New God(wheel of time)

Chapter 29: The Path Unfolds

Eryndor's eyes snapped open, breath steady as he returned to himself. The vast, endless space where he had confronted the truth of his existence was gone, replaced by the cool night air and the familiar sounds of the camp. The fire crackled, and beyond it, Moraine sat in quiet contemplation, her eyes fixed on the flames, lost in thought.

He watched her for a long moment, something shifting within him. He was different now. He knew what he was—what he was meant to be. A god of creation. A being beyond mortal comprehension. And yet, as he sat there, feeling the heat of the fire and the quiet rhythm of Moraine's breath, he found himself grounded, tethered not to the vastness of existence, but to this moment.

Moraine turned, sensing his gaze. "You were gone," she said quietly, her voice unreadable. "Not in body, but in spirit."

He nodded. "I was… elsewhere. Learning."

She studied him, her sharp eyes catching every nuance of his expression. "And did you find what you were looking for?"

Eryndor exhaled slowly. "I found the truth of what I am. I know now why I have no past. Why I have no memories."

Moraine's fingers twitched slightly, the only outward sign of her intrigue. "And?"

"I am a god of creation," he said, the words coming easier than he expected. "I was never mortal. I was never anything before this moment. I simply… am."

A long silence stretched between them. Moraine's face remained impassive, but there was a tension in her shoulders, a sharpness to her posture that told him she was trying to grasp the enormity of what he had just said.

"A god of creation," she murmured, testing the words on her tongue. "Not a man who became a god. Not a being reborn. But something new."

Eryndor nodded. "I have no past because I have no beginning. I was born into existence here and now." He glanced up at the stars. "But I am not bound by time. Nor by the Wheel."

Moraine's lips pressed into a thin line. "You stand outside the Pattern."

"Yes."

A flicker of something passed through her eyes—wariness, curiosity, perhaps even a trace of awe. She had spent her life serving the Pattern, trying to ensure the Dragon's survival, believing in the delicate weave of fate. And now, before her, sat something that was wholly apart from it.

"What does that mean for us?" she asked at last.

Eryndor considered the question. He had power beyond anything in this world—beyond the One Power, beyond the Forsaken, beyond even the Dark One himself. He could reshape reality, unmake the very fabric of existence if he willed it. But the thought did not bring him satisfaction.

"I do not wish to change what does not need to be changed," he said finally. "I do not seek to rule, nor to break what already exists. But I will act. I will shape the world when I must."

Moraine nodded slowly, though her expression remained unreadable. "And your place in all of this?"

Eryndor hesitated. The words came slowly, carefully. "With you."

Something flickered in her gaze—something she quickly masked. "With me?"

"I do not know all that I will become," he admitted. "But I know this—there is something about you that calls to me. I do not understand it yet, but you are important to me."

Moraine looked away for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "That is dangerous," she said at last, though her voice was softer than before. "Power such as yours… attachment can be a weakness."

He smiled faintly. "Or a strength."

She did not respond immediately, and the silence between them felt heavier than before. But Eryndor did not press her. He had spoken his truth, and Moraine, ever the careful thinker, would take her time with it.

Before the conversation could continue, a rustling in the trees broke the moment. Lan emerged from the shadows, his expression grim. "We have company."

Eryndor stood without hesitation. "Who?"

"Whitecloaks," Lan said. "A large patrol. They're searching for something—or someone." His sharp eyes flickered toward Eryndor, wordlessly indicating that they might very well be after him.

Moraine rose to her feet as well, already calculating. "They'll slow us down if we try to avoid them," she said. "And fighting them will only draw more attention."

Eryndor tilted his head slightly, feeling the world shift around him. He could sense the Whitecloaks now, dozens of them moving through the trees, their minds rigid with self-righteous certainty. Their souls burned brightly in his vision, each one like a flickering candle against the vastness of existence.

He could end this with a thought.

But something in him hesitated.

He had power beyond measure, but he had made a choice. He would not wield it carelessly.

"We do not need to fight them," he said. "Nor do we need to run."

Moraine turned to him sharply. "What do you suggest?"

Eryndor closed his eyes, reaching out—not with the One Power, but with something greater, something purer. The air around them seemed to hum with unseen energy, and then, just as suddenly as it came, it vanished.

Lan's brows furrowed. "What did you do?"

"They will not see us," Eryndor said simply. "To them, this clearing is empty. They will pass by without ever knowing we were here."

Moraine stared at him, and for the first time, he saw something close to shock in her expression. Even Lan, ever the stoic warrior, looked uneasy.

"That is not the One Power," Moraine said, her voice quiet.

"No," Eryndor agreed. "It is something else."

The Whitecloaks passed by moments later, their torches flickering in the darkness. Not one of them so much as glanced in their direction. It was as if they had ceased to exist.

When the last of them disappeared into the trees, Moraine turned back to Eryndor, her expression unreadable.

"You are beyond anything I have ever known," she said at last. "And I do not know if that should terrify me or give me hope."

Eryndor met her gaze, his voice steady. "Perhaps both."

Moraine did not argue. Instead, she turned, gathering her cloak around her. "We should move. The Pattern weaves as it will, and we still have a long road ahead."

Eryndor smiled faintly, falling into step beside her. "Yes," he murmured. "But this time, I will weave alongside it."

And as they disappeared into the night, the world itself seemed to shift in their wake, as though the Pattern had begun to bend, ever so slightly, around the god who now walked among it.