Whispers of the Sages

A Few Days Prior to the Departure for Harrowfell

It was just a few days before Varan’s planned departure for Harrowfell when he stood once again, gazing upon the sprawling majesty of Alyndor from his vantage point atop the castle. The golden glow of the Astral Tree flickered faintly in the distance, its fading light a symbol of an age slowly dying. The prince’s mind lingered on the whispers he had heard not long ago in the council—whispers from the Sages of the Mausoleum. These ancient and cryptic entities had requested his presence, beckoning him for reasons unknown. The thought of those whispers haunted him. He had always known the Sages to be unsettling, their presence in Alyndor a necessary evil that many chose to ignore. Yet, their warnings had saved lives before. They had foreseen the Blight years ago, allowing the kingdom to prepare and ultimately survive.

But now they were asking for him specifically.

As Varan prepared for his journey to meet the Sages, he reflected on how intertwined the fate of Alyndor was with the politics, people, and factions of the Shattered Dominion. He was not just the prince of Alyndor; he was a key figure within a larger web of empires, nations, and alliances. The fate of these lands was bound to him, and each decision weighed heavily on his mind. He stepped away from the edge of the spire and headed down the grand stairway toward the royal chambers.

In the dim corridor leading to the chambers, he was met by Elysandria, the Master of Lore, a woman of unparalleled beauty and wisdom. She had been groomed from birth for her role, her mind as sharp as her wit. Her knowledge of the ancient world, the Crucible's Shattering, and the time before the Void Warden was second to none. Varan always found her presence both comforting and intimidating.

“Prince Varan,” she called softly, stepping out of the shadows. The flicker of torchlight illuminated her face, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders. Her violet eyes shimmered with intelligence and something else—something unreadable. “You’re preparing for your meeting with the Sages, I presume?”

Varan nodded, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of curiosity and caution. “I am. What brings you here at this hour?”

Elysandria reached into her satchel and produced a small pouch, the contents glinting faintly in the low light. “This,” she said, “is celestium powder. The Sages are addicted to it. It clouds their minds but also enhances their visions. If you present this to them, they will be more open to your questions. Use it wisely.”

Varan took the pouch, feeling its weight in his hand. “I’ve heard the rumors,” he muttered. “I always wondered if they were true.”

“They are,” she confirmed, her tone both serious and amused. “While it may seem like a trivial thing, this powder could mean the difference between them offering you clarity or sending you into madness.”

He nodded, pocketing the powder. “Thank you, Elysandria. I owe you.”

Her lips curled into a faint smile, one that made Varan’s heart skip a beat. She was an enigma to him—brilliant, powerful, and, despite the layers of formality between them, alluring. “Just ensure you return from this with your mind intact,” she whispered, before stepping back into the shadows.

As he made his way toward the grand gates of the castle, Varan’s thoughts turned to his lifelong friend and second-in-command, Ser Joryn, who awaited him by the castle's grand entrance. Joryn, the bastard son of the king's assistant, had been at Varan’s side for as long as he could remember. They had grown up together, fought together, and bled together. In many ways, Joryn was more than a brother, even though his birth status had once been a source of shame.

When Varan stepped into the courtyard, the rain had begun to fall, a light drizzle that turned the stones slick. He found Joryn standing by the entrance, his armor shining under the gloomy sky, his expression one of calm readiness.

“You’re late,” Joryn teased, his voice gruff but warm.

Varan smirked, clasping Joryn’s forearm. “And you’re early. Still trying to outshine me, are you?”

Joryn laughed. “You make it too easy.”

As they stepped through the gates and into the bustling marketplace beyond, Varan’s eyes wandered across the stalls, where traders from distant lands sold exotic goods. The smells of roasted meats, fresh herbs, and celestium-infused concoctions filled the air, while the din of conversation and bartering created a comforting hum. The market had always been a place of excitement for Varan. Despite his royal status, he often found solace here among the common folk, far from the political games and courtly intrigue.

He paused near one of the stalls, his eyes catching sight of Talandros, the enigmatic trader. Talandros nodded in Varan’s direction, a subtle but respectful gesture.

“Talandros,” Varan said as they approached. “Still peddling your strange wares, I see.”

The trader chuckled, his voice muffled behind the skull mask he always wore. “Always. And I have something special today—something that might interest a prince like you.”

Varan raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What could you possibly have that I need?”

Talandros leaned forward, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “A fragment of a rune—one that glows with the light of the old days.”

Joryn rolled his eyes. “You always have something to sell, don’t you?”

Talandros only smiled, his eyes glowing eerily behind the mask. “One day, you’ll come to appreciate my treasures, Ser Joryn.”

Varan shook his head, chuckling as he moved on, his thoughts already returning to the task at hand. The Sages awaited, and while the market provided a brief distraction, he knew that his encounter with those ancient creatures would be nothing short of unsettling.

As they left the market behind, Varan and Joryn began discussing their past exploits—specifically, their time in the Colosseum two years ago. It had been a defining moment for both of them, a time when they had proven their strength and skill not just to the people of Alyndor, but to themselves.

“I still can’t believe you beat me in that final match,” Joryn said, a smirk playing at his lips.

Varan grinned, shrugging. “You’re just mad because I outsmarted you.”

“You got lucky,” Joryn retorted. “If I hadn’t slipped on that blasted sand, you wouldn’t have had the chance.”

“Luck or not, I’m still the first noble to win the tournament,” Varan shot back, his tone playful.

Their laughter echoed through the narrow streets as they made their way to the Mausoleum of Sages, a dark and eerie structure that loomed over the edge of the city, shrouded in mist and ancient incense.

As they arrived, the rain had picked up, turning the air cold and heavy with moisture. The temple’s stone doors loomed before them, covered in carvings of forgotten runes and images of the ancient world. The smell of old incense and decaying celestium hung thick in the air, a nauseating combination that made Varan’s stomach churn.

“Stay sharp,” Varan whispered to his men as they approached the entrance. He handed the pouch of celestium powder to Joryn, who raised an eyebrow.

“What is this?”

“A gift,” Varan replied. “The Sages are addicted to it. We’ll need it if we want to get anything useful out of them.”

Joryn nodded, pocketing the pouch as Varan placed his hand on the door, feeling the cold stone beneath his palm. The door creaked open slowly, revealing the dimly lit interior of the Mausoleum. The air inside was thick with the stench of decay and old magic, and the flickering light of candles cast long, eerie shadows on the walls.

Inside, the Sages awaited.

Their twisted forms were hunched over, covered in ancient robes adorned with strange symbols and relics of a time long forgotten. Their eyes were hollow, filled with an unsettling glow that made Varan’s skin crawl. One of them, perched on a strange purple-glowing sphere, looked up at him with a crooked smile.

As Joryn stepped into the gloom behind him, the soft clink of glass signaled his approach. “You dropped this,” he said, holding out the pouch of celestium powder.

But before Varan could reach for it, a sound—wet and shuffling—echoed from the shadows.

From the far side of the mausoleum, a grotesque figure emerged, lanky and skeletal, its pale gray skin stretched taut over a frame of bone and sinew. Shirtless and hunched like a beast, the Sage’s spine shifted audibly with every step—crack—snap—crunch—as if its body had long forgotten how to move like a man. Patches of flesh peeled away in flakes, revealing veins threaded with stagnant ichor. Drool hung from its chin like cobwebs, catching the flicker of the candlelight in glistening strands. The stench that followed was unbearable—like rotting parchment soaked in gravewater.

Joryn recoiled instinctively, hand tightening around the hilt at his side, but Varan held firm.

The Sage lumbered forward until it loomed over them, impossibly tall now that it had unfolded its crooked posture. Its jaw hung loose, swaying ever so slightly as it sniffed the air with sharp, erratic breaths. Then, its eyes fixed on the pouch.

“The prince,” it rasped, the voice gurgling like stagnant water, “has brought a treat…”

Varan met the creature’s gaze, unblinking. “I offer this to you, ancient one,” he said with ceremonial calm, lifting the pouch. “Your knowledge is invaluable.”

The Sage drew closer. Varan knew what came next—this was no simple exchange. The rites of the Mausoleum were older than any scroll, and if one sought truth from the dead, one had to offer more than words.

He extended his hands—palms up, bare, steady.

The creature bent forward with a twitching reverence. Its nose hovered just above Varan’s skin, inhaling deeply, greedily. Then it exhaled a hot, rotten breath that clung to Varan’s flesh like oil.

Its tongue emerged—long, blackened, forked at the tip—and began to lap slowly across his palms, slick and cold like a drowned serpent. Varan did not flinch.

“Mmhhhh…” the Sage moaned between licks. “Yes… yes… the darkness is rising within you, Prince of Light…”

Its voice grew quieter, lower, as if entranced. “Something… is coming… for you…”

Then, with sudden ferocity, it ripped the pouch from Varan’s hand and tossed back its head.

“UuuhhhhHHHHHHHH!”

The Sage let out a guttural moan that echoed through the mausoleum like a dying hornblast. It poured the celestium powder directly into its mouth and began to snort the rest in greedy handfuls, the dust caking its nose and dripping from its lips like pale ash.

“Yessss,” it hissed through a cracked smile, twitching as the powder took hold. “Yes… the stars are bleeding again…”

Then it turned and stumbled back into the dark, limbs twitching, muttering to itself in a forgotten tongue, leaving behind only silence and the reek of old madness.

“You’ve come at last,” the creature rasped, its voice like nails on glass. “Prince of Light... you seek the whispers, don’t you?”

Varan felt a shiver run down his spine as the Sage’s words echoed in his mind. He had heard the whispers as a child—whispers from the Astral Tree that had once guided him but had long since fallen silent. Now, they had returned, darker and more foreboding than ever before.

“What do you want from me?” Varan asked, his voice steady despite the unease gnawing at him.

The Sage tilted its head, its eyes narrowing. “The darkness is calling for you... You must find it, face it... or it will consume you.”

Varan clenched his fists, his heart pounding in his chest. “Where?”

“West... Harrowfell... Shadowgate Fortress,” the Sage hissed, its voice barely more than a whisper. “There you will find your destiny, Prince of Light...”

Varan’s breath caught in his throat as the vision washed over him—the same vision he had seen as a child. He was rising toward the light, but the darkness below pulled at him, threatening to drag him down into oblivion. He could hear the whispers again, louder this time, more insistent.

“Find the darkness... fight it...”

With a jolt, Varan pulled away from the vision, his heart racing. The Sage cackled softly, its twisted smile widening. “The choice is yours, prince... but remember... the darkness is always watching.”

Varan turned on his heel, his men following close behind as they left the Mausoleum, the heavy stone doors closing behind them with a final, ominous thud. Outside, the rain had become a downpour, the skies dark and foreboding.

Joryn placed a hand on Varan’s shoulder, concern etched on his face. “What did they say?”

Varan shook his head, his mind still reeling from the encounter. “We’re going to Harrowfell.”