Cyrus listened intently, his mind racing to process the information being presented. It was becoming increasingly clear that things weren't as simple as he had initially thought.

"We are the Bites," the Queen declared, her voice resonating with authority, "destined to ascend above the common rabble." The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, charged with an almost tangible power.

Gathering his courage, Cyrus managed to ask a question, carefully avoiding her piercing gaze. "What exactly do you need my help with?" His voice sounded small in the grand hall, but he was proud that it didn't waver.

The Queen's response was measured, her words precise. "We require your services to locate something of great importance. However, before you proceed, you must meet the prophet. He will provide you with further instructions." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And for now, I wish not to lay eyes upon your visage again. Leave."

With a dismissive wave of her hand, Cyrus found himself effectively dismissed. He bowed deeply, more out of instinct than respect, and hastily made his exit. As he stepped out, the door slammed shut behind him with a resounding thud, seemingly coming to life of its own accord. Only then did Cyrus let out a long, shaky sigh of relief.

These people were crazy, he thought to himself, each and every one of them. But who is that prophet? He massaged his temples, trying to make sense of what little he had learned. All he knew for certain was that they were rich as hell and all decidedly eccentric.

Lost in his thoughts, Cyrus was startled by the approach of a maid. Unlike most of the inhabitants he had encountered so far, she had no special aura. On the contrary, she looked eerily normal, a fact that was almost jarring in its contrast to the otherworldly beings he had been surrounded by.

"This way, sir," she said, her voice warm and inviting.

Feeling a pang of guilt at the thought of inconveniencing her, Cyrus tried to demur. "Oh miss, you don't need to bother yourself with that. You know, I can certainly find my way here." He couldn't help but notice that while she was older than his mother, she looked much younger. The smile on her face filled him with a warmth he couldn't quite explain, and without even knowing why, he instantly felt she was different from the others.

"No, don't worry. It's my job, after all," she said, waving off his concerns. "And if you're curious, that was the Queen, Leona, the leader of the Bites. Don't mind her personality; she is a great woman."

Cyrus couldn't help but snort. "Full of vanity, if you want my opinion."

The maid laughed lightly, a sound that seemed to lighten the oppressive atmosphere of the manor. "You're probably the only one who dares to say such words here. But if you want some advice, keep them to yourself, especially if you want to survive in this place." She pointed towards an open garden entrance, her expression turning serious for a moment.

Grateful for her kindness, Cyrus couldn't resist asking, "Thanks so much, miss. Can I know your name?"

Her response was unexpected. "I have no name. They call me Granny here. You too can if you wish." With that, she turned to leave, her form disappearing down the long corridor.

Intrigued and slightly unsettled, Cyrus made his way into the garden. Immediately, a strong odor assaulted his senses, causing him to hold his nose. Little insects whistled in the void, creating an eerie backdrop to the scene before him. At the center of the garden stood a figure, methodically watering a few plants.

Cyrus approached cautiously, observing the man. He appeared to be in his forties, his movements calm and systematic, clearly having performed this task countless times before. The man wore a long black gown, adding to his mysterious aura. As Cyrus drew closer, his gaze fell upon the plant being watered. To his surprise, it was dry, probably dead.

Why is he doing that? Cyrus wondered, perplexed by the seemingly pointless task.

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"Hey, old man, the plant is—" Cyrus began, but his words died in his throat as he noticed something odd. The man kept pouring water, even though it had long since exceeded the plant's bucket capacity. Water droplets cascaded down in a continuous stream, yet the man maintained his position, seemingly oblivious.

Gathering his courage, Cyrus tried again. "Hey, old man, can't you see it's already dead?"

The man jolted as if awakening from a trance. He carefully placed the water container down and turned to face Cyrus with a languid motion. Instantly, Cyrus was struck by the man's eyes. They were white, devoid of the vigor and life that characterized the other inhabitants of this strange place. A pang of guilt shot through Cyrus as he realized the man was blind.

"Ah, Cyrus," the man spoke, his voice carrying a weight of wisdom that belied his appearance. "Do you claim that name? The wanderer's path has led you here. I am the harbinger; you may call me the Prophet. Seat, if you dare, for truths await those who seek."

Cyrus, feeling a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, carefully picked out chairs for both of them, ensuring the Prophet was comfortably seated before taking his own place.

"Appearance deceives," the Prophet continued, his unseeing eyes seeming to look right through Cyrus. "What I have heard might be but whispers in the wind, but the truth indeed wears many veils."

Cyrus stared blankly, struggling to make sense of the Prophet's cryptic words. "Time is but a river, ever flowing, ever changing. Chosen you are, by whom or what, I wonder. Fate's hand guides us all, whether we care to see it or not."

"Chosen?" Cyrus repeated, latching onto the only word that seemed to make any sense amidst the Prophet's enigmatic speech. Why was no one in this place capable of speaking plainly?

The Prophet's voice took on a more serious tone. "The stars, silent witness to our destinies, have spoken. The primal beast stirs once more, the primordial canine. Their significance unfathomable, before the next turning of the Arkania calendar, their trail must be traced. The threads of fate weave a tapestry only the chosen may unravel."

As he spoke, the Prophet pinched the void, and to Cyrus's amazement, a series of stars bloomed in the sky above them. A peaceful energy surrounded Cyrus as he watched the Prophet wave his hand, causing the stars to shift and change. With each motion, a different celestial tableau appeared. On the final wave, the stars turned a deep, bloody red.

Cyrus frowned, a sense of foreboding settling over him. The Prophet's next words did nothing to assuage his growing unease. "Without the primordial guardians, doom looms large. Hear our plea, though the path ahead is shrouded in uncertainty." To Cyrus's shock, the old man knelt before him.

Immediately, Cyrus moved to help the Prophet up, his voice tinged with concern. "Hey, old man, will you calm down?"

The weight of responsibility settled heavily on Cyrus's shoulders. "I think you might have picked the wrong person," he said, his head hung low, voice trembling with the crushing weight of guilt. "I can't save you all. I couldn't even save a little job. How will I save everyone?"

The thought of being responsible for the fate of so many was overwhelming. How can someone as useless as me save everyone? The question echoed in his mind, a painful reminder of his past failures.

"The stars have chosen you," the Prophet insisted, his voice filled with a certainty that Cyrus couldn't comprehend. "It wouldn't be easy, but you can do it."

Frustration and fear bubbled up within Cyrus. "You don't understand, old man," he said, standing abruptly. "I'm not some kind of hero. I couldn't... save her." The last words came out as a yell, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. "What will happen if I fail? I don't want to be responsible for that."

The Prophet's response was unexpected. "In the Bites, prophets are forged, not born," he said, rising to his feet with a grace that belied his age.

Their eyes met, and in that moment, Cyrus felt as if the old man could read his very soul. It was as if their hearts were dancing to the same rhythm, connected by some unseen force. "Not all my prophecies have been proven right," the Prophet admitted. "Some plants have grown and bloomed into magnificent flowers, but some have grown and withered, blown in the flow of time."

With those parting words, the Prophet turned and walked away, his hands clasped behind his back as he slowly disappeared from view. "If you want to help us, meet me tomorrow morning," his voice drifted back, carried on the evening breeze.

Cyrus stood rooted to the spot, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. If I give it a try, maybe it would be different, he mused. Maybe I can rise from my shadow this time. But the doubt crept in, insidious and persistent. But what if it wasn't, and I ended up screwing everything up like I always do? I should better keep these hands of destruction to myself.

He held his head, torn between hope and fear. Then, a spark of determination ignited within him. "So what if I am a loser?" he asked aloud, his voice gaining strength. "Will I stay one my whole life? Prophets are not born; they are made."

With newfound resolve, Cyrus stepped out of the garden, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. The path before him was uncertain, fraught with danger and the potential for failure. But for the first time in a long while, he felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could become more than the sum of his past mistakes