New God(wheel of time)

Chapter 26: The Gathering Storm

The moon hung high above, casting pale silver light over the vast expanse of forest surrounding the two travelers. Eryndor and Moraine had not rested since their encounter with the mysterious figure. Something about it had unsettled them both, but it was more than that—it was a sense of inevitability that hung in the air. Something was closing in, and Eryndor could feel it gnawing at him.

He glanced sideways at Moraine, who was deep in thought, her usual composed demeanor slightly frayed. He could tell she was considering the same thing: the darkness that loomed just out of reach.

"So, what now?" Moraine broke the silence, her voice betraying the weariness she hadn't let show before.

Eryndor took a long, steady breath. He had never been one to run from confrontation, yet he felt the weight of the unknown pressing on him like an insurmountable mountain. "We keep moving," he said at last. "We find out who—or what—that was. And we put an end to it, before it puts an end to us."

Moraine nodded slowly, but her eyes remained wary, flicking to the shadows around them, as though the very trees might spring to life at any moment.

"It might not be that simple," she said. "There's something ancient behind this. I can feel it, Eryndor. Whatever that figure was, it's not the only one. And their interest in you…" She trailed off, uncertainty clouding her features for a brief moment.

"I've felt it too," Eryndor admitted. His tone had changed—sharper, more deliberate. "I am no fool, Moraine. I've always known there was more to me than what I see. But the question is… what is it that they want from me?"

Moraine slowed her pace, eyeing him carefully. "I don't think it's about what you are anymore. It's about who you are. And where you come from. Your power, Eryndor… it's tied to something far older than either of us. Something the world has forgotten."

Eryndor stopped in his tracks, the weight of her words settling over him like a shadow. The moonlight seemed to pale in comparison to the depth of her insight, and for the first time, he felt the true burden of his own existence. He wasn't just some god—he was something else. Something ancient. And someone—or something—wanted to claim that.

"Are you saying I'm a relic?" Eryndor asked, his voice edged with irony.

Moraine smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Perhaps not a relic. But you are definitely a piece of something… something bigger. And it's not just your power that's being sought after. It's your very existence."

"I've wondered that myself," Eryndor confessed, his gaze lifting to the starry sky. "I feel like I'm being pulled in a thousand directions at once. And I can't even begin to understand it."

Before Moraine could respond, the ground beneath their feet trembled ever so slightly. It was subtle, almost imperceptible at first, but Eryndor's senses were heightened far beyond what any human could perceive. He immediately went on alert, his hand instinctively resting near the hilt of his sword.

"Do you feel that?" Moraine asked, her voice tight.

"I do." Eryndor's eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon. The tremor had grown in intensity now, and he could feel something stirring in the air—an energy that crackled with power. The world itself seemed to shiver, as though it too was bracing for something catastrophic.

A low growl echoed from the distance, followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps crunching over the undergrowth. They weren't alone.

"Stay close," Eryndor commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. Moraine immediately obeyed, her hand falling to her dagger as they both prepared for whatever threat was looming.

Then they emerged—massive figures, their eyes glowing a feral red, their faces twisted into snarls. Trollocs. A pack of them, more than Eryndor had ever encountered in one place. They were barreling toward them, and he could sense that something far more dangerous than mere beastial malice lay beneath their movement.

"What in the name of the Light are they doing here?" Moraine hissed, drawing her dagger with practiced precision.

"I don't think they're here by chance," Eryndor said grimly. "Something is directing them."

He took a step forward, letting the full weight of his presence settle into the world. The air shimmered with power. His divine energy flared like a beacon, and for a moment, the ground itself seemed to respond. The earth trembled again, and the Trollocs faltered, as if caught in the tide of an unseen force.

"They're not prepared for this," Eryndor muttered, his voice taking on a quiet but commanding note. "But neither am I."

He raised his hand, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, as though the world itself had bent to his will, the Trollocs began to freeze in place. Their movements slowed, their bodies trembling against an invisible force. Eryndor's power flowed through the land, like a vast wave of divine energy. He wasn't just a god—he was a creator, reshaping the world in his image.

A blinding light erupted from his fingertips, and with it, a pulse of force that sent the Trollocs sprawling. Their cries were cut off as they were lifted from the ground, suspended in midair by his will.

"I won't kill them," Eryndor said, his voice tinged with both sorrow and command. "Not yet."

But Moraine's sharp eyes noticed something—the Trollocs were not alone. Emerging from the treeline, a dark figure stepped forward, its form cloaked in a swirling void of shadow.

"You." Eryndor's voice was low and ominous, his eyes locking onto the figure. "What have you brought here?"

The figure tilted its head, revealing a face masked in shadow, but the malicious intent was clear.

"You think you are the only one with the power to shape the world, godling?" The voice was cold, an echo of something older than time itself. "You are but a pawn in a game far beyond your comprehension."

Eryndor's eyes narrowed, the light in them flickering dangerously.

"I don't play games," he said, his tone rising with an almost tangible intensity. "I am the creator of this world, and I will not be used."

The dark figure smirked, its presence rippling with dark energy.

"We'll see, won't we?" The figure's voice twisted, leaving a chill in the air that lingered long after it spoke.

Before Eryndor could respond, the figure vanished into the shadows, leaving the Trollocs frozen in place, their bodies suspended by his divine force.

Moraine stepped forward, her expression grim. "What do we do now?"

Eryndor's gaze remained fixed on the spot where the figure had been. The answer was unclear, but one thing was certain: the storm had only just begun.