Legacy of the Forsaken - The Choosen's Call

Varyon sat quietly in the fading glow of the fire that cast flickering shadows across the clearing. That evening, he chose silence over words, sitting with his back straight and legs crossed, eyes fixed on the ground. His sketchpad lay untouched beside him, untouched as if the urge to draw had vanished along with the daylight. His shadow stretched long on the dirt floor, still and unmoving—at least for now. Yet, he was paying close attention to it, watching every subtle shift.

Earlier that day, when the sun was higher in the sky, that shadow had moved. Not just a flicker, not a slight shift, but a deliberate, slow movement. The shadow had stretched toward him, as if reaching out in quiet warning or curiosity. That small change felt like a secret message, something he couldn't ignore. It made his stomach tighten, a sharp reminder that things in this place had shifted beyond normal understanding.

He hadn't told anyone yet. Not Mira, who had spoken about the glowing stone that shimmered even in the dark. Not Lina, who had described how the trees seemed to pull back, as if wary of touching them again. They all tried to explain what was happening, each in their own way—some with curiosity, some with hope, some with fear. But Varyon knew better. He looked at the world and saw the wonder wrapped in roots and silence. Wonder that fooled many into believing everything was safe or normal, but he wasn't fooled.

"Still brooding?" Ash's voice broke the quiet as he flopped down beside him with a loud crunch of twigs and dry leaves. The fire crackled under his weight, bright sparks shimmering into the dark.

Varyon didn't bother looking at him. "Still pretending this is normal?" his voice was even, but edged with exhaustion.

Ash shrugged and wiped his hands on his jacket. "What's normal anymore? Rylan's seeing symbols that move, Mira's stone glowing brighter than ever, and you're scowling at the dirt. I figure I might as well roast some mushrooms. Feels about right for this kind of night."

Varyon let out a dry, humorless laugh. "I'm serious."

Ash nodded, his expression turning more serious for a moment. "So am I. That's why I'm sticking close to people with torches and keeping my eyes open. Nothing good comes from ignoring what we're seeing."

A few meters away, near the broken remains of an old archway, Rylan sat with the book he'd found earlier that day. Its cover was cracked and worn, pages yellowed with age. But now, he wasn't reading it. Not exactly. His fingers traced the etched symbols on the cover—patterns that seemed familiar, like roads winding through memory.

In his other hand, he held a notebook. Without pause, he sketched rapidly, hand moving almost automatically. Circles, sharp lines, flame patterns, repeating again and again. He wasn't thinking consciously. The act of drawing almost felt like breathing—something his body did on instinct.

He didn't realize he had started until Lina approached quietly and knelt beside him. Her presence was gentle but firm.

"You're doing it again," she said softly.

He blinked, distracted from his work. "I know."

She watched him carefully, noticing how his hand moved without hesitation, how the shapes grew more complex with each stroke. "You don't even look at the paper. It's like you just know what you're drawing, like it's carved into your memory."

Rylan glanced at her, eyes tired and a little confused. "It's like muscle memory. I don't remember when I learned these symbols or why. They just come to me. Like I already know what they mean, even if I don't understand how I do."

She didn't interrupt. Instead, she waited patiently, her eyes kind but alert.

He turned the page and continued to draw. His focus shifted from flames to something deeper—a swirling shape inside a spiral, like an eye folding inward. The design was abstract, almost hypnotic. It felt heavy with meaning—more than just patterns, almost like a glimpse into what lay beneath everything.

When he paused, he noticed his hand trembling, a tremor of unease he couldn't control. His muscles were tense, fighting against the shaking.

Lina reached out and gently steadied his trembling hand. Her touch was comforting but firm.

"You're not alone in this," she whispered softly.

He nodded, but inside, a knot of doubt and fear tightened. Something didn't sit right, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was trying to grasp at something just out of reach. The symbols, the shapes— they were parts of a puzzle he hadn't yet understood, and the more he drew, the more aware he became of the darkness lurking beneath. Inside, he felt the weight of the unknown pressing down, whispering that some truths weren't meant to be uncovered.

In that quiet moment, amid flickering shadows and unspoken fears, both of them understood that they were caught in a web of mysteries that might never be fully unraveled. Yet they also knew that whatever was coming, they would face it together—whether in silence or struggle.

Back at the crackling fire, Mira sat quietly, humming softly as she sketched in the flickering lantern light. Her fingers moved swiftly over the rough paper, charcoal dust smudging her palms. She hadn't shared her strange feeling yet, but each time her brush touched the paper, something odd happened. There was a tiny spark—almost like a faint flicker of energy or a whisper of unseen forces—sizzling at the edge of her awareness. It was subtle but persistent, almost as if the charcoal was reacting to a force she couldn't see. Every stroke felt as if she were channeling something beyond her control, guiding her hand with a life of its own.

What she drew was a figure engulfed in flames, flames that shimmered as if they were alive. It was surrounded by six other shapes that seemed to orbit, like guardians or symbols of some ancient power. One shape stood apart from the rest—more deliberate, more solemn. It had no flames, only closed eyes and a bowed head. Its posture suggested humility or submission. When Mira looked at her drawing, she didn't remember creating the individual figure or those surrounding shapes. Her mind had gone blank during the process, and the image had appeared almost by itself. Still, she couldn't bring herself to rip out the page or hide what she'd made. There was something about it—something she didn't fully understand—that held her in place, a strange pull that kept her from destroying it.

Later that night, after everyone had settled in and the fire burned low, the atmosphere grew colder than before. The heat of the fire waned, despite the logs and kindling still piling up in the hearth. The flame flickered unevenly, sputtering as if it were struggling against an unseen force. Its strange behavior was unsettling, especially because they had kept the fire well-stocked that night. The air was thick with a sense of tension, and.out of nowhere, Varyon rose to his feet. His eyes flicked to the shadows behind him as he sensed something shifting. For a moment, his shadow stretched taller and darker, rising behind him like a ripple of darkness creeping across the ground.

Then, it kept growing—like something was trying to split it open. The shadow reached up and out of sight, then split into two, as if something else was standing beside him. It was as if he had become a conduit for something unseen, an echo or a presence that hovered dangerously close. His breath caught sharply in his chest, and he tensed, trying to dismiss the sensation. When he looked again, the shadow had snapped back to its normal shape, the darkness returning to its usual form. But on the ground where he had been sitting, in the dirt, there was a faint, unsettling outline—like a faint scratch or imprint in the earth. It looked as if claws had dragged across the ground in a tight spiral pattern, gouging and twisting the earth in an unnatural way that made his stomach tighten. The mark was almost too faint to see clearly, but it looked fresh—and very wrong.

From a distance, a loud scream pierced the night sky. It was not the cry of an animal or a voice carried on the wind. It had a strange, distorted quality, like a memory or a scream from a nightmare ripping free from someone's mind. The sound haunted the air long after the scream faded. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with questions none could answer. The group stared at each other, wary of what came next. No one moved or spoke for a long time. The crackling fire spat and hissed in the cold, flickering shadows around them. Then Ash, his voice quiet but steady, broke the silence, saying simply, "So. That was new." His words felt heavy, loaded with the weight of their shared dread, as if acknowledging that they had crossed into something far beyond their usual dangers. The night's strange events had pushed the limits of their understanding, leaving a sense of unease that lingered long after the fire's glow faded into darkness.