Inside the vast wooden hall that stood at the heart of the island village, the air was thick with the scent of salt, smoke, and aged timber. The building was constructed from massive logs of dark hardwood, their surfaces worn smooth by time and generations of hands that had brushed against them. The walls bore carvings of ancient symbols—spirals, waves, and suns—markings that told the forgotten history of their people. The faint glow of torches, flickering from the stone sconces mounted along the walls, bathed everything in a trembling orange light.
The long shadows of the flame danced across the faces of those gathered, making their expressions shift and waver like reflections in water. There were ten of them in total—six men and four women—all seated around a heavy wooden table that dominated the center of the room. The table, though aged, shone faintly under the firelight, its surface worn smooth and marked by the years. In the middle stood a small clay vase filled with freshly gathered wildflowers—purple, yellow, and crimson blossoms. Their faint, earthy fragrance mixed with the smell of burning wood, creating an atmosphere both somber and sacred.
Each person in the room was dressed in the traditional attire of their tribe. The men wore dark, rough-spun garments with belts dyed red or brown, and some had headbands embroidered with their family's insignia. The women wore lighter robes, soft beige and pale blue, their sleeves decorated with shimmering silver threads that caught the torchlight with each subtle movement.
A low murmur filled the room. Voices overlapped—some questioning, some wary. They were speaking about the same thing: the man with white hair who had been found unconscious on the shore earlier that day. The memory of his arrival still lingered vividly in everyone's minds: his pale figure lying against the sand, the strange light that had seemed to pulse faintly around him before it faded away.
Some believed he was dangerous. Others thought he might be a sign—perhaps even the one foretold.
Then, without warning, the great wooden doors at the far end of the hall creaked open. The sound of old hinges echoed through the chamber, and a shadow appeared in the doorway. Slowly, a figure stepped inside—a man old and bent, with long white hair and a beard that fell to his chest. He leaned on a carved staff made from driftwood, its surface etched with runes.
He was the elder—the same man who had been seen leaving the healer's hut, where the wounded stranger now rested. The moment he entered, the whispers died instantly. Every person in the room turned toward him.
The elder's steps were deliberate and heavy, the sound of his sandals against the wooden floor echoing with a rhythm that demanded attention. Despite his frail frame, his presence carried weight—an aura of authority built through decades of wisdom and burden. As he approached the table, the flickering flames seemed to bend subtly in his direction, as though acknowledging him.
He reached the head of the table and paused. With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised one hand. The gesture alone was enough to command absolute silence.
The fire crackled. The wind from the sea sighed faintly through the cracks in the walls. And then, in a voice calm yet filled with power, the elder spoke:
"Let us speak of the man."
His tone was neither accusing nor kind, but steady—carrying a weight that silenced even the most restless minds. The words hung in the air, echoing faintly against the wooden walls.
All eyes fixed on him. The torches hissed softly as if the flames themselves leaned closer to listen. The elder's gaze swept slowly across the faces before him—each one illuminated by the trembling glow of firelight. There was caution in his eyes, and something else as well: memory.
He had seen the white-haired man's face closely. Even through the wounds, through the exhaustion, there had been something about him—something almost radiant and yet burdened. The elder had felt a pulse from him, faint but undeniable, like a whisper from the sea itself calling out through the centuries.
The prophecy came to mind.
The one spoken long ago by their ancestors—of a being who would emerge from the sea when the world began to lose its balance. A figure who bore both light and shadow, who would bring renewal or ruin. None had believed the tale would manifest in their time.
The elder's fingers tightened slightly around his staff. The flames wavered again as a cool wind blew through the open slats of the window. The shadows stretched across the floorboards, and for a moment, the elder's silhouette loomed like a specter from an age long gone.
No one spoke.
The men sat rigid, their hands resting on their knees or gripping the edge of the table. The women lowered their gazes, though their eyes still flicked upward occasionally, searching for meaning in the elder's silence. The air grew heavier with each heartbeat, thick with unspoken thoughts.
Beyond the hall, the sound of waves striking the distant shore echoed faintly, a rhythmic pulse that seemed to mirror the thudding of hearts inside the room.
The elder inhaled slowly. His eyes drifted toward the flickering flames, and for a long while, he said nothing more. It was as if he was weighing not just words, but consequences—each thought, each memory, each possibility that the stranger's presence might bring.
And then, when the silence became almost unbearable, he exhaled softly, as though releasing the weight of many years.
The man with white hair was more than what he appeared to be—of that, the elder was certain. Whether he was a blessing or a curse, only time would tell.
And though the elder spoke no further, every person in the hall felt it—
that this meeting was not merely a discussion, but the beginning of something far greater.
Outside, the wind howled softly. The waves whispered against the sand. And somewhere in the small hut by the shore, the white-haired man still slept, unaware that his very existence had begun to stir the hearts of a people—and awaken an ancient truth that had long lain dormant beneath the sea.
The old wooden hall was heavy with silence after the elder's final words faded into the air. The tension lingered like mist that refused to lift. Ten figures sat around the long table, their faces dimly lit by the uneven flicker of firelight. The smell of burning oil and smoke still hung thick, and the faint sound of waves crashing against the distant shore bled softly through the cracks in the wood.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Only the sound of the torches crackling filled the room — small, rhythmic bursts that seemed to echo the heartbeat of the hall itself. Shadows stretched and swayed across the wooden floor as the sea breeze slipped in, carrying with it a faint chill.
Then, at last, one man broke the silence. His voice was deep, quiet, and weighted with uncertainty.
"The prophecy..." he murmured. "It could be real."
The word prophecy seemed to ripple through the air like a spark through dry grass. The faint murmuring returned, growing slowly into overlapping voices — half doubtful, half fearful. No one dared speak too loudly, but everyone knew what that single word implied.
From the far side of the table, a woman's voice rose — calm, firm, and resonant. She was of middle age, her dark hair streaked with strands of gray that caught the firelight like silver threads. Her skin bore the soft lines of time, yet her eyes were sharp and steady, like those of someone who had seen far more than she wished to.
She slowly stood, the hem of her dark-gray tribal robe brushing against the wooden floor with a faint rustle. The silver embroidery along her sleeves shimmered as she raised her chin slightly, her voice echoing in the still air.
"The prophecy says," she began, her tone unwavering, "that there will be three who will sustain this world."
The room fell utterly still. Ten pairs of eyes fixed upon her. Some people clasped their hands together, others bowed their heads slightly as if bracing for what was to come.
"The first," she continued, "a man with white hair that reaches his shoulders — eyes of gold that shine with hope."
At once, the faint gasps of recognition moved through the group. The description struck them like a bell. The man they had rescued... the one who lay unconscious, his hair white as snow. Even if they had not seen his eyes, something deep within them knew the words were not coincidence.
Her voice grew heavier, almost reverent. "The second — a man with short violet hair, eyes as black as the void itself, filled with darkness."
The torches flickered as if a gust of unseen wind passed through them. The shadows on the walls trembled. A faint chill crept into the air. Even speaking the words seemed to call forth something unseen, something ancient.
"And the last…" she paused, taking a slow breath, her tone softening but gaining a strange gravity. "Neither man nor woman. Without a face. Long blue hair, bound behind. Together, the three will vanquish evil... and restore peace to this world."
Her voice faded into the dim air, leaving behind only silence — deep, thick, almost sacred.
The group sat frozen. The fire crackled. A droplet of wax slid down the side of a torch and fell with a faint hiss. The room felt suspended in time, as if every person inside was trapped between belief and doubt.
Then the woman spoke again, her tone lower, thoughtful, yet edged with doubt. "But now... there is only one of them. And worse still — he bears no power. None at all. I can't sense even a flicker within him."
Her words broke the silence like a blade. Heads turned toward her, and then toward the elder. The people who had rescued the white-haired man exchanged uneasy glances before nodding slowly in agreement. They confirmed it: when they had carried him from the shore, when they had treated his wounds, they had felt nothing — no energy, no life-force, not even the faint hum that ordinary humans possessed. He was empty, like a shell.
The disbelief in the room deepened. Whispers rose again — voices of confusion, of fear, of reasoning. "Impossible," one muttered. "No power?" said another. To be powerless in their world was not only strange, it was dangerous. Power was life. Power was existence. To have none meant to be like the dead — breathing, but silent inside.
At last, a man sitting opposite the elder leaned forward. His face was stern, his hair tied tightly behind his head, and a crimson band circled his brow. He spoke slowly, each word deliberate.
"Then... for now," he said, "all we can do is watch. Observe his reactions. His behavior. The truth will reveal itself in time."
His calm, steady tone silenced the whispers.
The elder, who had been listening in silence, gave a slow nod — not of agreement or disagreement, but of weary acceptance. There was nothing else to be done. Not yet.
One by one, the others began to rise from their seats. The soft creak of the floorboards followed their movements. Some lingered, glancing back at the table as if reluctant to leave; others turned away quickly, their faces shadowed with unease.
When the first opened the door, the cold wind from the sea swept in, making the torches gutter wildly. The orange glow rippled across their faces — faces filled with uncertainty and unspoken fear — before they stepped out into the night one by one.
Soon, the room was empty again. The last echoes of footsteps faded into the sound of the wind. Only the elder remained, standing motionless by the table, his eyes lowered, deep in thought.
The prophecy... Three who would shape the fate of the world.
Was it truly beginning now?
He exhaled softly. The flames swayed one last time before settling back into their steady rhythm. Outside, the sea whispered endlessly against the shore — a sound older than any prophecy, older even than memory itself.
And somewhere not far away, a man with white hair slept in stillness, unaware that his mere presence had stirred the hearts of many... and awakened a story that had long waited to be reborn.