Ashes and bones lay strewn about him—a witness to the war's savagery, a grim mosaic on the battlefield where valour and sacrifice had ended. His feet, bare and soiled, trod upon the earth that cradled the fallen; it was frigid, unyielding as if rejecting the warmth of the living. He pressed on, drawn inexorably towards the looming ramparts of stone, their ancient bulwarks crumbling under the weight of time. It was once a kingdom, but its name and legacy were lost to him.

Yet, an inexplicable pull beckoned him closer, a whisper of memory that danced just beyond his conscious grasp. He knew not why nor whence it came, but a surge of kinship flooded his being, a warmth that pierced the chill of desolation. This intoxicating allure left him bereft of thought, his mind a maelstrom of unformed questions and elusive answers.

One certainty anchored him: his sought revelation lay beyond those daunting doors. As they swung open at his approach, he was greeted not by the clamour of life but by the silence of abandonment.

The echoes of a once-glorious past reverberated within the throne room through the shattered remnants of grandeur. Amidst the ruin, a solitary figure knelt, its form reduced to ash and bone yet still noble in its eternal vigil. Hands clasped around the hilt of a sword plunged into the stone floor—a warrior's solemn farewell.

He bowed his head in homage to the fallen warrior, but as he did, a glimmer of gold amidst the grey caught his eye. Drawn to the lustre, he discovered a sense of recognition blossoming within him. And when his fingers brushed the golden relic, the world dissolved in a blinding torrent of light.

When he dared to open his eyes, the throne room had vanished, and he stood once more upon the battlefield. But this was no longer a place of death and ash; instead, he beheld a tableau of valour, where brave souls waged war against shadowy fiends. Their determination shone like beacons, blades clashing against the dark forms whose crimson gaze cut through the night's shroud.

Moonlight bathed the scene, revealing evidence of blood-soaked earth and death's grim harvest. The warriors fought with desperate courage against the ethereal foes, their weapons slicing through the air but finding no resistance. Their blades cut through the fiends' ghostly forms.

For a fleeting moment, despair threatened as it seemed their efforts were in vain. But then, a miraculous transformation unfolded before his eyes. The warriors' human visages gave way to draconic splendour, scales shimmering under the celestial glow, their newfound resilience turning the tide of battle.

As he watched the spectacle unfold, a profound realization dawned upon him—these warriors were his kin. The mystifying bond that had drawn him across the desolate expanse now revealed itself in complete clarity, the connection undeniable as the scene played out before him. He felt a deep sense of belonging as if he had always been a part of this valiant struggle.

He grappled with the nature of this vision—were these memories or mere phantasms? The warriors moved through him as though he were but a ghost, an observer of this epoch, not a participant. He pondered the significance of this revelation, questioning whether it depicted a potential future or a bygone past.

His contemplation was cut short as the vista transformed once more. He found himself before walls restored to their former majesty, their stones now gleaming with the purity of dawn's first light. The kingdom, once a spectre of decay, now stood resplendent in alabaster and gold. A sense of belonging enveloped him, a connection to a place he had never known yet felt intrinsically his.

With trepidation, he approached the grand gate, fearing that the merest touch might cause this vision to evaporate. His hand hovered, then made contact with the cool metal, the sensation grounding him in the moment.

He pushed gently, and the golden gates, a distinct contrast to the white bastions, swung wide to reveal the wonders within. Yet, as he crossed the threshold, the scene shifted, and he stood again before the ancient door.

The door, once marred by time, now radiated with regal splendour. Its white oak surface, adorned with golden filigree, beckoned him to discover its secrets. His Heart pounded with dread and anticipation as he reached for the ornate handle, time stretching into infinity as he braced for the unknown.

But as his fingers grazed the metal, reality shattered, leaving him adrift in darkness. Time lost all meaning until a radiant light pierced the void, and a gentle and melodic lady's Voice enveloped him.

"O bearer of the Heart, your radiant worth remains undimmed, yet the long-awaited hour of awakening lingers. Seek the Voice alone holds the key to unlocking the answers you seek. The Voice will graciously usher you into the illustrious Hall of Valor."

As the Voice faded, his eyes fluttered open, and he awoke from the dream that had carried him through history's chronicle, or a future yet unwritten. Left with a heart full of questions and a longing that clung to his soul, he wondered, Was it all but a dream? The answers eluded him as he lay in contemplation, his expression a canvas of bewilderment and yearning. His confusion was palpable, his mind a whirlwind of unanswered questions.

In the quiet recesses of his mind, he echoed the Voice, a soft murmur amidst the clamour of his thoughts. Yet, as he sought to unravel its meaning, frustration gnawed at him, for the Voice offered no answers, only deepening the whirlpool of his emotions. Resigned to the tumult, he rose with a groan, his body aching a stark reminder of recent and fierce battles.

He exhaled slowly, a sigh of relief mingling with the stillness of the chamber. His gaze swept across the room, taking in the modest space that brimmed with life. Pots of herbs stood along the walls, each plant an exhibit to meticulous care, their leaves vibrant and full, basking in the prime of their health.

These were not merely cultivated plants but nurtured with a love that spoke of deeper connections. "As if tended by an elder's own hands," he mused, the scent of the herbs enveloping him—a complex bouquet of earthy freshness, floral sweetness, and invigorating sharpness.

The aroma was comforting, blending lavender's calm, rosemary's clarity, and chamomile's tranquillity. "Such healing they have wrought," he observed, tracing the lines where wounds had sealed beneath the bandages. But doing so, the memory of his injuries brought forth the recollection of the beast, the adversary of his fateful encounter.

His hands flew to his head, the image of the beast unleashing a torrent of emotions. 'The battle I lost...' he muttered, the words laced with the bitterness of defeat and the cold grip of fear. His warrior's pride was marred, his honour stained by the shadow of that loss. Fear clung to him despite his efforts to quell the shame—a spectre that refused to be banished. His sense of loss was overwhelming, a weight that he could not shake off.

His Heart pounded with the terror the beast had instilled, its formidable presence casting a long shadow over his spirit. The memory of its roar and the piercing gaze of its golden eyes stripped him of his defences, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

Adrift in this sea of fear, he struggled to regain composure, but the memories were relentless, vivid, and haunting. So engrossed was he in his inner turmoil that he failed to perceive the door opening or the figure entering with eyes filled with worry. It was only when a small, warm hand touched his brow that he was drawn out of his reverie.

Lifting his eyes, recognition dawned upon him, a flicker of clarity amidst the chaos. "It's you . . ."

ᓚᘏᗢ

In the deepening gloom of the chamber, a solitary figure held dominion, his eyes piercing the veil of darkness with their keen edge. Around him, a conclave of shadows murmured in a tongue not born of men but of a tongue of foreign and aged.

Their whispers, precise and clipped, reverberated against the stone walls. The scant light revealed their distinct similitude: their skin, a pallid grey, set off by the silken fall of hair, pale as the moon's rays, cascading over ears pointed like the tips of spears. Their eyes, orbs of lucent clarity, shone like beacons in the oppressive dark.

But impatient with the role of listener, he brought his hand down upon the table of sombre oak with a force that commanded silence. Their gaze, luminous and unwavering, turned upon him with an intensity that seemed to hold the air in thrall. "Ver’hal re’jahn, Tahriel. Na’rair sanki’sl?" (Speak, Tahriel. Have you progressed?) he demanded, his voice a deep timbre that resonated with the authority of unchallenged command.

Tahriel, her visage a mask of impassive grace, locked eyes with him. A flicker of ambition glinted within her gaze, betraying the intrigues that churned beneath her composed exterior. She spoke with a care that belied the weight of her words, "Mer’hal yu’hin, Ju’er. Cirith tir’han. Vue’es nil’hei." (Indeed, my Lord. The kingdom of Cirith has been breached. Its fall is but a foregone conclusion.) Her voice, though soft, carried an undercurrent of pride and veiled threat.

The Lord's countenance remained as still as the old stones, his eyes delving into hers with a scrutiny that seemed to weigh her soul. Yet Tahriel did not waver under his gaze, her face an inscrutable mask as she withstood the silent interrogation. "Hi’eir ji’uil. Ha’sha ri’el nu’in, ma’eus tir’han." (You overflow with pride. Yet, do not presume, for the realms of lesser men are not easily subdued.) His voice edged with a warning, nonetheless acknowledging her resolve's strength. "Yi’erl si’nar ah’wr, Tahriel," (You must not fail me, Tahriel.) he cautioned, his words carrying the weight of a decree.

"Nel’hin sa’iul, Ju’er." (I shall tread with care, my Lord.) Her response was steady, the earlier note of arrogance now tempered by the gravity of her task. The Lord gave a slight nod and shifted his attention to the towering presence of "Itiras," he beckoned.

Itiras met the Lord's gaze, his determination momentarily faltering under the piercing scrutiny. The Lord's eyes, now bathed in crimson, like a searing coal in the furnace that threatens to scorch, compelled the giant to bow, for the Lord would brook no challenge to his supremacy, not even in stature. Itiras inclined his head, his voice resonant with pride despite his subservient posture. "Ter’his mih’ir na’hel. Hau’ul rin’es ais’en, Ju’er." (Our legions swell with each dusk. They will soon demonstrate their prowess, my Lord.)

"Hui’el rei’un ne’iel sie’hnr ueu’is, Ju’er," (The dominion of men will inevitably yield before us.) he affirmed, his smile a grim twist of lips as he maintained his unflinching stare upon the Lord.

The Lord regarded Itiras with a gaze both unsettling and penetrating. "U’ril yif’ir. Na’hul na’ier eu’sil, vin’en hi’mel ui’es nu’sel?" (You and your sister. Brimming with pride, but are you aware of the dire consequences if you disappoint me?) His gaze oscillated between Tahriel and Itiras as he issued his sombre admonition.

Itiras's smile receded, giving way to a composed demeanour as he nodded in understanding. "Ji’se. uh’en Ma’ikal ve’rhin, Ju’er. Hun’al mi’shr usm’el." (Understood. We proceed with vigilance, my Lord. We shall not falter.) His voice, tinged with a hint of humility, rose as he met Tahriel's derisive glance. Anger brewed within him, yet the Lord's commanding voice reclaimed their focus.

"Ha’miel eh’lan nah’rul." (A new dawn approaches.) The Lord's voice was as implacable as the depths of winter. "Hie’ral mi’hal eu’rn D’úrdr Eúr esh’ar uem’al yir’han nu’mel. Mai’hral as’uin." (An era of darkness we shall reign over is nigh. I will tolerate no failure.) His proclamation swept through the chamber like a chill wind, commanding the silent assent of the seven others who bowed in obedience alongside Tahriel and Itiras.

"Avarith," he addressed the figure to his left. "Je’ier nai’el sie’rhal?" (What news of the boy?) he inquired, his voice tinged with anticipation.

"Eur’hiel sa’hel nue’rin aer’ehr mus’ril as’hal ya’heil ga’ruel sie’rhal. Uhe’rir sie’rhal. Ner’hr mus’tiral sie’rhal as’iran, Ju’er?" (The boy lingers still within the forest's embrace. Shall we dispatch our forces to retrieve him, my Lord?) Avarith's question was poised, yet it faltered before the Lord's formidable visage.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

The Lord's smile was a grotesque curl of his lips. "He’ial ur’ian. Je’iur ma’heil Drúy’wn. Ia’hel sa’eral." (Patience. The dryads watch over the forest. We are not welcome.) His voice deepened into a growl laden with an ominous tone.

"Ehu’ar sa’hel me’huil sie’rhal. Tu’sal anu’rin sie’hnr me’hryl, ahu’res veru’inr. Heu’rin ahl’hiel, we’urin as’iel," (Seek the boy once he emerges from the forest. Should he elude us, it is of no consequence. Once we secure the Pieces from the Seven Kings, all paths will converge to us.) the Lord declared, his figure now cloaked in shadow, his eyes a fierce crimson, the last beacon of light as darkness claimed the chamber.

ᗢᘏᓗ

The strange feeling of humility estranged him as he sat there, his gaze toward the child who had seen his earlier turmoil, where the memories of the battle enveloped him in a wave of strong emotions that he tried to ignore. But it threatened to consume him. Threatened to relive the memories of the haunting experience of his battle against the beast. But thankfully, the sound of the child's rummaging in what appeared to be a modest-sized kitchen distracted him from those thoughts, a relief beneath the brewing storm in his mind.

Taking a deep audible breath, he lifted his gaze towards the room he was in, no longer within the confines of the room-filled pots, but rather, a small room fitted for the size of a child, which beckons a question in his mind. "Do you dwell in solitude within this abode?" he asked the child. He expected an answer when the child paused, but no response came from the child, who continued with his task. "What is it that you are doing?" He asked another question, but the child, who looked to be two or three years younger than him, did not answer.

"Do you care not to listen to my voice?" he asked, a bit embarrassed for being ignored. He shook his head when the child went to the room where he was nursed to good health. Curious, he got up from where he sat and slowly walked towards the counter, looking at the bowl with a murky green liquid. The appearance looked unsightly, but the aroma filled him in a calm draught. He reached for it, beckoning a small taste, but the child returned from the room and rushed towards him.

"What reasons did you do that for?" he asked the child who had pushed him away. The child gestures, holding out a few strands of herbs that he retrieved from the other room. He pointed at the herb, then the bowl, trying to make him understand. "It is not ready?" he asked, and the child nodded before ushering him to sit down. "Fine, alright. I will wait," he told the child before sitting back down with a curious expression.

He watched the child place the herbs into the bowl and start mixing them. He waited a few moments until the child put the bowl before him. He looked at the content within. The texture stayed the same even after adding the strands of herbs. It held a green, murky liquid that could have looked more appealing. He looked at the child, who urged the bowl closer, a silent plea for him to partake.

Slowly reaching for the bowl, he held it shakily, reluctant despite his earlier curiosity about its taste. But its aroma was more far-reaching than before, but not in a good way. It was intense, dazed his senses, and he faltered his hold on the bowl. However, he steeled himself, putting the bowl closer to his mouth.

But true to its appearance, the taste was immediate and overwhelming, prompting him to set the bowl down with a gesture of revulsion. It was bitter and pungent that his sense of taste was overwhelmed, dulling his mind as he couldn't help but want to throw it up. But the child's expectant gaze spurred him on, and he reluctantly gulped it down.

He grimaced at the aftertaste, sour, bitter, pungy. He clutched his stomach as if not agreeing with what he was drunk. If it weren't the child nursing him back to health, he'd think he was being poisoned. "Do you mind giving a revelation of what it was that I just drank?" he asked the child weakly, the horrid taste sticking to him as he spoke. The child didn't talk, only looking at him with expectancy, which thinned his patience. "Well? Are you going to stay anything?" he asked in a harsher and louder tone.

However, he didn't wait for the child to speak when he stood up after he felt dizzy, and his internal body was in a motion of cool and hot. He clutched his head to stop the dizzying, but it didn't help as he staggered where he stood. The child quickly helped him get up before leading him to the sofa in the room, who ushered him to take a sit. After a few moments of struggle, he lay down on the couch, helping relieve the dizziness that came over him.

He lay there, dazed, and his eyes unfocused. He could hear his heavy and slow breathing, his body sweating from the discomfort. He didn't know how long, but he could feel the effects of whatever he drunk subsiding. But the process was long, and he seethed beneath the impact of the putrid liquid.

There was a moment of stillness as his breathing began to calm, and the feeling of dizziness began to wane. The sense of hot and cold that washed over him vanished, and the relief he began to feel clung to him. But after a few moments, his eyes regained focus as he stared at the ceiling. He blinked, thoughtless, before gathering his wit as he sat up again. But this time, the soreness and the remnants of pain that prickled his body had vanished, leaving his body feeling washed with renewed vigour and vitality.

"You've calmed down," a voice whispered in his head. His eyes widened in shock, turning to face the child sitting on the ground. "Excuse me. . .?" he drew his question a tone of baffleness. "Did I just hear you in my head?" he asked, sitting up from where he lay. The child rose to his feet, looking at him with concern marred in his expression before nodding. "What sorcery is this. . ." he wondered, but the child shook his head.

"It is not sorcery," the child reacted, "Rather, a gift. The only way I could commune without the gift of speech." The child spoke in a manner too mature for his age, leaving him wondering what upbringing he'd experienced. But even still, he tried hard to fathom the weirdness of the situation, a thought that he could not conclude.

He decided to accept that there was a child in front of him who could speak in his head. "Would it be possible for you to read my thoughts?" he asked concernedly, wondering if the child had entered his privacy. But he breathed a sigh of relief when the child shook his head. "I'm not sure what to make of this, but I do have a question: what in the bloody hell did I just drink?" he asked a bit heatedly, despite the after-effect benefiting his body.

"It is called Silve," the child answered, getting up and walking towards the empty bowl with the content known as 'Silve' within. "Silve?" he repeated, to which the child nodded. "Your body, after the battle, was in a dire state. A Pantheren's claw ejects a rare venom that disintegrates the cells of a body. Silve reverses its effects, but you must be awake; otherwise, it will be fatal if you're unconscious. Considering you went through its painful process . . ."

He was dumbfounded at how knowledgeable someone younger than him was in alchemy. "A Pantheren, what foul creature. But how is it do you know all these?" he couldn't help but ask. The child tilted his head, a process of silence as if waiting for permission from someone before they could answer. And as if consented, the child nodded. "The Voice," the child responded; a sudden recollection played in the mind of his dream, the Voice, he repeated in his head. He looked at the child thoughtfully, unsure of the connection between his dream and this 'Voice'. "The Voice?" he asked the child, probing for information.

Again, with the same pause, the look of asking for consent marred the child's face. But this time, it was as if he was having an internal conflict. After a few moments of silence, the child sighed and looked up at him. "The Voice. She helped stop your body from deteriorating while I tended to your wounds. It has been two weeks since your battle with the Pantheren."

"Two weeks?" he asked, a little dumbfounded at that information. The child nodded. "I've been unconscious for two weeks. And a Voice kept from dying?" There was a hint of disbelieve in his tone and a defeated huff when the child nodded.

"Though it may seem beyond belief, you witnessed me brew the Silve. The Voice aided me. You would've collapsed any moment sooner had she not," the child conveyed, seeking his acceptance of these truths. He found himself unable to deny the child's words. "Who, then, is this Voice?" he queried, desiring to understand the Voice's relevance to his quest upon recalling the memories of his dream.

"I . . . I do not know," the child communicated. He observed the child, awaiting the completion of his thought. "She has always been there, always by my side. Even after they departed when they imposed upon you the trial against the Pantheren," the child revealed, his surprise evident at the mention of 'they' and the 'trial', which did not escape notice.

"Who imposed a trial upon whom?" he demanded of the child, his tone grave. The child appeared utterly taken aback by the words he had inadvertently uttered, and a moment of silence ensued, a profound quietude that filled the room with tension. "The dryads," the child finally responded after a moment that felt like an eternity.

"The dryads? The three guardians who stand sentinel over Elderwood?" he asked the child, who nodded in response. "For what reason would they impose upon me a trial?" he voiced his disbelief, yearning to understand why the mystical beings known as dryads would assess a trial upon him that had nearly claimed his life.

The child did not respond immediately. He walked towards the window, his gaze directed outside, his eyes reflecting a mix of contempt and longing. He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts before he responded.

"You inquired if I dwell in solitude?" the child recalled his earlier question. He nodded, curious about the child's line of thought. "I did not until three weeks ago, a week before our encounter. They had vanished. I do not know where, but I was left alone by the dryads who had nurtured me in these woods for nearly my entire life. They told me I was but four years of age when they discovered me, but I do not remember. That was ten years ago."

"Dryads abhor humans. They are the sole reason the Elderwoods are inhospitable to men, as stated in the Older Tales. How does it make sense that they would raise one?" he questioned the child in disbelief. The child merely shrugged. "They told me I am special. Nothing more came upon their voices when I inquired further," The child confessed, wearing an expression of shame and guilt that caught his attention. "What is it?" he inquired, intrigued by the emotions on the child's face.

"I, too, yearn to know what being 'special' means. Because if being 'special' entails suffering, then I would rather not be special at all," the child responded with a blend of anger and guilt, which left him puzzled. "What are you trying to say?" he asked the child, who looked at him. "It's my fault you were injured," the child exclaimed, a strong emotion hinted in his tone while continuing. "The Voice informed me that they imposed the trial upon you to prove your worth. To prove that you can protect me," the child said weakly, in disbelief of his own words.

"Protect you?" he asked the child, pondering what he meant by protecting him, a child he barely knew. "What do you mean by protecting you? I have no reason to protect you. I am grateful that you saved my life. I am indebted; I vow that as a warrior, but I am not remaining in this forest," he explained, "And trial? What right do they have to impose a trial upon me? I have experienced shame and humiliation because of their 'trial', which nearly cost me my life-" But a sudden burst of energy emitted from the child, interrupting him mid-sentence.

The child was bathed in a bright golden light, producing a powerful wave of magic that threatened to push him back. Out of reflex, he immediately reached for his blade. However, he realized his blade wasn't strapped to his waist. He tried to locate a weapon to defend against the child. However, the world around him was suddenly enveloped in grey.

He could form thoughts and think, but he could not move. His body was frozen as if time itself had ceased. He could only watch as the child's body moved closer to him. The child's previously dark brown eyes were now enveloped in gold. What surprised him was the child's Voice, which did not communicate through his mind but with his Voice. A woman's Voice.

"O child, bearer of Heart," the woman's Voice declared with authority, "Your choices matter less than you think. You, who have shown your courage. Only the Voice can lead you through the challenges you are meant to face. You, who have felt the Heart's beat, will find the Voice lighting your path to the Hall of Valor." The Voice concluded, her golden eyes peering at him through the child's body, an intense gaze threatening to swallow him whole.

But then, the world around him resumed once more as time regained. The child's body lay on the floor as he knelt on the ground, inhaling the air greedily after the sensation of suffocation filled his lungs. The Voice, he repeated in his mind, looking at the child, his question from his earlier musing now answered. The Voice, him? Though he questioned it, the earlier words of the Voice echoed in his mind. Your choices matter less than you think, he huffed in disbelief.

"It appears we both lack a choice," he mumbled to himself but was surprised at the sudden Voice in his head. "Do you always converse with yourself?" the child asked out of curiosity, who was now sitting on the floor. He looked up at the child with an analyzing gaze before standing up. The child looked at him questioningly as he approached, even more confused when he extended his hand. The child looked at his outstretched hand and returned to him before taking hold of it.

"I need you to understand that this journey won't be safe and that I can't always be there to protect you," he told the child as he helped him. There wasn't much difference in their height as they stood beside each other, the child slightly looking up at him. "I know we both lack a choice in this matter but don't worry, I can protect myself," the child responded, and as if to prove himself, he disappeared in a golden flash, much to his chagrin.

"I had completely forgotten about this," he muttered, looking around before he felt a tap on his back. He looked back, but the child wasn't there, a slight irritation marking his features as he felt the tap behind him again. This time, the child was behind him, looking at him with apprehension and solemnity. He looked at the child, his slight irritation replaced by a blank expression, before slowly nodding in acceptance and acknowledgement of the child's ability. He raised a curled fist.

"In my hometown, if we are to undergo this harrowing journey together, we have a tradition," he explained to the child in confusion. "It's simple, but tradition is tradition. Now, raise your fist like this." The child did as he asked, curling his fist and raising it to his. "I don't recall to ask, but what is your name?" he asked. The child was quiet for a moment before responding. "I am Cith, just Cith," the child replied, still unsure what was happening. However, his confusion cleared when their fists collided, and he felt a sudden fervour.

"I am Jörhvítr, son of Faðmir," he introduced, a smile breaking through as their fists bumped. "And from this day forward, we are brothers."