The Nexus Spire’s hum deepened as Rowan approached, its energy resonating through the air like a low, steady heartbeat. The glyphs on its surface flared brighter, casting rippling patterns of light across the plaza. To anyone else, the changes might seem minor—a faint flicker, a shift in the spire’s rhythm—but to Rowan, they were deafening.

  The shard in his pocket pulsed rapidly, its rhythm matching the spire’s erratic energy. The Riftwood’s whispers threaded through his thoughts, faint but insistent. Whatever power the spire held, it was aware of him.

  Rowan crouched in the shadow of a nearby building, his sharp gaze fixed on the spire. He felt the weight of its attention, as though it were watching him. His shadows rippled faintly, reacting to the heightened magic in the air.

  The spire wasn’t just a structure. It was alive—or close enough to it.

  As Rowan prepared to move, the shard’s pulse changed. It wasn’t urgent now, but steady and guiding, like a hand nudging him forward. He frowned, his jaw tightening. The Riftwood’s power had always led him toward something, but this felt different—like an unseen force was pulling strings he couldn’t see.

  He slipped through the shadows, keeping to the edges of the plaza. The spire’s glow grew stronger, its energy pressing against his thoughts. Rowan gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus. He didn’t know what awaited him, but he wasn’t about to turn back.

  As he rounded a corner, a faint sound caught his attention. It wasn’t the usual noise of the city—no clinking armor or murmured conversations. It was a low, melodic hum, faint but resonant. The shard pulsed sharply, pulling him toward the source.

  Rowan hesitated, his instincts warring with the shard’s insistence. He didn’t trust it—not completely—but he couldn’t ignore it. He followed the sound, slipping deeper into the maze of alleys that surrounded the spire.

  Rowan stopped at the entrance to a small, unassuming building tucked away in the shadow of the spire. Its door was marked with an intricate glyph, its light faint but steady. The shard’s pulse quickened as Rowan approached, its glow faintly illuminating the glyph.

  He reached out, his fingers brushing the door. The glyph flared brightly, and the door swung open with a quiet creak.

  Rowan stepped inside, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his blade. The air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of parchment and ink. The room was circular, its walls lined with shelves of ancient tomes and glowing artifacts. At its center was a shallow pool of water, its surface shimmering faintly.

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  And standing before the pool was the Oracle.

  The Oracle turned slowly, their blue robes shifting like liquid as they moved. Their hood obscured most of their face, but Rowan caught a glimpse of sharp features and eyes that glowed faintly with magic. The room seemed to hum with their presence, the faint sound Rowan had followed resonating in his chest.

  “You’ve come,” the Oracle said, their voice calm but laced with something Rowan couldn’t place—relief? Resignation?

  Rowan’s grip on his blade tightened. “You knew I would?”

  The Oracle inclined their head. “The Riftwood’s mark is unmistakable. I’ve seen you in the threads.”

  Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “Threads?”

  The Oracle gestured to the pool, its surface rippling with faint images. “Fate is woven like a tapestry, each thread connected to the others. Yours is… unusual.”

  Rowan took a step closer, his shadows rippling faintly. “What do you want?”

  “It’s not about what I want,” the Oracle replied. “It’s about what must happen. The Riftwood sent you here for a reason, shadow-bearer. The spire holds something you must see—something that will shape not just your path, but the path of the world.”

  Rowan frowned, his gaze flicking to the pool. “And you know what that is?”

  The Oracle’s gaze didn’t waver. “Not entirely. The threads are tangled, the future uncertain. But one thing is clear: your journey doesn’t end in Kethra. It begins here.”

  As the Oracle spoke, the room trembled faintly. The pool’s surface rippled, its images dissolving into darkness. The spire’s hum grew louder, its energy pressing against Rowan’s thoughts like a warning.

  The Oracle’s expression darkened. “The spire is aware of you. It knows what you carry.”

  Rowan’s jaw tightened. “And what does it think?”

  The Oracle’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That depends on what you do next.”

  Rowan exhaled sharply, his mind racing. The Riftwood’s power had guided him here, but it hadn’t prepared him for this. The spire wasn’t just a destination—it was a challenge, a test.

  The Oracle stepped closer, their voice quiet but firm. “Whatever you find in the spire, remember this: power is a tool, not a purpose. The Riftwood’s burden is yours to bear, but its meaning is yours to decide.”

  Rowan met their gaze, his expression hard. “And if I decide wrong?”

  The Oracle didn’t flinch. “Then the threads will unravel, and the world will pay the price.”

  The shard pulsed sharply, its rhythm aligning with the spire’s hum. Rowan turned toward the door, his resolve hardening. He didn’t fully understand the Oracle’s words, but he didn’t need to—not yet. The spire held answers, and he intended to find them.

  The Oracle’s voice followed him as he left. “Beware the choices you make, shadow-bearer. The Riftwood chose you, but the threads are fragile. Do not break them.”

  Rowan stepped into the night, the spire’s light casting long shadows across the plaza. The shard in his pocket pulsed steadily, guiding him forward.

  The spire was waiting. And Rowan was ready.