The stone beneath Ronan's boots felt alive—warm, almost pulsing. It was too smooth to be natural, too ancient to be recent. Every step echoed like a whisper, not into the air, but back into his skull. This wasn't a cavern. It was a memory someone had buried.
He walked forward. He didn't know how long. Time twisted here. Light came from nowhere, yet everything cast a shadow.
He hated places like this.
He wasn't alone.
A low chime sounded. Not a bell. Something deeper. Like the heartbeat of something dreaming.
Then a voice—familiar, but warped.
"You carry death like perfume."
Ronan froze.
From the mist, she stepped forward.
Her body shimmered. Not from beauty—though she had that—but from impossibility. Skin like rain on marble, hair the color of ash before the wind takes it. Her eyes were wrong. Not cruel. Not kind. Just tired.
"I don't know you," Ronan said.
"But I know you."
The woman stepped closer. No footprints followed.
"You were there," she said. "When the sky cracked. When the moon bled."
"I've seen a lot of skies," he muttered.
"You watched her die."
Ronan flinched. His voice hardened.
"Who are you?"
She smiled, and it broke his breath.
"The world called me Asera. The One Who Waited Beneath."
Ronan raised his staff. "I don't worship forgotten names."
"You don't have to."
The ground shifted. A soft hum began.
"She's waking," Asera whispered.
"Who?"
Asera tilted her head. "Telara."
The hum deepened. The stone beneath his feet cracked—just slightly. Something moved far below, like a city stretching in its sleep.
Ronan stared.
"This world is not what you think," Asera said. "It's not a place. It's a prison. And you were born with the key inside you."
He shook his head. "I don't believe in prophecies."
"You don't have to."
From the mist behind her, figures emerged. Silent. Hooded. Dozens of them. Each one holding a mirror. Each mirror reflected a different Ronan. Young. Old. Dead. Crowned. Broken.
He backed away.
"No."
"They came to see the man who cracked fate," Asera whispered. "Not yet. But soon."
The walls trembled.
And from behind the mirrors, Ashur roared.
Ronan turned. "Let him go."
"He's not yours to command," Asera said. "He came to witness you."
Ronan clenched his jaw.
A mirror near him cracked.
And another.
And another.
The reflections inside began to scream.
"You're not showing me truth," Ronan growled. "You're trying to break me."
"No," Asera said. "I'm showing you that you've already been broken."
The mirrors shattered. The glass didn't fall—it flew upward, into nothing.
Ashur leapt from the fog, landing beside him, teeth bared.
"Leave," Asera said. "This was only an introduction. Next time, you'll meet her."
"Who?"
"The girl who died before she was born."
Then everything blinked—no fade, no sound.
Just darkness.
And then sand.
Ronan gasped as he awoke in the basin. Back under the open sky.
Ashur lay beside him, panting. His fur matted with black dust.
They were back outside the shrine. The gate was gone. Sealed behind them like it had never opened.
The stars above them swirled slightly.
Ashur nudged Ronan's hand.
"I'm fine," Ronan muttered. "You?"
Ashur growled. It wasn't pain. It was warning.
They were not alone.
Across the dunes, a woman stood watching. Wrapped in blue silk. Face hidden. Bare feet on the burning sand, yet unmoved.
When she turned, her eyes glowed gold.
And she whispered a single word.
"Ronan."
Then she vanished.
He stood, heart pounding.
"She knew my name," he muttered.
Ashur looked at him.
So did the sky.
To be continued.