Amara opened eyes that did not exist, consciousness flooding into a state that had no boundaries. She drifted, suspended in absolute nothingness—an emptiness profound enough to strip away even the concept of darkness. There was neither warmth nor cold, no whisper of sound nor the faintest flicker of sensation. She felt nothing, not even the familiar pulse of her heart or the subtle rise and fall of her breath. Yet, paradoxically, she was aware, starkly present, her essence distilled into something beyond the flesh.

  She knew this place, if it could even be called a place. Only the Qav’larim themselves, the Kin as it was her people’s custom to call Them, had the power to summon her here, to this threshold outside of existence, removed from the tides of time and the pull of mortal senses. Unease stirred gently within her consciousness. Why had They summoned her now, after so long? Before she could chase the question further, the void folded in upon itself.

  Reality fractured and surged violently around her, shattering the tranquility of nothingness. Her awareness plummeted as if hurled from an unfathomable height, a dizzying rush that threatened to tear her apart. Then, with bone-jarring suddenness, sensation returned.

  She stood rooted to solid ground, reeling slightly, feeling disoriented yet unmistakably present. Her fingers twitched reflexively at her side, grounding her in her body once more. Around her rose the familiar, shadowed majesty of the Hrafnsvithr—Raven’s Wood. Tall evergreens loomed in every direction, their jagged silhouettes piercing upward against a dim and spectral sky. The pungent scent of resinous pine drifted through the air, hauntingly familiar but oddly distant, as though she perceived it through layers of glass.

  Her eyes swept the horizon instinctively. To the east, the imposing peaks of the Hjolnir Fjoll, cut sharply upward, their ancient heights stretching far into the distant northwest, cloaked in mist and shadow. To the west, unseen but keenly sensed, lay the vast and restless Grendehaf sea, its rhythms a distant memory pulsing faintly at the edge of her consciousness. Nearer still was the silken murmur of the Silfrflod River, hidden behind a thick wall of towering trunks and dense, tangled underbrush.

  She took a careful breath, feeling the uncanny heaviness of the air, dense with silence and expectation. The forest stood utterly still, as though the entire world had paused, waiting. A shiver of something deeper than cold prickled her spine. The Kin did not summon without purpose—something was coming, something she was meant to know.

  And so she waited, steeling herself, her spirit disciplined and watchful, as the preternatural stillness pressed closer, wrapping around her like a shroud.

  Her senses sharpened, yet the forest felt muted, muffled beneath layers of unnatural quiet. The air thickened, stagnant, and heavy as though held in a perpetual inhalation, devoid of warmth or chill. Each breath was an effort, drawn into reluctant lungs. The familiar scents of pine and damp earth drifted through the oppressive atmosphere, oddly distant and dulled as if filtered through a veil separating worlds.

  Ahead of her, something drew her attention—an aberration amid the dense evergreens. A lone ash tree stood starkly out of place, gnarled limbs stretched toward the colorless sky, its bark gray, peeling in ragged strips. Neither dead nor alive, it existed in a state of suspended decay, preserved by some unseen force, utterly unnatural.

  Before Amara could fully process the strangeness of the tree, movement flickered in her periphery. She turned sharply, heart tightening with instinctive dread. High above, a single raven descended, silent as death, settling upon the ash tree’s highest branch. In the instant its talons touched the twisted wood, an absolute silence engulfed the forest. All ambient noise ceased—the faint murmur of wind, the distant whisper of the Silfrflod—all extinguished, plunging the world into eerie stillness. Even her breathing fell silent, sound stolen from her throat.

  A suffocating pressure bore down upon her, crushing and relentless, driving into her very bones. Her limbs trembled under the invisible weight, but she forced herself to remain upright, anchored by sheer force of will. Her gaze locked onto the raven, black feathers shimmering unnaturally in the muted light, its eyes gleaming like shards of obsidian, filled with unknowable intent.

  Without warning, the raven opened its beak and unleashed a single, piercing cry—sharp, commanding, and impossibly loud. The sound shattered the oppressive silence, resonating through Amara’s being like a tolling bell. The unbearable pressure immediately eased, replaced by a clear, unmistakable command echoing through her soul: Look. See. Know.

  Foreboding rose within her chest, a dread deeper than fear, whispering truths she dared not voice aloud.

  She turned reluctantly back toward the lone ash tree, her heart sinking further into icy dread. Bodies now hung from its branches, grotesquely suspended like offerings to a cruel deity. Their forms were twisted, limbs contorted unnaturally, mouths agape in frozen screams of agony. Her stomach twisted violently, recognizing each face—villagers from Askholm, people she had known her whole life. And among them, unmistakable, Valdrik’s lifeless form hung limp, his face etched with a silent cry.

  Amara’s breath hitched painfully, bile rising in her throat. She forced herself to remain standing, eyes wide open against the nightmare before her. She would not avert her gaze; she must witness, must understand the full horror laid bare before her.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Then, without warning, flame burst forth, engulfing the ash tree in searing fire that burned yet did not consume. The unnatural flames twisted and roared, casting harsh, flickering shadows upon the suspended corpses, illuminating their tortured features in ghastly clarity. Heat slammed into Amara, overwhelming and impossible, but her skin remained untouched, unburned.

  Sound erupted around her—the deafening roar of flames, louder than any natural blaze, assaulting her senses like a physical blow. She staggered but held firm, trapped between horror and awe. She could feel the fire’s rage, its destructive fury tearing at the fabric of her mind.

  Beneath the roaring inferno, Amara perceived another sound—faint at first, a distant echo barely discernible. Gradually it strengthened, resolving into the unmistakable cacophony of war. Horns blared fiercely, drums pounded relentlessly, blending into a rhythm primal and savage. Voices rose, harsh and guttural, shouting commands and battle cries in a language she had never heard, yet knew was twisted and wrong. Inhuman screeches pierced the tumult, adding a terrifying, discordant note that scraped at the edges of her sanity.

  Valdrik’s lifeless face haunted her vision, terror seizing her heart like an icy claw. Before she could brace herself, the raven reappeared, suddenly vast and impossibly close. Its black eyes, gleaming darkly, stared directly into hers, locking her in place.

  Lowering its head with grim purpose, the raven released a final cry—not the shriek of a bird, but an explosive percussion, a concussive force that struck Amara like a physical blow. Darkness surged forward, swallowing the fiery clearing, and Amara plunged into oblivion.

  She awoke violently, gasping desperately for air, her heart hammering like a trapped creature within her ribs. Cold sweat clung to her skin, chilling her as she struggled to regain her bearings. The familiar contours of her hut slowly emerged from the shadows—the hearth reduced to faintly glowing embers, the walls pressing close with the stillness of deep night.

  Beside her, Valdrik slept soundly, oblivious to her terror. She longed to reach out, to wake him, to find solace in his presence. But she hesitated; what could she say? How could she burden him with such visions, visions he could neither understand nor alter?

  The lingering horror of her experience remained vivid, the faces of the dead etched indelibly behind her eyes. Her mind raced, trying to piece together meaning from the fragments she had been shown. Why had the Kin not spoken plainly? What had they intended for her to understand?

  Valdrik was rarely a part of dreams given by the Qav’larim as The Kin did not give messages that would influence another’s fate or will. Clearly the dream had been designed to show her what a failure on her part might bring to pass. The Kin upheld one rule above all: one may influence, but never compel. Whom was she to influence on the basis of this dream? What course of action might she take that might alter the horror of her dream, or better still, stop it altogether?

  Amara calmed herself by taking a few deep breaths, each followed by a long, slow exhale. She watched Valdrik sleeping peacefully and couldn’t help but remember the earliest years of his life, an infant so sweet and helpless. She watched him grow into the boy on the cusp of adulthood—a boy so eager to belong and fit in that he was willing to do just about anything, including endangering himself needlessly.

  Her heart ached to think of her sweet boy as anything other than safe or happy. But Amara knew what most did not—Valdrik was a boy with a special, long-appointed purpose. She was not sure what role he would be influenced to play in the grander struggle against Tharan’nothalin, but she knew that the struggle would find him eventually. So too, pain, anguish, and heartache.

  His birth had surprised her. The nursing women in her village had expected the child to arrive in a few weeks, but even this was a sign that Valdrik was the Eshandir.

  She could see it now—the springtime night of his birth, a sky black as ink, the air thick with the scent of pine and fire. The pain, the silence, the terror. They had moved quickly, wordlessly, and when the child finally let out his first cry, it was met not with celebration, but a hushed and solemn fear. She had studied the words of the prophecy almost daily since Valdrik—Vazir she had first called him—was born. It was an ancient verse, whispered in the shadowed halls of the Na’faarim, etched into crumbling scrolls, feared and debated by those who understood its weight. And though many questioned its meaning, none dared ignore it.

  The words echoed in Amara’s mind, a song of fate and doom entwined:

  When the children’s pride is ripe, the serpent will rise,

  Veiled in shadow, trading in death and lies.

  Yet from the storm, the Eshandir shall come,

  A blade of the heavens, a hammer of dawn.

  He will walk between ruin and rebirth,

  His name a curse, his name a crown.

  To break the chains or bind the world,

  By his hand, the fate of all is sealed.

  Eshandir. A title? A destiny? A curse?

  The scholars of the Na’faarim had never agreed. Some believed the Eshandir was a savior, others a harbinger of destruction. And now… now she feared the worst.

  Was Valdrik already condemned?

  Her chest tightened at the thought. She had always feared for him, but never like this. The secrecy surrounding his birth, the sacrifices made to keep him hidden—it had all been done to protect him. But had she only delayed the inevitable?

  One certainty crystallized in her mind, steady and unwavering amid the chaos of unanswered questions: Valdrik’s fate was sealed, bound irrevocably to the birthright he was destined to inherit. No matter what darkness loomed ahead, she resolved fiercely, she would protect him—no matter the cost.