He cried out, the sound tearing through the silence of the square.
The shard's glow dimmed, and the visions ceased as suddenly as they had begun. Eryndor collapsed to the ground, his body trembling, his skin slick with cold sweat.
"Are you alright?"
The voice startled him. He looked up to see Arin, the village hunter, standing a few feet away, his spear glinting in the shard's light. The man's brow was furrowed with concern, his sharp eyes scanning Eryndor for injuries.
"I'm fine," Eryndor lied, his voice shaky. He struggled to his feet, clutching his notebook to his chest.
Arin's gaze shifted to the shard. "It's dangerous to be out here alone, especially so close to that thing. You've heard what the elder says about the whispers."
Eryndor nodded but didn't respond. He didn't want to tell Arin about the visions—or the strange sensation still lingering in his chest, like a faint ember waiting to ignite.
Arin sighed. "Come on. Let's get you back home."
Reluctantly, Eryndor followed him, his thoughts racing. The shard had shown him something new, something terrifying. But it wasn't just fear he felt. Beneath the terror was a flicker of exhilaration—a sense that he was on the brink of understanding something profound.
The next morning, Eryndor woke to the sound of villagers shouting. He scrambled out of bed, his body sore and heavy from the night's ordeal, and hurried outside. A small crowd had gathered near the shard, their voices a mix of confusion and alarm.
"What's going on?" Eryndor asked, pushing his way through the crowd.
The shard's glow was brighter than ever, its hum loud enough to rattle the stones underfoot. The villagers stood at a cautious distance, their faces pale.
"It started glowing like this at dawn," someone said. "It's never been this bright before."
Elder Thorne arrived moments later, his expression grim. He studied the shard in silence, his cane tapping against the ground as he approached it.
"This isn't normal," he muttered, more to himself than to the crowd.
Eryndor stayed at the edge of the group, watching as the elder extended a trembling hand toward the shard. The glow intensified, and for a moment, the elder froze, his face twisted in concentration. Then he pulled back, shaking his head.
"It's reacting to something—or someone," he said, his voice heavy with unease. "We need to be vigilant. This could be a warning."
As the villagers murmured among themselves, Eryndor felt the ember in his chest flare again, faint but unmistakable. He clenched his fists, his mind racing. The shard was reacting to him. It had to be.
Later that day, as the village tried to return to normalcy, Eryndor slipped away to his usual spot at the edge of the village. He opened his notebook and began writing furiously, trying to make sense of what had happened. The visions, the shard's glow, the sensation in his chest—it all had to mean something.
And if the shard truly was trying to communicate with him, then he would find a way to listen.
The shard wasn't just a source of power. It was a key to understanding the world—and perhaps, to changing it. And Eryndor was determined to unlock its secrets, no matter the cost.