Tasaft led Abchiti and his father into the strange house-temple, through corridors that seemed to exist in multiple states of being at once—sometimes solid walls, sometimes open to the sky, sometimes something in between. The interior was larger than the exterior should have allowed, another sign that this place existed at least partially outside the normal rules of space and time.
They emerged into a central chamber that had no ceiling, open to the sky above, though Abchiti could not see the sun despite it being midday. Instead, the space was illuminated by a diffuse light that seemed to come from the walls themselves. At the chamber's center stood a pool of water so perfectly still that it might have been glass.
"Look," Tasaft commanded, gesturing to the pool. "See what I have seen. Understand what approaches."
Abchiti approached the pool and gazed into its depths. At first, he saw only his own reflection, but then the surface began to change, images forming as if the water had become a window onto another place entirely.
He saw mountains—though not the familiar peaks of the Rif. These were taller, harsher, their slopes barren of vegetation, their summits lost in clouds that seemed to writhe and pulse with a life of their own. Between these peaks, in a valley so deep it appeared bottomless, something moved. It was not a creature that could be easily described; it was more like a wound in the fabric of reality, a tear through which darkness spilled into the world.
"That," Tasaft said, her voice carrying a weight of dread that made Abchiti's blood run cold, "is what remains of Azrhad. He was one of the greatest of the Imzurien, once. But he turned against his kind, sought to remake the world according to his own vision rather than serving as its steward. The others bound him, imprisoned him in the deepest valley they could carve, and set wards to keep him contained."
The image in the pool shifted, zooming closer to the darkness in the valley. Abchiti could make out shapes now—creatures that crawled and slithered at the edges of the void, entities that seemed to be made of shadow and hunger. They were testing the boundaries of their prison, probing for weaknesses, and wherever they touched, the land itself seemed to recoil.
"The wards have held for millennia," Tasaft continued. "But they were not designed to last forever. The power that sustains them has been fading, drop by drop, century by century. And now..." The image shifted again, showing cracks spreading through invisible barriers around the valley, light escaping through fissures in realities fabric. "Now, at last, the prison begins to fail."
"What does this have to do with me?" Abchiti asked, though he was beginning to suspect he already knew the answer.
"The Imzurien who created those wards also created the bloodline that produced you," Tasaft said. "Your power is connected to theirs, drawn from the same source. When the last of their strength was poured into Azrhad's prison, it was with the understanding that their human descendants would one day be needed to renew the binding. That day has come."
"You are asking me to fight this... thing?" Abchiti could barely comprehend the scope of what was being suggested. "I have had these abilities for less than a month. I can barely lift a stone without the pendant's help. How am I supposed to—"
"You are not being asked to fight," Tasaft interrupted, and there was something like compassion in her ancient eyes. "Not yet. But you are being asked to prepare. The prison will not break tomorrow, or even next month. We have time—how much, I cannot say with certainty, but enough for you to learn what you must learn. Enough for you to become what you must become."
She turned to Abchiti's father, who had remained silent throughout the revelation. "He will need to stay here, with me, for his training. What I have to teach cannot be learned in the valleys below, among the distractions of ordinary life. He must immerse himself fully in the old ways."
Abchiti looked at his father, suddenly aware of what this meant. He would have to leave his home, his family, everything he had known. The shop, his mother, his routine—gone, perhaps for months, perhaps longer.
His father met his gaze and slowly nodded. "This is what you were born for, son. What our family has been preparing for across generations. I have done what I can to give you the foundation. Now you must build upon it."
"When do I start?" Abchiti asked, and though fear still gripped his heart, beneath it was something else—something that had been growing since that first moment in the quarry. Purpose. Destiny. The mountain's blood running strong, indeed.