New God(wheel of time)

Chapter 22: The Beginning of a ChoiceThe morning after the figure's visit, Eryndor found himself alone in the clearing, surrounded by the whispering sounds of the forest. The sun barely touched the earth beneath the heavy canopy of trees, casting long shadows that stretched toward him like hands reaching for answers. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each one clashing against the other. The encounter with the mysterious messenger had shattered the fragile calm he'd been trying to maintain.

Moraine had given him space that morning, knowing he needed time to process everything, but she could feel the tension in the air, like a storm waiting to break. He had not yet spoken of what had transpired, and she wasn't sure she should push him. There was too much at stake. The idea that something—someone—beyond the patterns of the world had sent this figure to him left an uneasy taste in her mouth.

And then there was the thing she couldn't shake: the fact that, despite the power that radiated off of him, he seemed so... lost.

Eryndor wasn't just a stranger to the world, he was a stranger to himself. He could feel the traces of something ancient and unfathomable coursing through him, but it was as though the very essence of who he was—what he was—had been torn away. He remembered nothing, knew nothing, yet the pull of the world seemed to shape itself around him as if his presence was no accident. Moraine's heart ached for him, though she didn't fully understand why.

She watched from a distance as Eryndor stood, staring into the depths of the forest, his back to her, as though waiting for something. She didn't interrupt him—she could sense that whatever he was going through, it needed to happen in silence. But the silence stretched, and she felt her patience begin to wear thin. It wasn't like him to remain so withdrawn for long.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice low and heavy.

"Do you ever wonder if we're being guided toward something we don't understand?" Eryndor asked, though it was clear he wasn't addressing her directly.

Moraine, already prepared for the conversation, stepped closer, her boots making soft impressions in the earth. "I don't know," she replied honestly. "But I do know that sometimes, the path we're meant to walk only becomes clear when we're willing to step onto it."

He nodded, though it seemed like the words didn't fully reach him. His gaze lingered far off, and he remained lost in thought. It wasn't that he wasn't listening—it was that he was processing everything at once. He could feel the echoes of the universe itself bending around him, as though the very ground was giving way to something deeper, something darker.

And then there was the matter of the choices.

The one who had come to him had spoken in riddles, but the meaning was clear enough. The universe was shifting. The balance was breaking. Eryndor was a wild card—he could tip the balance, and in doing so, everything would change. And yet, he didn't know what side he was on, or even what side there was to choose.

"I feel the weight of it," he whispered to himself more than to her. "The power... it's too much for one being."

Moraine took a step forward, not fully understanding but feeling the gravity of his words. "What do you mean?"

His gaze softened as he turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "I feel as though I am a spark in the dark, but the darkness is vast. If I light the flame, there's no telling what will catch fire."

Moraine remained silent, choosing her words carefully. "Eryndor, you are not alone in this. Whatever is happening, we'll face it together. I've always believed that the path we walk is ours to choose. And your path doesn't have to be defined by anyone else's."

He seemed to consider her words for a moment before nodding slowly. "I don't know if I can trust that."

Her heart ached for him. "I know it's hard. But you will learn to trust yourself, just like I have."

There was a quiet that followed her words, not uncomfortable but filled with possibility. And just as the air between them seemed to settle, a distant rumble sounded from deep within the forest. A growl of thunder echoed, though the sky was clear.

Eryndor stiffened, turning toward the horizon. Moraine followed his gaze, narrowing her eyes in the same direction. Something was coming.

Without warning, the earth shook beneath their feet. The trees shuddered and groaned, as if they were responding to some unseen force. The ground split slightly, a deep crack stretching across the dirt, and out of it emerged a presence—one that made the hair on Eryndor's neck stand on end.

A dark, swirling figure appeared in the clearing ahead, and it seemed to emerge from the very shadows. It was as if it were drawn from the fabric of the world itself—a being made from pure malice, an embodiment of what lay beyond the light. The air grew cold, and an aura of dread swept over the land.

Moraine's hand instinctively went to her sword, but Eryndor held up a hand, signaling for her to stay. His eyes locked onto the figure as it coalesced into something more tangible, but still ever-changing, a dark silhouette that made the trees around them tremble.

"I was waiting for you, Eryndor," the figure said, its voice low and thunderous, like a storm on the horizon.

Eryndor's heart thundered in his chest as he squared his shoulders, but for the first time since his awakening, he felt the stirring of something more primal inside him. Something... angry. Something he didn't fully understand.

"Who are you?" he demanded, stepping forward, the power within him beginning to rise, subtle at first but unmistakable.

"I am the one who has been set in motion by the balance," the figure said with an unsettling calm. "And you, Eryndor, are the catalyst for what comes next."

Eryndor's eyes narrowed. "I don't know who you are, or what you want. But I'm not some puppet for the forces of fate."

The figure tilted its head, as if amused. "We shall see."

With a sharp movement, the figure reached into the air, and a wave of black energy rippled toward him.

Eryndor didn't flinch. Instead, he reached out with his hand, and in that moment, the power within him flared.

Before the figure could react, a beam of divine light shot from Eryndor's palm, piercing through the darkness, cutting through the malevolent energy with a force that shook the air itself.

The figure recoiled, its form distorting in response to the pure energy. "You... You don't understand what you've unleashed."

"I understand enough," Eryndor said firmly. "I will not let this world fall into darkness. Not on my watch."

The figure's form dissolved into the shadows, but its voice echoed in the wind, "This is just the beginning, Eryndor. Remember my words."

The clearing fell silent once more. Eryndor's chest heaved as he let the power settle, feeling it course through him like a river—unpredictable, uncontrollable. Moraine stepped closer, her face a mixture of awe and concern.

"You... you did that," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

He turned to her, the weight of his actions sinking in. "I don't know what this is, Moraine. But I will protect this world. Even if I have to learn how to control it first."