The frozen wind cut through them like a blade as they trudged deeper into the pass, the jagged rocks rising higher around them, casting long shadows that twisted in the pale light. The land seemed to stretch on forever, a wasteland of ice and snow with no signs of life. The Spire was still distant, an ominous silhouette looming against the horizon, but every step toward it felt heavier, like the weight of the Wastes themselves pressed down on them.
Zarin pulled his cloak tighter around him, feeling the cold bite at his skin. He was exhausted, the fight from earlier still fresh in his mind. Maros’ display of power lingered, a reminder that they were venturing into a place where even the rules of nature had been bent by ancient forces. And though Maros had saved them, the way he had done so—with cold, calculated precision—unnerved Zarin more than he cared to admit.
Beside him, Reya moved with purpose, her steps sure but strained. Zarin could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her grip tightened on the hilt of her sword whenever the wind picked up. She was always ready, always prepared for a fight, but even Reya couldn’t hide her exhaustion.
The silence between them stretched, unspoken words hanging in the air. They had always been able to work together, relying on one another in battle, but the journey through the Wastes was wearing on both of them in ways Zarin hadn’t anticipated. He glanced at her, watching the way her eyes scanned the horizon, always alert.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low. “How much further do you think we have?”
Reya didn’t answer immediately, her gaze still fixed on the distant Spire. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice tight with fatigue. “But it feels like it’s getting closer. The air’s different.”
Zarin nodded, though he wasn’t sure what she meant. The air felt the same to him—cold, biting, oppressive. But Reya had always been better at reading the world around them, sensing things before they happened. It was one of the reasons he had come to trust her so deeply.
“You’re worried,” Zarin said quietly, more of a statement than a question.
Reya’s eyes flicked toward him, her brow furrowing slightly. “Of course I am. You should be too.”
“I am,” Zarin admitted. “But I’m worried about more than just what’s out there.” He hesitated, then added, “What about Maros?”
Reya’s gaze darkened, and she glanced ahead at the old mage, who was walking just a few paces ahead of them. Maros moved with the same quiet determination as before, but there was something different about him now, something more guarded.
“I don’t trust him,” Reya said bluntly, keeping her voice low. “Not completely.”
Zarin felt a pang of unease. He had suspected as much, but hearing Reya say it out loud made it feel more real. “Do you think he’s hiding something?”
“I know he is,” Reya said, her tone firm. “The question is why. And what he’s planning.”
Zarin glanced at Maros, his mind racing. Maros had been their guide, their teacher, but now Zarin couldn’t help but question everything he had done. The power Maros had used against the creature in the pass had been terrifying, but it was the ease with which he had wielded it that troubled Zarin the most.
“Do you think he’s leading us into a trap?” Zarin asked, voicing the fear that had been gnawing at him.
Reya was quiet for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. If he wanted to betray us, he’s had plenty of chances. But that doesn’t mean he’s telling us everything. And whatever it is, it’s tied to the Spire.”
Zarin nodded, though the knot of uncertainty in his chest remained. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Maros was playing a long game, that he had some deeper purpose for bringing them to the Spire. And as much as Zarin wanted to trust him, the doubt was growing stronger with every step they took.
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The day wore on, and the landscape around them seemed to shift, the jagged rocks giving way to smoother, rolling hills of ice and snow. The wind picked up, carrying with it a strange sound—an echoing whisper that seemed to come from all around them.
Zarin stopped, listening carefully. The whisper was faint, barely audible, but it was there, a soft murmur that sent a chill down his spine.
“Do you hear that?” he asked, turning to Reya.
She nodded, her hand on the hilt of her sword. “It’s been following us for the past hour.”
Zarin’s heart quickened. “What is it?”
“Memories,” Maros said suddenly, his voice cutting through the wind. He had stopped ahead of them, his back to the Spire as he stared out over the landscape. “This place is filled with echoes of the past. The Wastes remember what was taken from them, and sometimes they speak.”
Zarin shivered, glancing around as the whispering grew louder. The sound wasn’t just noise—it was like a chorus of voices, faint and overlapping, speaking words he couldn’t understand. It reminded him of the dreams he had been having, the way the shadows had spoken to him in the darkness.
“What are they saying?” Zarin asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
Maros turned slowly, his face drawn, his eyes dark with some emotion Zarin couldn’t place. “They’re warning us.”
Reya tensed. “About what?”
Maros didn’t answer right away. He looked past them, his gaze distant, as if he were seeing something none of them could. “About what’s waiting at the Spire. And what it means for those who dare to approach it.”
Zarin’s pulse quickened, but before he could ask more, the wind shifted again, and the whispering grew louder, the words clearer. He couldn’t make out the language, but there was something familiar about it, something that tugged at the edges of his memory.
“We should keep moving,” Reya said, her voice tense. “I don’t like this.”
Zarin agreed. The voices unsettled him, like the land itself was warning them to turn back. But they couldn’t. The Spire was their only hope—the key to unlocking his power and finally freeing his siblings from the Ascendants.
As they continued their march, the wind carried more than just the whispers of the Wastes. It brought memories.
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It was late in the day when they encountered the first sign of the past—a crumbling stone pillar, half-buried in snow, jutting out of the ground like a broken bone. The carvings on it were faded, but Zarin recognized the symbols. They were the same runes that had been etched into the walls of the outpost they had passed earlier.
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“What is this?” Zarin asked, stepping closer to the pillar.
Maros stopped beside him, his eyes scanning the ruins. “A monument,” he said quietly. “To those who fell during the last war between the elemental kingdoms and the Ascendants.”
Zarin ran his fingers over the carvings, tracing the worn lines. The language was old, older than anything he had learned growing up. But something about it stirred a memory deep within him, as if he had seen these symbols before, long ago.
“There were once great cities here,” Maros continued, his voice distant. “Cities of people who wielded the elemental forces in ways you cannot imagine. But when the Ascendants came, they brought with them a power that no one could stand against. They razed these cities to the ground, leaving only ruins like this behind.”
Zarin’s stomach tightened. “Why did they do it?”
Maros looked at him, his gaze hard. “Because they wanted control. The Ascendants believed that the world needed order, and they saw the elemental kingdoms as a threat to that order. So they destroyed them. And in doing so, they broke the balance of the world.”
Reya stepped forward, her eyes scanning the horizon. “So what’s waiting for us at the Spire? Is it another ruin like this?”
Maros shook his head. “No. The Spire is different. It’s older, far older than anything the Ascendants created. It’s a place where the Old Magic still lingers, where the rules of the world don’t apply. And that’s why we must be careful.”
Zarin frowned. “Careful of what?”
Maros’ expression darkened. “Careful of what the Spire will reveal. There are things there—truths about the past, about the world—that could change everything. And once we know them, there’s no going back.”
A heavy silence fell over them as they stood before the ruins, the weight of Maros’ words pressing down on them. Zarin could feel the tension in the air, the sense that they were on the edge of something monumental.
But as they prepared to move on, Zarin couldn’t shake the feeling that Maros knew more than he was telling them. The old mage had been cryptic before, but now… now it felt as though Maros was hiding something more dangerous.
And whatever it was, Zarin knew it was tied to the Spire—and to the power inside him.
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They continued their march, the wind howling around them, the cold biting at their skin. The struggle of the journey was wearing on all of them. Zarin’s legs ached with every step, his muscles stiff from the unrelenting cold. His breath came out in misty clouds, every inhale burning in his chest. Reya moved beside him, her pace as steady as ever, but Zarin could see the fatigue etched into her features. Even she wasn’t immune to the strain of the Wastes.
They had been marching for hours, and the landscape seemed to blur into an endless stretch of white. Zarin’s thoughts drifted, his mind battling the monotony and the gnawing worry about what lay ahead. His thoughts turned again to Reya. She had always been so steady, so resolute, but the Wastes had worn down even her usual confidence.
As they walked, Zarin felt the need to break the silence, to find some sort of connection amid the oppressive cold. “How long have you been traveling like this?” he asked, glancing at her.
Reya didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were fixed ahead, her gaze distant. But after a moment, she spoke, her voice quiet but steady. “Since I was old enough to hold a sword. Wandering, fighting, surviving—it’s all I’ve ever known.”
Zarin studied her for a moment. There was a hardness to her words, but also a sadness, a weariness that he hadn’t noticed before. Reya had always been the strongest of them, the one who could face anything without flinching. But now, in the desolation of the Wastes, even she seemed… tired.
“Doesn’t it ever get to you?” Zarin asked. “All the fighting? The constant struggle?”
Reya’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, Zarin thought she wasn’t going to answer. But then she sighed, the sound barely audible over the wind. “It does. Every day, it gets to me. But what choice do I have? If I stop fighting, I die. And there’s no place in this world for people who don’t fight.”
Zarin felt a pang of sympathy, but also something more—a deep understanding. He had always thought of himself as powerless, as someone who didn’t belong in this world of warriors and mages. But now, he was beginning to realize that Reya wasn’t so different from him. They were both fighting to survive in a world that didn’t care about them.
“You’re not alone in this,” Zarin said softly. “I know it feels like we’re just… surviving. But I think we’re fighting for something more now. For a chance to make things right.”
Reya glanced at him, her dark eyes searching his for a moment before she nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe we’re just chasing something we’ll never find.”
Zarin wanted to argue, to tell her that they were fighting for a better future, but the words caught in his throat. The truth was, he didn’t know if they would ever find what they were looking for. The Spire, the power inside him—it was all so uncertain. And the more they marched through the Wastes, the more Zarin wondered if they were walking toward something they couldn’t come back from.
Ahead of them, Maros walked in silence, his posture tense, his gaze distant. Zarin could feel the weight of the old mage’s presence, the sense that Maros was holding something back. There had always been an air of mystery around Maros, but now, after the battle in the pass and the strange ruins they had encountered, Zarin felt that something was about to break.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the snowy landscape, the group came to a stop. They set up a small camp beneath the shelter of a rocky outcrop, the fire they managed to build offering little warmth against the biting wind. Zarin sat close to the fire, his body aching from the day’s march. Reya sat across from him, sharpening her blade with methodical strokes, her eyes distant, as if lost in thought.
Maros, as always, remained quiet, sitting slightly apart from them, his gaze fixed on the Spire in the distance. Zarin watched him for a moment, the flickering flames casting strange shadows over the mage’s face. Maros had always been an enigma, but now… now there was something different about him. Something darker.
“Why are you helping me, Maros?” Zarin asked, breaking the silence.
Maros didn’t respond immediately. He continued staring into the distance, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost thoughtful. “Because you are the key, Zarin. The key to breaking the cycle.”
Zarin frowned, his chest tightening. “What cycle?”
“The cycle of control. Of power.” Maros turned to look at him, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. “The Ascendants have held this world in their grip for too long. They’ve bent the elemental forces to their will, shaping the world as they see fit. But there was a time before them, a time when the power they wielded was free. That power lives in you, Zarin. The old blood. And with it, you can reshape the world.”
Zarin stared at him, his mind racing. “And that’s why you want me to reach the Spire? To use that power?”
Maros smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. “The Spire will unlock what has been hidden from you. It will show you the truth of who you are.”
Zarin’s heart pounded in his chest. He had always known that his power was different, that it was tied to something ancient. But now, the weight of it felt overwhelming. The idea that he could change the world—that he could break the hold the Ascendants had over it—was terrifying. And exhilarating.
But there was something in Maros’ tone, something in his gaze that made Zarin uneasy. It wasn’t just about freeing the world from the Ascendants. There was more to it—something deeper, something that Maros wasn’t telling him.
Reya, who had been listening in silence, finally spoke. “And what happens after, Maros? Once Zarin unlocks this power—what then?”
Maros’ eyes flicked to Reya, and for a moment, Zarin saw a flash of something dark in his gaze. “That depends on Zarin,” Maros said smoothly. “What he chooses to do with that power will shape the future.”
Zarin looked at Reya, and he could see the doubt in her eyes—the same doubt that was gnawing at him. Maros was right. This journey was about more than just survival now. It was about power, and the choices they made would define not only their future but the future of the world itself.
As the fire crackled between them, Zarin felt the weight of his destiny settling on his shoulders, heavier than ever. The Spire was their goal, but what waited for them there could change everything. And Zarin wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.
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That night, as Zarin lay on the cold ground beneath the stars, he dreamed again. The same dream that had haunted him for days—chains wrapping around him, pulling him down into the earth. But this time, the figure in the darkness was clearer, more defined.
It was Maros.
Zarin awoke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. The wind howled outside, and the fire had burned low, casting long shadows over the camp. He glanced over at Maros, who was sitting by the dying fire, his back turned.
For a moment, Zarin wondered if he should confront the old mage, if he should demand the truth. But something held him back—a deep, gnawing fear that once he knew the truth, there would be no going back.
Instead, Zarin lay back down, staring up at the stars, his mind racing.
The Spire was close now. And with it, the answers he had been seeking.
But Zarin couldn’t shake the feeling that those answers would come at a cost.