The air had grown heavier with each passing mile, the oppressive weight of the catastrophe hanging over the Wastes like a storm that refused to break. The wind, once cold but predictable, had become erratic, swirling in violent gusts that tore at their clothes and stung their skin. The ground beneath their feet was no longer stable; cracks and fissures spread like veins through the earth, making every step treacherous.
Zarin felt the tension in his chest as they moved, the pendant against his skin a faint source of comfort as the world around them continued to unravel. Beside him, Reya moved with a quiet intensity, her hand never straying far from the hilt of her sword. And leading the way, Maros walked with an unusual stillness, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon, his staff tapping softly against the crumbling ground.
But beneath Maros’ calm exterior, Zarin sensed something else—something darker. Maros had always been mysterious, his emotions carefully guarded, but now there was an edge to him, a flicker of doubt that Zarin had never seen before.
The catastrophe had changed everything.
“The tremors… they’re getting worse,” Reya muttered, her voice barely audible over the wind. She glanced at the ground, where small cracks had begun to spiderweb across the path in front of them.
Zarin nodded, his gaze shifting to the sky. The thick clouds overhead churned and twisted, their dark forms ominous and unnatural. There was something wrong with the Wastes—something beyond the usual chaos of the Old Magic. It was as if the land itself was tearing apart, driven by forces they couldn’t yet understand.
“Maros,” Zarin called, quickening his pace to match the old mage’s. “Do you know why this is happening? What’s causing it?”
Maros didn’t answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, where the distant silhouette of the Spire loomed like a dark sentinel against the shifting sky. For a long moment, the only sound was the howling wind, the crackle of energy that seemed to pulse beneath the surface of the earth.
Then, finally, Maros spoke.
“I have suspicions,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But no certainty. The Wastes have always been unstable—shaped by the Old Magic that lingers here. But this… this is different. Something has changed the balance.”
Zarin’s stomach tightened. “Changed how?”
Maros’ gaze darkened, his expression unreadable. “The Old Magic is ancient, tied to the very fabric of this world. It flows through the land, through us, in ways we don’t fully understand. But there are forces—beings—who have long sought to control it. To bend it to their will.”
Zarin frowned, his mind racing. “The Ascendants?”
Maros nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Yes. The Ascendants have always desired power—power beyond what any mortal should possess. But the Old Magic is not something that can be controlled. It’s too vast, too unpredictable. To try to wield it… would be to risk everything.”
Reya glanced between them, her brow furrowed in confusion. “So you think the Ascendants are behind this? That they’re causing the Wastes to fall apart?”
Maros hesitated, his gaze shifting to the ground beneath their feet. “I don’t know for certain. But I do know that the balance has been disturbed. The magic here is no longer flowing as it should. It’s… fractured. And the closer we get to the Spire, the worse it becomes.”
Zarin felt a chill run down his spine. The Spire had always been a source of mystery, a place of immense power that had drawn them here in the first place. But now, it seemed that the Spire was also the epicenter of whatever was happening to the Wastes.
“Is the Spire the cause of this?” Zarin asked, his voice tense. “Or is it just a symptom?”
Maros’ eyes narrowed, his expression thoughtful. “That’s what we need to find out.”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
They continued walking in silence for a time, the landscape around them growing more treacherous with each step. The fissures in the ground had widened, some large enough to swallow entire sections of the path. The wind had become a constant roar, tearing at their cloaks and forcing them to shield their faces from the debris that whipped through the air.
But it wasn’t just the physical changes that unsettled Zarin. There was something else in the air, something he couldn’t quite place—a sense of wrongness that went beyond the shaking earth and the violent winds. It was as if the very fabric of the world was fraying, unraveling under the weight of something unseen.
“Do you think…?” Zarin began, his voice hesitant as he glanced at Maros. “Do you think this could be connected to Rovan?”
Maros’ steps faltered for a brief moment, his expression hardening at the mention of the name. Rovan—the figure they had encountered during their journey, the man who had once been Maros’ friend but had since become something twisted, something broken by the magic that had once been their bond.
“It’s possible,” Maros said, his voice tight. “Rovan knows more about the Old Magic than most. And if he’s found a way to manipulate it, to use it for his own ends…”
His words trailed off, but the implication was clear. Rovan had become something dangerous—something that could very well be behind the catastrophe that was tearing the Wastes apart.
Zarin swallowed hard, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like a physical force. The stakes had never felt higher. They weren’t just racing against time to reach the Spire—they were racing against whatever dark forces had been set in motion by the very magic they sought to understand.
Reya’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and determined. “We need to move faster. If this is because of Rovan or the Ascendants, then we can’t afford to waste any more time.”
Maros nodded, his expression grim. “Agreed. The Spire is the key. If we can reach it, we may be able to stabilize the magic—at least long enough to understand what’s causing this.”
Zarin’s heart pounded in his chest as they quickened their pace, the urgency of the situation driving them forward. The path ahead was treacherous, but they couldn’t afford to slow down. The ground continued to shift beneath their feet, the cracks growing wider with each step, and the air was thick with the scent of ozone, as if the very atmosphere was charged with energy.
As they pressed on, the Spire loomed larger on the horizon, its dark, jagged form towering over the landscape like a monument to a forgotten age. Zarin could feel the pull of it now, a deep, magnetic force that seemed to resonate with the magic inside him. It was as if the Spire was calling to him, drawing him closer with every step.
But with that pull came a growing sense of dread.
“What do you think we’ll find there?” Zarin asked, his voice barely audible over the wind.
Maros didn’t answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on the Spire, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, filled with a quiet resolve.
“Answers,” he said. “And perhaps more questions than we’re ready to face.”
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The landscape grew more unstable as they neared the Spire. The wind had become a near-constant gale, ripping through the air with a force that made it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. The ground beneath them was littered with jagged rocks, the earth torn apart by the violent shifts in the land.
But despite the chaos around them, Zarin felt a strange sense of calm. The pendant around his neck glowed faintly, its warmth steady against his chest. It was as if the magic within the pendant was anchoring him, keeping him grounded in the midst of the storm.
“Maros,” Reya called out, her voice strained as she struggled to keep her footing. “What happens if we don’t make it in time? If the Wastes… fall apart?”
Maros’ expression remained grim as he continued walking, his eyes never leaving the path ahead. “Then the balance of the Old Magic will be shattered. The Wastes will collapse, and the chaos will spread far beyond this land. The Ascendants may succeed in their quest for power, but it will come at a cost they cannot control.”
Zarin’s heart sank at the thought. The Wastes had always been a dangerous, unpredictable place, but now it seemed that they were on the verge of total collapse. And if the magic here was truly tied to the balance of the world, then the consequences could be far-reaching, affecting not just the Wastes but the entire realm.
“We’ll make it,” Zarin said, his voice firm despite the fear gnawing at the edges of his mind. “We have to.”
Reya nodded, her gaze hardening with determination. “We will.”
They pressed on, their steps quickening as the Spire
grew closer, its dark form looming larger with each passing moment. The wind howled around them, and the ground continued to tremble, but they didn’t slow down. They couldn’t. The fate of the Wastes—and perhaps the world—depended on them reaching the Spire before it was too late.
As they neared the base of the Spire, the air seemed to thrum with energy, the magic of the land concentrated in this one place. Zarin could feel it in every fiber of his being, a raw, untamed power that both excited and terrified him. But with the pendant’s steady presence, he remained calm, his mind clear.
“We’re almost there,” Maros said, his voice tight with urgency. “Stay focused.”
Zarin nodded, his gaze fixed on the Spire. The path ahead was still uncertain, the dangers still unknown. But whatever awaited them at the Spire, they would face it together.
And they would find the answers they sought—or die trying.