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"In our deepest desires, we often find the seeds of our own undoing. Be careful what you wish for; the reality may be more than you can bear."
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Shadowvale Woods, Nyxium Divinora, Reverie
A tengu bird perched atop a tree sang melodically as it fed its young. Suddenly, its eyes turned eastward. It tilted its head, sensing a disturbance. Far off in the distance, trees fell like dominoes, as though a hurricane of change was approaching. The earth trembled in fear, and the trees bowed in submission.
Without hesitation, the tengu bird took flight, abandoning its nest and helpless chicks. The chicks squeaked, trying to catch their mother's attention, but their cries were insignificant. The nest crashed to the ground along with the tree it was perched in.
In the frail, innocent eyes of the chicks, the reflection of a colossal beast sealed their fate. Tentacles, reminiscent of an octopus, writhing and slick, encircled its equine body. Its form was adorned with swirling, chaotic patterns, a dark tapestry against the backdrop of the forest. Piercing blue pupils, like icy beacons, contrasted sharply with its shadowy figure. Blisters, each grotesquely shaped like a face twisted in silent agony, dotted its surface, and a narrow fissure hinted at a mouth. It was chaos incarnate, a nightmare given flesh.
The beast barreled through the forest, crushing everything in its path. Hot, putrid breaths, reeking of decay and rot, filled the air, each exhalation a foul miasma. Its bellow, a guttural roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, echoed through the towering pines. Branches snapped like brittle bones under its relentless advance.
In its presence, time itself seemed to falter. Memories of past and present merged chaotically. The forest, once teeming with life, flashed with images of ancient battles and forgotten dreams. The cries of the tengu chicks seemed to mingle with distant wails of long-lost souls. The air at times smelled of blood and ashes, while at times drifted with the scent of pine cones. The ground beneath the beast rippled as if attempting to remember a time before its existence.
Suddenly, the beast stopped in its tracks. Its blue eyes, cold and calculating, slowly turned toward a tree, and its fissure-like mouth curled into a sinister, knowing smile.
Atop the tree stood a boy of eleven, clad in silver armor that fit him perfectly. He clutched his dagger tightly, the memory of his home vivid in his mind.
His mother's tearful eyes were fresh as she hugged him tight.
"He's just eleven!" she had screamed at his father, her voice cracking with desperation.
His hands trembled as they brushed against the memory of his mother's desperate grip, her tearful face etched into his mind. He could still feel the frantic push against the warmth of her embrace, the ache of wanting to break free for a chance at glory.
‘I miss that warmth,’ he thought, hugging himself. He looked at his worn-out dagger, recalling his father's words from the day before he left home.
His father, a stern man with a rugged face marked by old battle scars, stood resolute. "Owen, do you cherish our home?" he asked, his voice firm but laced with unspoken sorrow.
Owen nodded, his gaze unwavering as he looked into his father's eyes. A hint of excitement was evident in his eyes.
"Then you must protect it," his father said, his tone a blend of command and plea.
Owen looked around at the dark forest, the rumblings of the earth resonating through the trees and into his bones. "Home," he muttered. He clearly remembered his parents arguing the night before he left.
"Please, can't you do something?" his mother pleaded, her voice trembling as tears streamed down her face.
"It would be treason..." His father's voice cracked. "We've lost so many already. If the king falls, we fall with him."
"But what if he's injured? The king won't take injured children, right?" His mother grasped at any hope, desperation in her eyes.
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"Do you think the nobles care?" His father’s voice rose, then faltered as he fought back tears. "We've worked ourselves to the bone, yet nothing changes." The sound of water dripping from the ceiling punctuated the silence. "Maybe this is Owen’s chance. If he does well, he could become a noble. Our grandchildren wouldn’t have to suffer like we do."
"But..." She tried to argue, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Do you not trust our son?" His father interrupted, his tone softening. "He will survive... he'll break this cycle for us."
Owen looked ahead, toward the east, his vision obscured by the endless canopy of trees. A leaf fell on his shoulder as the rumblings grew intense. He recalled the day he left home.
His mother, clutching her apron to her chest, stepped forward. "Will you protect him?" Her voice wavered, but there was a steely resolve in her eyes, masking her fear.
His father knelt before Owen, placing a calloused hand on his shoulder. "He's my son too," he said, his voice thick with unspoken emotions. "I’ll pull strings to get you into House Blackthorne’s army. Lord Ragnar is kind. He’ll keep you safe." His eyes betrayed a mixture of hope and resignation.
Owen looked towards his father, "But I want to go to the frontlines, with you."
A bittersweet smile tugged at his father's lips as he ruffled Owen’s hair. The pain in his eyes deepened, though he tried to keep his tone light. "The frontlines are for seasoned warriors." A tear escaped, trailing down his weathered cheek. "When you’re strong enough, you’ll join me there." His hands trembled slightly as he reached the end of the sentence, knowing the truth he couldn't share.
His mother’s breath hitched, but she stayed silent, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
His father cleared his throat, forcing a steadiness into his voice. "Here, these are for you." He reached into his coat and pulled out a pair of black-steel daggers, pressing them into Owen’s hands. "Time demands you grow up. Use them wisely." His father’s eyes lingered on his son, committing his face to memory. With a final, lingering touch on Owen’s shoulder, he rose, his movements heavy with the weight of goodbye.
Owen’s gaze held steady, a spark of excitement lighting up his eyes as he looked at the daggers, oblivious to the finality of the moment. He glanced up at his father, seeing only the reflection of his own eager face in the polished steel.
The memories of a gleaming dagger seemed to merge with the worn, red blade now in his grasp. His eyes, hollow and red, had lost their luster, much like the daggers. The familiar sting of the past rushed over him like a wave, merging with the present horror. 'I don't want to be a warrior anymore...' A tear escaped, trailing down his cheek.
His heart raced as the gravity of his father's words took hold. '...Fight, Owen, fight...' He tried to steady his resolve. 'If you survive... Lord Ragnar will make you noble. You’ll have domain powers. Then Mom won’t have to work anymore...' He reminded himself, each thought a desperate grasp at purpose. The world around him blurred, sounds fading to a distant hum as he clutched the dagger tightly. Tears slowly streamed down his face, a silent testament to his inner battle.
The present and the past seemed to merge before his eyes, creating a cacophony of chaos. “Owen…” He could hear his mother’s voice calling him. A sudden, warm breeze brushed his left cheek, as though the warmth he longed for had arrived. However, all he saw in front of him was a reflection of himself in a calm sea. It took him a split second to realize what was in front of him was an enormous blue eye.
"...Found...you..." the beast growled. Its was tone harsh and mocking.
"Arghhhh!!" Owen cried as he lost balance. His foot slipped from the treetop, crashing onto the ground with a thud.
"Now!" a voice rang out as about a hundred men and boys alike sprang from the trees, surrounding the monster in a flash.
"Arrows!" The general, perched atop a tree in golden armor, shouted the order, his voice authoritative and unyielding. He drew back his own bow, signaling the start of the attack.
As hundreds of arrows flew from all directions, closing in on the beast, the general's keen eyes tracked their trajectory. He observed the beast's reaction closely, aware of the potential danger.
Suddenly, the beast closed its eyes. A whirlwind formed around its massive body, disrupting the arrows' path.
"Arghh!!" Cries of pain erupted as the deflected arrows struck the archers.
The general's voice cut through the chaos, trying to regain control. "Careful! It's using the winds of chaos...don't look at the Archetype's body directly or your thoughts will turn chaotic" The general warned, his voice urgent and steady. He scanned the battlefield, assessing the situation.
"Where...are...the...supplies?...Where...is...Ragnar?" the beast growled again. It paid no heed to the ambush. It's eyes darted around in search of something.
"Men! Charge!" The general leaped from the tree, landing with a thud as he brandished his sword. He led the charge, his face a mask of fierce determination. The men and boys followed with a unified roar, their eyes mirroring with the kingdom’s hope and fury.
Even Owen stood up, swallowing his fear, and lunged at the beast with his daggers.
Whoosh~~
The leaves rustled, singing a song of indifference as winds blew across the forest. The soil turned maroon and the grass blades red.
Owen’s vision blurred as he felt a sharp pain in his chest. The last thing he heard was the chants of the forest, peaceful and serene.
"Weak..." the beast rumbled, its eyes drifting toward the East.
Hundreds of tentacles extended from its equine body, piercing each man who charged, their eyes wide with shock at their sudden demise.
The beast looked at Owen, his eyes wide open, yet lifeless. Its eyes squinted a bit as they scanned the area. Soon, it refocused on the East and began moving.