New God(wheel of time)

Chapter 34: The Call of the Wild

The Wolfbrother remained kneeling, his golden eyes locked on Eryndor as if he were staring at something beyond sight, something ancient and immutable. The moment stretched, the world holding its breath, waiting.

Lan's fingers tightened around Torasúl's hilt, his body poised for action. "Who are you?"

The man did not look away from Eryndor. "I am called Veylan." His voice was rough, edged with something raw and untamed. "And I have come because the world has whispered your name."

Moraine frowned. "Whispered?"

Veylan's golden gaze flickered toward her, something knowing in his expression. "The Pattern trembles. It shifts, reshapes. We feel it. We do not know what it means—only that he is at the center."

His head dipped slightly toward Eryndor, an acknowledgment that was almost… reverent.

Moraine's unease deepened. "You speak as if he is more than a man."

Veylan's gaze snapped back to her, something primal flashing through his expression. "Because he is."

Silence followed.

The words should have been ridiculous. Foolish. But Moraine could not deny the weight of them, the way they rang true in a way logic refused to accept.

Eryndor, for his part, said nothing. He merely watched Veylan with quiet consideration, his face unreadable.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"If you were called," he said, voice steady, absolute, "then stay. Walk with us, and see where the road leads."

Veylan exhaled slowly, then nodded. "As you will."

It was that simple.

And yet, Moraine could not shake the feeling that the world had just shifted beneath her feet.

The Path UnfoldsThey moved through the forest, the weight of the encounter lingering in the air. Veylan kept to Eryndor's side, moving like a shadow, his presence seamless as if he had always belonged.

Moraine found herself watching him, studying the way he moved—fluid, effortless, a creature born of the wild rather than a man molded by civilization.

Lan remained wary but said nothing. He understood, perhaps better than any of them, the nature of warriors who answered to no master but instinct.

Eryndor, for his part, remained unchanged. Silent. Thoughtful.

Moraine hated that she could not read him.

She had spent her life deciphering people, unraveling their secrets, uncovering their truths. And yet, with Eryndor, there was nothing to grasp.

Only power.

Only mystery.

And it was beginning to unsettle her.

"You are troubled."

She nearly flinched at the voice beside her. Veylan had fallen back to match her stride, his golden eyes sharp.

She did not answer immediately. Then, finally, she said, "Should I not be?"

He tilted his head, considering her. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you fear him—or fear what he means."

Moraine frowned. "And what does he mean?"

Veylan smiled—sharp, knowing. "Change."

The word sent a shiver through her.

Because she knew, deep in her bones, that he was right.

And she did not yet know if that was a blessing or a curse.

A Gift of MightThey made camp as twilight bled into night, the fire crackling softly as the others settled in. Lan remained watchful, ever the guardian, while Rand and the others spoke quietly among themselves.

Eryndor sat apart, as he often did, gazing at the flames as if seeing something beyond them.

Then, without a word, he raised his hand.

Moraine felt it instantly—power, vast and unshaped, raw creation made manifest. The air shimmered, reality bending around him, folding into something new.

And in his grasp, a sword was born.

It was unlike any Moraine had ever seen—its blade gleamed silver, its hilt wrapped in darkened steel, etched with markings that pulsed with unseen energy. The very air around it thrummed with something ancient, something that did not belong to the world as she knew it.

Eryndor turned, his gaze settling on Lan. "Come."

Lan approached without hesitation, though his eyes remained wary. He did not question. He did not speak.

Eryndor extended the sword, his voice steady. "This is Drak'vaar—the Sword of the Unyielding."

Lan took the weapon without hesitation. The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, a shift rippled through the air—a quiet acknowledgment between weapon and wielder.

Moraine felt it—a resonance, a connection unlike any crafted blade.

Lan tested the weight, his expression unreadable. "It is light."

Eryndor nodded. "And it will never break."

Lan's eyes flickered to his, something unreadable in their depths. "What is it?"

Eryndor's answer was simple. "Mine."

And that, somehow, meant more than any explanation could.

Moraine exhaled slowly, gripping the bracelet on her wrist.

She had once thought she understood the world. The rules that governed it. The limits that bound it.

But now…

Now she was no longer certain of anything.

And that terrified her more than she would ever admit.