"Enough," Calista said, lowering her staff.The bolt's echo faded into the wind.Guwayne released his hold, the shield dissolving into a gentle breeze that ruffled his blond hair.He staggered slightly, the exertion leaving him lightheaded, but a grin broke across his face.Two weeks ago, such a feat would have been impossible; now, it felt almost instinctive.
"Your progress is astonishing," Calista admitted, descending from the boulder with graceful steps.Her expression, usually stoic, held a glimmer of approval."The blood of the First Druids awakens fully in you.The ring amplifies it, yes, but the core is yours.You've mastered the basics of elemental weaving faster than Argon himself did in our youth."
Guwayne straightened, his chest swelling with pride, though tempered by the ever-present urgency gnawing at him."Then I'm ready," he said, his voice firm."I've felt the ley lines, shaped the elements.Let me go north, to my father.The visions are increasing.They are calling me.My father is calling me.I can help him seal these breaches, stop the unmaking before it spreads."
Calista's eyes narrowed, the wind tugging at her robe."Ready?You've glimpsed the surface, boy.The power grows, but so does the peril.The Titans' dreams seep into the world, twisting magic.Your visions are a warning, not a summons.Push too far, too soon, and you'll unravel like a frayed thread."
He opened his mouth to argue, but a wave of dizziness washed over him, unbidden.The world tilted, the cliffs blurring into a haze.It had started a few days ago—fleeting glimpses during meditation, flashes of imagery that left him disoriented.At first, he dismissed them as fatigue, but they grew more insistent, more vivid.Now, as the suns dipped lower, another seized him.
The island vanished.In its place, Guwayne saw the Ring—not as he remembered it, vibrant and resilient, but in ruins.King's Court lay in smoldering heaps, its towers broken and toppled like broken teeth.The once-fertile fields were barren wastelands, scarred by jagged fissures that glowed with an unnatural, crystalline light.From these rifts emerged monstrous creatures—behemoths of shimmering quartz and obsidian, their forms angular and faceted, like living gems forged in some infernal furnace.They moved with predatory grace, their limbs ending in razor-sharp edges that sliced through earth and flesh alike.Eyes like shattered diamonds gleamed with malevolent intelligence, and where they trod, the ground crystallized, spreading like a plague.
Hordes of them overran the land, an overwhelming tide of destruction.Villages burned under barrages of shard-like projectiles hurled from the creatures' maws.Armies of the Ring's soldiers—his mother's loyalists, perhaps—fell in droves, their swords shattering against impenetrable crystalline hides.The air thrummed with screams, the sky darkened by swirling storms of glittering dust that choked the life from the air.
And there, amid the chaos, stood Guwayne himself.Older, perhaps, his face etched with lines of battle and sorrow, clad in armor woven with druidic runes.The Sorcerer's Ring blazed on his finger, a beacon of defiant light.He raised his hands, summoning a maelstrom of elemental fury—winds that shattered crystal, flames that melted facets, vines that ensnared and crushed.The creatures recoiled, some crumbling under his assault, but more poured from the rifts, endless and inexorable.He fought alone, a solitary figure against the tide, his power immense but finite.Exhaustion clawed at him, the ring's glow flickering as shadows closed in.
Then, the vision shifted, fracturing like the creatures themselves.In one branch, he triumphed—the rifts sealed, the monsters banished, the Ring reborn under his guardianship.Humanity hailed him as savior, the heir who mended the world.But in another, darker path, his power backfired.The ley lines he wielded twisted, corrupted by the Titans' influence.The ground beneath him erupted in crystalline spikes, impaling allies and foes alike.His eyes glowed with the same shattered light as the beasts, and he laughed—a hollow, echoing sound—as destruction spread from his hands.Was he commanding the tide, or becoming it?Savior or destroyer?The prophecies intertwined, ambiguous, leaving only terror in their wake.
Guwayne gasped, the vision shattering as he collapsed to his knees on the cliff path.The real world rushed back—the wind's howl, the salty tang of the sea, Calista's steadying hand on his shoulder.His heart pounded, sweat soaking his tunic, the ring burning hot against his skin as if it had fueled the nightmare.
"What...what was that?"he whispered, his voice trembling.He looked up at Calista, her face a mask of concern mingled with knowing sorrow.
"A prophetic glimpse," she replied softly, helping him to his feet."The bloodline's gift—and curse.As your power grows, so does your attunement to the threads of fate.The Titans' awakening stirs the veil; visions bleed through, showing what may come."
Guwayne steadied himself against a standing stone, its surface cool under his palm.The images lingered, vivid and terrifying."I saw the end," he said, his words tumbling out."Monsters of crystal, overrunning everything.I was there, fighting them...but alone.And then...it changed.I wasn't saving anyone.I was destroying.The power—it turned on me, or I turned it.Am I meant to stop this, or cause it?"
Calista's gaze softened, though her voice remained firm."Prophecies are shadows, Guwayne, not certainties.They reflect possibilities, shaped by choices.The First Druids faced similar visions; some became guardians, others fell to the void's temptation.Your blood carries both potentials—the light of creation and the shadow of unmaking.That is why we train: to forge your will, to choose the path of balance.Untapping the power is the easy part.Shaping it, molding it to your will.That is the hard part.It is also the most important.If you unleash untold power and energy across the land and are not able to control it, it will be harnessed by those who can."She paused, perhaps considering whether to tell him all or not."Because sometimes the energy, the power has a mind of its own.It was shaped, created by some being back in the dawn of time.The shadows of that being, whether they be for the light or the dark, are still present.Sometimes the energy will bow to you, mold readily.Other times, it will fight you if it feels it is being forced against its creator's intentions.These are all things you need to learn.That is why you are far from ready."
He shook his head, not in denial, but in shock and awe at what was happening to him.At what he was learning.The terror from the visions still clung to him like sweat that pored off his brow and stuck his clothes to his torso.
The visions felt too real, too inevitable.What if his haste to save his father, his mother, led to that darker fate?What if the power growing within him was a double-edged blade, destined to cut both ways?"How can I know?"he demanded, frustration edging his fear."These aren't just dreams—they're warnings.If I'm to be humanity's savior, why show me as its destroyer?What if staying here, learning more, only makes it worse?Or leaving too soon seals the doom?"
Calista placed a hand on the standing stone, hidden runes suddenly flaring faintly under her touch."The answers lie deeper, in the island's core.Tomorrow, we delve into the heart-cave, where the ley lines converge.There, you will confront these visions, sift truth from shadow.But remember, boy: destiny is not written in stone.It is etched by deeds.Question, yes—but do not let fear paralyze you."
Guwayne stared out at the turbulent sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs below.The power surged within him, a rapid bloom that both empowered and unnerved.The visions had shaken him to his core, planting seeds of doubt that twisted like vines.Savior or destroyer?The prophecies taunted him with both, leaving him adrift in confusion.As the sun sank fully, plunging the island into twilight, he wondered if he could truly master the storm within—or if it would consume him first.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The northern wasteland stretched before Thorgrin like an endless shroud of white, broken only by jagged ridges of black stone and the occasional skeletal tree, twisted by centuries of unrelenting wind.The air was a living thing here, sharp and biting, carrying the faint, metallic tang of ice that never fully melted, even under the pale, indifferent suns.Thor trudged alongside Grimolf and a small band of Iceborn warriors—ten in all, including Lirna the healer and young Halvok, whose shaved head gleamed like polished bone.They had left the clanhold at dawn, pulling sleds laden with furs, dried meats, and ritual tools carved from mammoth ivory.The journey deeper into the frozen heart of the north was not mere travel; it was a pilgrimage, Grimolf had explained, to the ancient sites where the earth spoke loudest.There, Thor would learn the Iceborn's ways, not as an outsider, but as one bound to the same fate.
Thorgrin's wounds had mended enough for the trek, thanks to Lirna's salves and the faint druidic spark within him that seemed to resonate with the tribe's magic.His side still ached with every step, a dull reminder of the ambush and the treachery that had brought it about, but the pain sharpened his focus.He wore borrowed furs now, thick and matted with the now familiar azure tattoos etched into the hides—protective runes, Grimolf said, that warded against the cold and the "shadow whispers" that plagued these lands.The spear he had snatched during his escape was strapped to his back, its haft wrapped in sinew for better grip.As they marched, the Iceborn chanted softly, a rhythmic dirge that vibrated through the snow, as if calling to the ground beneath.
"Feel it," Grimolf said, his voice rising above the dirge and the wind that never ceased.He walked beside Thor, his gray-streaked mane tied back with bone beads that clattered faintly."The pulse.Not with feet, but with soul.Earth breathes here, warm-lander.Listen, or it swallows you."
Thor nodded, closing his eyes for a moment as he walked.He had felt it since entering the cave of paintings—a subtle thrum beneath the surface, like the heartbeat of a slumbering giant.It mirrored the druidic energy he had honed, but this felt different.Wilder, untamed, laced with the chill of eternal winter.Drawing on it required focus; he whispered the sounds and words from his training, feeling them take shape and glow faintly in his mind.The snow seemed to part slightly before him, easing his steps, and a warmth bloomed in his chest, countering the cold.The Iceborn noticed, their eyes flicking to him with nods of approval.They no longer saw him as a king from the south, but as spirit-touched, a kindred in the fight against the unmaking.
As the day wore on, Grimolf began the teachings in earnest.They paused at a cluster of standing stones, half-buried in snowdrifts, their surfaces etched with swirling patterns that matched the tribe's tattoos."These are ward-stones," Grimolf explained, tracing a rune with a gloved finger.It flared briefly, a blue glow that hummed like distant thunder."Old Druids placed them.Bind the ice, hold the prisons.We renew them with blood and chant."
Thor watched as Lirna pricked her thumb with a bone needle, letting a drop of blood fall onto the stone.The rune absorbed it, the glow intensifying.She murmured words in their guttural tongue: "Eyldra na'korr, vyrka shul'kthar."Thor recognized fragments from the ritual in the longhouse—the fire of life, the earth's binding.He felt the power stir, a ripple that spread through the ground, strengthening the invisible barriers.Grimolf handed him the needle."Your turn, Thorgrin.Your blood carries the old fire.Add it."
Thor pricked his finger, the sting sharp in the cold.As his blood touched the stone, a surge rushed through him—a connection deeper than before.The rune blazed gold, mingling with the blue, and the ground trembled faintly, as if acknowledging his presence, his contribution.The Iceborn murmured in awe; Halvok's eyes widened."The spirits welcome you," Lirna said, respect in her voice."You are more than warm-lander.You are bridge."
They pressed on, Grimolf teaching as they walked.He spoke of the Iceborn's ancient ways: how they communed with the spirits through smoke from sacred herbs, reading omens in the aurora's dance across the night sky.Survival was intertwined with magic—summoning heat from the earth's core to melt ice for water, weaving illusions from mist to hide from predators.Thor practiced under their guidance, drawing warmth from the ley lines to thaw frozen fingers, or bending wind to shield the group from a sudden gale.Each success bolstered his confidence, the druidic power within him awakening further, blending with the Iceborn's rituals.It felt like rediscovering a lost limb, stronger and more versatile.
But as they delved deeper into the wasteland, the lessons turned grim.The landscape grew more hostile, the snow giving way to fragmented plains where the ice groaned like a wounded beast.By midday on the second day, they encountered the first sign of the Titans' stirring.It began with a tremor—a low rumble that shook the sleds and sent fine snow cascading from nearby ridges.Thor steadied himself, spear in hand, as the ground bucked beneath them."What is that?"he demanded, scanning the horizon.
Grimolf's face darkened, his hand gripping his curved blade."The prisons weaken.Come—see."
They crested a low rise, and Thor's breath caught.Before them lay a vast fissure, a jagged scar in the earth stretching hundreds of yards, its edges rimed with frost but glowing from within.An unnatural fire pulsed deep in the crack, not the warm orange of flames but a sickly violet, flickering like trapped lightning.Heat wafted up in waves, melting the surrounding snow into steaming pools, and the air hummed with a dissonant energy that set Thor's teeth on edge.It wasn't mere geothermal heat; it carried a malice, a wrongness that made him feel nauseas.
