THE CALM BEFORE THE ABYSS
The sun was beginning to set behind the distant mountains, painting the sky a deep red that resembled an open wound in the heavens. In different corners of the earth, the bearers unknowingly felt the air becoming charged with a barely perceptible electricity, as if nature itself were holding its breath.
In the high towers of Lysareth, Lunqirest closed the book in his hands with a sigh. "History repeats itself, though always with different actors," he murmured to himself, his eyes lost in the window that revealed the torchlit city. He sensed something stirring in the shadows, a secret that ancient times would have preferred to keep hidden. "Could it be an omen... or just a trick of the mind?" he asked, not expecting an answer.
Meanwhile, in the crystal garden of Aelvaris, Calezz lowered his sword and a drop of sweat fell, mingling with the humidity in the air. He gazed at the horizon, where dark clouds were slowly beginning to form. "The calm is only before the storm," he said softly, looking at Taliena, who was approaching with a worried expression. "Do you feel that?" she asked, gently touching his arm. He nodded silently; they both shared a quiet tension.
In the bustling streets of Zathor, Drakmir paused at a corner, watching the merchants hurriedly pack up their stalls. The breeze carried a strange, metallic, and cold scent. "Too long a lull," he remarked to a young apprentice approaching him. The boy frowned. "Do you think something bad is coming?" Drakmir smiled sadly. "I don't think, I know."
Beneath the dark waters of Arvenhaal, Sylphra gently touched the ancient mural, her gaze fixed on the runes that were beginning to glow faintly. "This secret shouldn't awaken so soon," she said, her voice almost ethereal, lost among the currents. She felt a tingling at the back of her neck, as if someone or something were watching her.
On the icy peaks of Kareth, Glacius exhaled a white cloud that quickly dissolved into the frigid air. As he clenched his fist, he felt a shiver run down his spine. "Solitude is no longer a safe haven," he murmured, gazing at the horizon where the shadows seemed to lengthen.
In the Hall of Echoes, Seraphion caressed the luminous strings of his instrument, each note vibrating with a melancholy that seemed to foreshadow an ending. "Music always says what the heart cannot," he mused aloud, unaware that a shadow was slipping through a side door.
In the dark labyrinth of the Forgotten Lands, Nocthyris whispered ancient words as she advanced cautiously. "This place holds more than it reveals," she warned, noticing a slight movement behind her. She paused, her hand on the hilt of her sword, but found nothing but silence.
On the terrace by the sea, Galdor raised his glass and drank, enjoying the calm of the afternoon. "Life is fleeting, but our actions endure," he said hoarsely, before a cold breeze made him shiver, as if the wind were bringing him unwelcome news.
In the garden of night-blooming flowers, Elaris closed her eyes, inhaling the sweet scent of the plants. "Beauty is a mask that hides the truth," she whispered, unaware that someone was listening intently from the shadows.
Riding across the desert on the back of his winged beast, Aevindor sang an ancient melody to ward off weariness. "The road is long, but the goal is near," he said to himself, unaware of the figure gliding behind the dunes, camouflaged by the sand.
In the underground forge, Gravon hammered the incandescent steel with force, each blow echoing like a heartbeat. "I will forge my destiny with fire and steel," he declared, holding up the finished piece. For a moment, he saw a face he didn't recognize in the reflection, and a chill ran down his spine.
In the forest clearing, Pyrran raised his hands and blue fire danced between his fingers. "Power and control, two sides of the same coin," he thought, as a pair of golden eyes watched him from the shadows.
On the deck of the ship, Miranth wrote without pause, absorbed in his thoughts. "The sea holds secrets deeper than the land," he reflected, as an immense shadow glided silently beneath the waves.
Finally, at the top of the temple, Psyrion meditated in complete stillness. The air was cold and clean, each breath a connection to the universe. He didn't hear the whisper carried on the wind: "Time is running out..."
None of them knew the name Umbraek. None of them knew about the secret meeting between Sary and her group. But fate was already beginning to weave its invisible threads, setting the stage for the coming storm.
The sea whispered against the rocks with a steady rhythm, as if the earth itself were breathing. Sylphra emerged from the depths of the ruins of Arvenhaal, letting the water slide over her skin and silver hair. Her eyes reflected the moonlight, calm on the outside, but inside a tide of questions relentlessly battered her.
As she walked along the lonely shore, her bare feet sinking into the cold sand, a question returned to her mind like a thorn impossible to pull out:
"How is Zyrion doing...?"
Her voice was barely a whisper, lost in the wind. She had left him behind when she decided to separate from the group, seeking a different path, perhaps quieter. She didn't entirely regret it, but neither did she find peace. She closed her eyes, remembering the last time she had seen him: the steady gleam in his gaze, the way his words seemed to ignite hope even in the most skeptical.
"He's probably still moving forward, surrounded by those who trust him," she said to herself, though something in her chest felt a tightness. "He doesn't need to think about me... and perhaps that's for the best."
Determined not to succumb to melancholy, she took the path inland, where a humble village nestled among green hills. No one there knew her name or her legacy, and that was a strange relief. In any other village, the mere mention of "Sylphra" would have set the rumors spreading like wildfire, but in this place, her name was just another sound, without history, without weight.
The houses were made of dark wood with thatched roofs, and the smell of freshly baked bread filled the air. Children played barefoot in puddles, and birdsong mingled with laughter. Everything seemed so simple that for a moment she thought she had stepped back in time, to a life she never had.
Upon arriving at the tavern, she was greeted by a robust woman with a broad smile.
"Welcome, traveler. Are you from the north? You don't see many of them around here," said the woman, drying her hands on an apron.
Sylphra nodded slightly. "I come from the sea. I'm just looking for a place to rest."
The innkeeper showed her to a table by the fireplace. "The fire's always burning here. Stay as long as you like. We don't ask too many questions of solo travelers, but we do share food and conversation."
Sylphra thanked them for the gesture and took a seat. As she watched the flames, an old man with a white beard approached, leaning on his cane.
"Forgive my boldness, young man. You have the look of someone who has seen more than they should at your age. What are you looking for among us?"
Sylphra looked into his eyes, hesitating whether to answer truthfully or with the mask she had grown accustomed to wearing. Finally, she spoke calmly. "I seek silence. And perhaps… a respite from what haunts me."
The old man smiled tenderly. "Then you've come to the right place. Here, no one asks more questions than necessary. The sea brings travelers, but the countryside holds secrets."
During the following days, Sylphra blended into the village routine. At dawn, she helped the women fetch water from the river, and sometimes the children followed her, fascinated by the serenity with which she walked. A little girl with large eyes approached her once while Sylphra was washing some pots.
"Miss, why do you always look at the horizon? Are you waiting for someone?"
The question surprised her, and for a moment she didn't know how to answer. Finally, she smiled gently. "I don't wait... I remember. And sometimes, remembering is like waiting, even though you know no one will come."
The girl looked at her confused, but then nodded as if she had understood more than she let on and ran off laughing.
At night, she joined the conversations at the tavern. The villagers talked about harvests, rain, and the difficulty of keeping livestock away from wolves. She listened more than she spoke, but when someone asked her a question, she always answered simply.
One night, a young man with dark hair sat across from her. He wore a warm smile and smelled of wine on his breath.
"They say you came from the sea, stranger. Few come here from there. Is it true that there are cities under the waves? Or are they just drunken tales?"
Sylphra raised an eyebrow, amused. "What if I told you that beneath the waters lie secrets greater than you could ever imagine? Secrets waiting to be awakened."
The young man laughed loudly. "Then I'd rather not know. Secrets bring trouble. All we need here is bread, wine, and good stories."
She gazed at him intently, a hint of melancholy in her voice. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps secrets are chains dragged by those of us who don't know how to live in peace."
The young man bowed his head, noticing the weight hidden in his words. "You look sad, traveler. If you wish to stay, you will find a place to forget in this village. No one here needs to know your name."
Sylphra watched him for another moment, and her heart wavered. She remembered then Zyrion's face, his voice, his strength. "Forget…" she thought, "perhaps that's what I should do. But how does one forget someone who became your reflection?"
That night, as he lay in the small room of the tavern, he listened to the murmur of the wind against the windows. He closed his eyes and allowed himself, for the first time in a long time, to speak softly into the void.
"Zyrion... I hope you're well. I hope you don't hold a grudge against me for leaving. Because even though I walk among faces that don't know me, every step reminds me of you."
The silence of the room did not respond, but the echo of his confession lingered like a promise that destiny, sooner or later, would claim.
A shadow will claim light before the end.