The air tasted of iron and ash as Kael pressed his palm against the bark of the ancient oak, its leaves trembling despite the stillness. The forest had always whispered to him, but today the sound was a low, ragged moan, like a wound being torn open. He stepped back, boots crunching over dead ferns, and scanned the clearing. Nothing. Just the gnarled roots and the way the sunlight fractured through the canopy in jagged shards. His fingers curled into his palms. Something was wrong. The magic that had hummed in the trees for centuries was fading, leaving only this hollow ache in his chest.
A branch snapped behind him. Kael spun, hand flying to the hilt of his dagger, but the figure was already there—slender, cloaked in shadows that seemed to drink the light. The stranger’s face was obscured, but Kael could feel the weight of their gaze, sharp as a blade. “You shouldn’t be here,” the voice said, low and rasping, like wind through a grave.
“And you shouldn’t be lurking,” Kael shot back, though his pulse hammered in his ears. The stranger tilted their head, and for a heartbeat, Kael thought he saw a glint of silver beneath the hood—a shard of something that didn’t belong in this world. Then the figure was gone, melting into the trees as if they’d never been there. Kael exhaled, but the air tasted wrong, like old blood.
That night, he dreamt of fire. Not the warm, flickering kind that danced in a hearth, but a cold flame that ate at the edges of his vision, leaving only blackened ruins. He woke drenched in sweat, the room too silent, the walls too still. His hand drifted to the pendant around his neck—a small, obsidian shard he’d found as a child, its surface etched with symbols that pulsed faintly in the dark. He’d always felt it was more than a trinket, but tonight it burned against his skin, searing his flesh.
The next morning, Kael left the village without saying goodbye. The road to the Obsidian Spire was a jagged scar through the forest, and every step felt like a betrayal. He didn’t know what he’d find there, only that the dreams were leading him, and the silence in his chest was growing louder. By dusk, the trees thinned, revealing a valley bathed in an eerie blue light. At its center stood a tower of black stone, its spire piercing the sky like a wound. Kael hesitated, then stepped forward.
The door creaked open at his touch, revealing a chamber lined with mirrors that reflected not his face, but fragments of scenes—fire, a child’s laughter, a city crumbling into dust. A voice echoed in his mind, not spoken but felt: *You are the last.* Kael stumbled back, the pendant flaring bright. The mirrors shattered, and from the shards emerged figures—shadows with faces like broken glass. They lunged, and Kael ran, his breath ragged, the tower collapsing behind him.
He didn’t stop until he reached the edge of the valley, where the sky bled into the horizon. The pendant was cold now, its glow dim. Kael stared at it, then at the ruins of the tower. Something inside him snapped. He’d spent his life chasing whispers and dreams, but tonight he’d seen the truth: the world was dying, and he was its last thread. He tightened his grip on the pendant and turned toward the unknown, the weight of the silence finally gone, replaced by a single, burning question—*What comes next?*
