Evan stumbled forward, his breath catching in his throat as the light around him dimmed. He found himself in a grove unlike anything he had ever seen. Golden trees stretched toward the sky, their canopies glowing faintly as if they held the essence of the sun itself. The air felt alive, humming with energy that buzzed just below his skin.
He turned in place, his boots crunching against the soft moss beneath him. Shapes moved through the trees—graceful figures whose forms blurred at the edges, their outlines trailing threads of light. They didn’t speak, but their presence was overwhelming, filling him with awe and unease.
A figure stepped closer. It was tall, radiant, with wings of shimmering silver and gold. Its gaze held no malice, but it pierced through Evan like an unspoken challenge. Around him, other forms appeared: an elf-like being with a staff of crystal and armor that glinted in the golden light, and a massive tree-like creature whose bark pulsed faintly, like veins carrying sap instead of blood.
Evan’s pulse quickened. The beings didn’t approach further; they simply watched. Waiting. For what? he wondered. He felt their expectations pressing down on him, a weight he wasn’t sure he could bear.
Then the vision struck.
He was no longer in the grove but on a battlefield. Radiant light poured from him as he stood at the head of an army. Figures—human, elf, and others—rallied behind him, their faces etched with trust and determination. Ahead, shadowy forces swirled, advancing relentlessly. The light in his hand grew brighter, illuminating the battlefield with hope.
The vision faded. Evan gasped, his knees buckling as he returned to the grove. The beings were still there, their gazes steady. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, something inside him urging him toward the light.
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Luke blinked as the shadows coalesced around him, the oppressive darkness lit only by the faint crimson glow of crystals embedded in the cavern walls. The air was thick and suffocating, tinged with the metallic scent of blood. His boots scraped against the uneven stone floor as he took in his surroundings.
Movement flickered at the edges of his vision. A figure emerged from the shadows, its pale face sharp and angular, with eyes like molten rubies. It smiled—no, smirked—its elongated canines glinting faintly in the dim light. Behind it, another creature appeared, its silhouette hulking and wild, its eyes glinting with feral hunger. Nearby, an elf-like figure stepped into view, its dark skin shimmering faintly, its expression cold and calculating.
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Luke took a cautious step back, but the shadows pressed against his spine, urging him forward. The figures closed in, surrounding him but not attacking. They radiated power, raw and untamed, their presence a silent promise of what could be his.
Then the vision struck.
A throne loomed before him, crafted from jagged obsidian. Luke sat upon it, his form draped in shadow, his hands gripping the edges like they were extensions of his will. At his feet, kneeling figures bowed, their faces obscured but their obedience clear. A smile spread across his lips—a cruel, victorious grin.
The vision faded, leaving Luke breathless. He exhaled sharply, his fists clenching as he turned to the figures around him. The shadows pulsed with life, and the air itself seemed to whisper promises of dominance and control. A flicker of a smile crossed his lips as he stepped forward.
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Myron brushed sand from his sleeves as the winds swirled around him. The desert stretched endlessly in every direction, its twilight skies painted in hues of orange and purple. The dunes shifted and rippled unnaturally, as if alive, and the air crackled with latent energy.
The first figure rose from the sands—a serpentine being with scaled skin that glimmered like polished bronze. Its yellow eyes glowed faintly, unblinking as they studied him. Beside it, another form emerged, its features constantly shifting—a creature of sand and mirage, never staying still long enough to be fully defined. Behind them, a third figure appeared, its form ethereal and faintly translucent, like a creature born of smoke and starlight.
Myron tilted his head, his mind already dissecting the scene. There was no instruction, no explanation, but the answer felt obvious: he was meant to choose. His gaze lingered on each figure, weighing their presence, their posture, the way the sand around them reacted to their movements.
Then the vision struck.
He was running—not from something, but toward it. The terrain shifted beneath his feet: sand, stone, grass, ice, and back to sand. Around him, others faltered, their forms struggling against the changing environments, but Myron kept moving, each step fluid and precise. The finish line blurred ahead, but he could feel victory waiting. His instincts told him that this race—this endless adaptability—was the only way to survive.
The vision faded, leaving Myron with a pounding heart and a strange, electric excitement buzzing in his veins. He turned back to the figures, his lips curling into a thoughtful smile. The sands shifted, swirling around his feet as he stepped forward.
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The transformations came slowly, rippling through each of them as they stepped forward into their respective destinies. Evan felt warmth radiate from his core, his body filling with light as strength and clarity washed over him. Luke’s breath hitched as cold power seeped into his veins, sharpening his senses and awakening a hunger he couldn’t yet define. Myron’s body felt lighter, his muscles imbued with a strange agility as the winds around him whispered possibilities.
None of them understood fully what they had chosen, but they knew they were no longer the same. As their surroundings dissolved, the world of Aethel awaited them.