The Northern Wastes stretched out before them, an endless expanse of frozen desolation. The ground beneath their feet was hard, lifeless, and cracked, as if the land itself had long since given up hope. The winds howled like the voices of the damned, and the cold gnawed at their skin with the persistence of a thousand tiny needles. Even Reya, who had faced worse in her days as a Wanderer, tightened her cloak around her shoulders.

Zarin’s breath came out in misty clouds, his eyes scanning the bleak horizon. They had been walking for days, their only direction a rough map Reya had managed to barter from a trader in the last village. The Northern Wastes were supposed to be uninhabitable, but rumors had persisted that a powerful mage—one who had survived the first war against the Ascendants—still lived somewhere in this frozen wilderness.

“I thought you said we’d find shelter by nightfall,” Zarin muttered, kicking at a loose rock, watching it skitter across the frost-covered ground.

“I said we might find shelter,” Reya corrected, her tone light despite the cold. “And unless that mage lives in a hole, I’d say we still have a ways to go.”

Zarin grunted, pulling his cloak tighter. He wasn’t used to this kind of weather. In the village, winters had been mild compared to this—gentle snows and crisp winds, but nothing like the bone-chilling frost that settled into his very core here. Still, the physical discomfort was a welcome distraction from the weight of his thoughts.

“What if he’s not here?” Zarin asked after a long silence, his voice low. “What if this is just another dead end?”

Reya didn’t answer immediately, her gaze fixed on something in the distance. After a moment, she turned to him, her expression unreadable. “We’ve chased a lot of rumors, Zarin. This one’s different.”

Zarin wanted to believe her. He had to. Because if this was another wild chase, then all the hope he’d allowed himself to feel was for nothing. And that kind of disappointment would break him in ways even the cold couldn’t.

As they trudged forward, the winds began to pick up, swirling around them in a chaotic dance. Zarin squinted against the gale, barely able to see Reya’s figure through the flurries of snow. They had come too far to turn back now, but each step forward felt like an act of rebellion against the land itself.

“I see something!” Reya shouted over the wind, pointing ahead.

Zarin followed her gaze, and through the snow, he could just make out the faint outline of what looked like a stone structure. It was small, more like a hovel than a proper building, but it was shelter. And in these wastes, shelter meant survival.

They quickened their pace, their boots crunching against the frozen ground. As they drew closer, Zarin saw that the structure was indeed a hovel, made of rough stone, half-buried in the snow. It looked ancient, as though it had been here long before the Wastes had become what they were. A faint glow emanated from the cracks in the stone walls, the light flickering like a dying flame.

Reya was the first to approach, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword as she knocked on the heavy wooden door. For a moment, there was no sound except the howling wind. Then, slowly, the door creaked open.

An old man stood in the doorway, his form hunched and wrapped in thick layers of furs. His face was weathered, his skin leathery and creased with age, but his eyes… his eyes gleamed with a sharpness that belied his frail appearance. He looked at Reya first, then at Zarin, his gaze lingering on him longer than seemed comfortable.

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“What do you want?” the old man rasped, his voice like the scraping of stones.

“We’re looking for someone,” Reya said, standing her ground. “A mage. One who fought in the old wars.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Zarin thought he might slam the door in their faces. But then the man stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter.

“Come inside before you freeze to death,” he muttered.

Reya and Zarin exchanged a quick glance before stepping into the small dwelling. The warmth inside was immediate, though it was far from comfortable. A small fire burned in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the walls. The room was cluttered with strange objects—bones, dried herbs, and ancient tomes stacked haphazardly on shelves. It smelled of smoke, earth, and something else… something unidentifiable, but not unpleasant.

The old man shuffled to a worn chair by the fire, lowering himself with a groan. He looked at them both again, his eyes piercing.

“You seek the mage,” he said, not as a question, but as a statement. “I am Maros. And if you’ve come all this way for answers, you’d better hope you have the right questions.”

Zarin remained silent, unsure of what to say. Reya, however, was never one to hesitate.

“We’re here to find a way to defeat the Ascendants,” she said bluntly. “You fought them once before. You must know something we don’t.”

Maros stared into the fire for a long time, as if lost in memories long buried. The silence stretched on, broken only by the crackling of the flames. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and filled with the weight of centuries.

“The Ascendants were not always gods,” he said. “They were men, like you and me. Men who sought power beyond their understanding, who opened doors that should have remained closed.”

He turned his gaze to Zarin then, his eyes burning with an intensity that made Zarin’s skin prickle.

“And you… you carry the mark of their creation.”

Zarin frowned, instinctively stepping back. “What are you talking about?”

Maros leaned forward, his gaze never leaving Zarin’s. “You think you are powerless, boy? That you have been cast aside because you lack the gift?”

Zarin stiffened. The truth of those words hit harder than any blade. He had spent his whole life being the lesser one, the one without powers, the one who could not bend fire or command the wind like his siblings. And now, here was this old man, staring at him as if he were something more than he had ever believed himself to be.

“I am powerless,” Zarin said, his voice tight. “I’ve never had what they had.”

Maros chuckled, the sound harsh and dry. “You do not lack power, Zarin. You lack control. The Ascendants did not overlook you… they feared you.”

Reya shot Zarin a surprised look, but he couldn’t respond. His mind was reeling. Feared him?

“That’s impossible,” Zarin muttered, shaking his head. “I’ve never been able to do anything.”

“Because they bound you,” Maros said, his voice growing darker. “They placed chains around your power the day you were born. You were meant to be something more, Zarin. But the Ascendants—fearing what you might become—ensured that you would never reach your potential.”

Zarin’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat a question he didn’t know how to answer. Could this old man be telling the truth? Could he really have some hidden power, something the Ascendants had kept from him?

“Why would they do that?” Zarin asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Maros stood, his frail body seeming to gather strength from the very air around him. “Because you are one of the last of the old bloodlines. A bloodline that holds the key to their undoing.”

The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thick with tension. Reya was watching Zarin closely, her hand still resting on her sword as if expecting an attack at any moment.

“What bloodline?” Zarin demanded. “I’m just a farmer’s son.”

Maros shook his head slowly, a sad smile on his lips. “No, boy. You are far more than that. And if you are to defeat the Ascendants, you must first learn the truth of who you are.”

The fire flickered, casting strange shadows on the walls, and for the first time since this nightmare began, Zarin felt a glimmer of something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

But with it came fear. Fear of what he might discover about himself, and what it would mean for the battle ahead.