The First Trial
The pendant glowed softly against Caelan's chest, its warmth a strange comfort in the chilling ruins. Each step deeper into the forgotten city seemed to pulse with life, the ash beneath his boots shifting as though it were aware of him. He had expected emptiness. Instead, the air throbbed with the echoes of the past.
A sudden gust of wind whipped through the collapsed archways, carrying with it a faint, eerie whisper. Caelan froze, every muscle tensing. The words were unintelligible, yet the tone was unmistakable—warning. He gripped the scroll tighter, feeling its warmth spread up his arm, mingling with the pendant's glow.
Then movement—swift, dark, and alive—darted from the shadows. A figure, taller than any man, materialized before him. Its form was not solid, yet it moved with purpose. Glowing eyes locked onto Caelan, and an instinctive dread slithered through his chest.
He took a step back. "Who… what are you?"
No answer came, only a low, resonant hum. The figure lunged.
Caelan barely had time to react. The pendant flared, a burst of golden light shooting outward. The figure staggered, recoiling from the sudden power. Caelan's heart raced, a mixture of fear and exhilaration surging through him. This was the first true trial the ruins had set before him.
Images flooded his mind—ancient warriors, fire, ash, cries of battle, and a throne swallowed by shadows. He understood instinctively: the Ashborne blood within him was responding, channeling the power that had lain dormant for centuries.
He raised the scroll as a shield, feeling the warmth and energy coiling along his arms. Light traced symbols on his skin, etching patterns he did not consciously know, yet somehow understood. The figure hesitated, a hiss escaping its shadowed form, and then attacked again.
Caelan dodged instinctively, his body moving with a precision he hadn't known he possessed. The pendant pulsed, a beacon, guiding his movements. With every heartbeat, the magic within him grew, stronger and more controlled.
A memory struck—faces of ancestors, standing firm against impossible odds, whispering lessons he had never learned. Control. Focus. Remember.
He gritted his teeth, channeling the warmth of the pendant and the light from the scroll into a concentrated pulse. The figure screamed, dissolving into ash and smoke that swirled and scattered across the ruins. Silence followed, heavy and complete.
Caelan sank to his knees, trembling. His chest heaved, the adrenaline fading, leaving only exhaustion and awe. He had survived his first trial. Survived the first test the Forgotten Realm had thrown at him.
But the ruins were not done. He could feel it—the power he had awakened was only a fraction of what awaited him. Danger and mystery lay in every corner, and each step forward would demand more of him than the last.
A soft movement caught his eye. From the shadows, a figure watched. Not threatening, yet not entirely safe. Someone who knew the ruins better than he did. Someone who might help—or hinder.
Caelan's gaze met hers, a flicker of recognition passing between them. The road ahead would be perilous, but he would walk it. He had no choice. The Forgotten Realm had awakened in him. And he was ready to meet it head-on.