Whispers of the Forgotten
Caelan rose to his feet, the warmth of the pendant still pulsing against his chest. The ruins lay quiet now, yet the air thrummed with an energy he could feel in his bones. Every shadow, every crack in the stone seemed alive, as if waiting, watching, remembering.
He moved cautiously, following the faint glow of the scroll. Light traced a path through broken archways and fallen pillars, leading him deeper into the heart of the Forgotten Realm. Memories flickered behind his eyes—fragments of ceremonies, towers that reached beyond the clouds, and streets bustling with life. Each vision tugged at him, a silent plea to remember what had been lost.
A whisper floated through the air, almost imperceptible. "He comes… the heir awakens…"
Caelan froze, holding his breath. The voice was faint, carried on a wind that seemed to flow through the ruins themselves. His pulse quickened. He was not alone. The ruins were speaking, and they recognized him.
The floor beneath his boots shifted, subtle but deliberate, as if guiding him toward something. He followed instinct, drawn to a chamber at the far end of the ruins. Its entrance was framed by shattered pillars, etched with symbols that glowed faintly under the pendant's light.
Inside, the room opened into a grand hall, long abandoned, yet still resonant with power. Dust and ash swirled in the air, illuminated by the scroll's glow. Along the walls, faded murals depicted a kingdom of golden spires and armies of magic, scenes of triumph and despair frozen in time.
At the center of the hall lay a stone basin, filled with dark ash. It pulsed faintly, almost breathing, as if holding a memory of the past. Caelan approached cautiously, kneeling beside it. The pendant warmed, reacting to the energy emanating from the basin.
Memories surged violently. He saw himself standing on the steps of a grand throne, holding a crown forged of ash and fire. He saw battles waged, sacrifices made, and the city swallowed by oblivion. A single phrase echoed in his mind, clear and commanding: "Remember who you are."
He gasped, clutching the scroll and pendant. The realization struck him like lightning—he was not merely a visitor. He was the heir, the last blood of the Ashborne, tasked with restoring what had been lost.
Movement behind him drew his attention. The cloaked figure appeared again, watching from the shadows. Caelan's heart pounded. She stepped closer, revealing just enough of her face for him to see sharp eyes, intelligence, and an unreadable expression.
"You are stronger than I expected," she said softly, almost a whisper. "But the Realm tests all who enter. Are you ready for what comes next?"
Caelan swallowed. His hand tightened around the pendant. "I have to be," he replied, voice steady despite the chaos inside him. "The Realm… it's calling me."
A low hum filled the chamber, and the ash in the basin stirred, lifting into the air like living smoke. Caelan felt it wrap around him, pulling him closer, demanding recognition. He closed his eyes, letting the energy flow through him, letting the memories anchor him.
When he opened his eyes, the chamber was still, the ash settled, but the feeling remained—power, responsibility, destiny. The journey had only begun, and already the Forgotten Realm was awakening in him.
The heir had arrived.