New God(wheel of time)

Chapter 21: A Taste of Power The first light of dawn filtered weakly through the canopy of trees, casting a pale glow over the ground below. Eryndor stood at the edge of the clearing, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed toward the horizon. The unsettling feeling that had gnawed at him since his encounter with Azhrael still lingered, settling heavily on his chest. What had the figure meant? He was a god, yes, but what exactly was his purpose? And what role did Azhrael believe he would play in reshaping the world?

Moraine had remained silent for most of the night, watching him with a mix of concern and curiosity. Her usual composure was slightly frayed, but the fear in her eyes was subtle, tucked away beneath the surface. She had never seen power like his before, and the fact that she was still unsure of what it meant only added to her unease.

"Eryndor," she spoke carefully, breaking the silence. "You're not alone in this. Whatever's happening, I'll stay with you. We'll figure it out together."

He turned to face her, his eyes meeting hers, and there was something in them now—something more resolute. "I know, Moraine. But this... this is bigger than I am. Than either of us. I can feel it."

The quiet of the morning seemed to stretch, becoming oppressive as the weight of his words hung between them. He could feel it deep within himself—the pull of something ancient, a call to action that demanded an answer.

As if to answer him, a low rumble echoed through the ground beneath them, like the earth itself was murmuring in response. Eryndor's gaze sharpened. Moraine tensed, her hand once again resting on the hilt of her sword. The air thickened, growing heavy, and a strange warmth surged through the ground, pulsing up toward him. It was as though the world itself was shifting, reacting to his presence.

Before either could speak, a figure emerged from the trees, stepping into the clearing with an almost regal air. This figure was tall, with flowing white hair that seemed to glimmer faintly in the dim light, and eyes as dark as the night sky. The figure was draped in simple but elegant robes that seemed to ripple in the breeze, almost as if they were alive. There was no mistaking the power that emanated from them—an ancient force, familiar yet foreign at the same time.

"Eryndor," the figure spoke in a voice that seemed to resonate with the earth itself. "You've come."

Eryndor didn't flinch, his stance solid and unyielding. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice steady but filled with caution.

The figure smiled faintly. "You know me as well as you know yourself."

Moraine's eyes flicked to Eryndor, her confusion evident. She took a half-step forward, her sword still at the ready. "What is this? What do you want with him?"

The figure's gaze shifted to her, and for a brief moment, something akin to amusement flickered in their eyes. "Nothing you can stop, Aes Sedai. I've come for him."

"Who are you?" Eryndor repeated, his tone more insistent this time. There was a growing sense of recognition, but no memory to anchor it. It was as if he had always known this presence was tied to his fate, but the details eluded him.

"I am a messenger," the figure said, stepping closer. "A messenger of the One Who Knows. You, Eryndor, are not meant to remain in this world like this. Your power—your existence—it is a ripple in a much larger tide."

"Who's the One Who Knows?" Eryndor asked, narrowing his gaze. His instincts told him that this was no ordinary being. They were connected to something far more ancient, something that existed beyond time and space.

"The One Who Knows is the creator of all things," the figure replied, their voice soft yet carrying the weight of a thousand lifetimes. "The one who shaped the worlds, the one who carved out the fabric of existence. And you, Eryndor, are a creation of that power—a part of the vast and endless cycle."

Eryndor's head spun, and a surge of energy pulsed through him, making the ground tremble beneath his feet. His power—it was growing, shifting. It was as if a door inside him had been flung open, and now, he was beginning to understand. Slowly, he became aware of the threads of creation, of destruction, of life and death that wove through the world around him.

"I am no tool," he said, his voice strong. "I will not be a puppet of any higher power."

The figure nodded, seemingly unsurprised. "It was never my intention to control you, Eryndor. But you must understand—the balance is breaking. Your existence is no accident, no mere consequence of fate. You are a force, one that can tip the scales of creation and unmake the world itself if you choose."

"I choose nothing," Eryndor said firmly, his voice steady. "I will find my own path."

The figure's eyes glimmered with something close to respect. "Very well. But remember this—there are forces at work here that even you cannot control. The darkness stirs, and it seeks the power you hold. You will not remain untouched forever."

The figure took a step back, their form beginning to dissolve into the mist. "You have only begun to understand your place, Eryndor. But soon, you will see the truth. All of creation, all of existence, will lead you to that moment. And when it comes, you must decide."

With a final cryptic glance, the figure vanished into the mist, leaving only the distant rumble of thunder in their wake. The world seemed to settle once again, but the weight of their words lingered in the air, heavy and oppressive.

Eryndor stood motionless, his thoughts swirling. The pieces were starting to fall into place, but the puzzle was far from complete. He was not simply a man, a wanderer. He was something more. Something vast.

Moraine stepped forward cautiously. "What did they mean? What do they want with you?"

Eryndor's gaze drifted toward her, and for a moment, he didn't speak. Then, softly, almost to himself, he whispered, "They want me to become something I'm not ready to be."