Three days later, they reached the eastern edge of the Desert of Ashes.
The desert ended abruptly, giving way to green grass and trees, to life that had no place being so close to so much death. It was like stepping from death into life, from the end of all things into the beginning of all things, and the contrast was jarring, was painful in its beauty, in its reminder of what the world was supposed to be.
In the distance, a temple rose from a hill, white stone gleaming in the sunlight, carrying the weight of a thousand years, of a power that had slept for a millennium. The Oracle's temple.
"The Temple of Fate," Lyra said, her voice filled with awe, with the weight of standing before something that shouldn't exist, that defied reason. "My grandmother told me about it. She said the Oracle can see the past, the present, and the future all at once. She said the Oracle can see the threads of fate that bind the world together, the patterns that make every action matter, that make every choice echo through eternity. She said the Oracle knows everything."
"Can she see how to stop the Plague?" Thorne asked, his voice tight with hope, with the desperate need to believe that someone could know, that someone could help.
"She can see everything," she said, and there was certainty in her voice, certainty that came from too many years of hearing stories, of believing in things that shouldn't exist. "Whether she'll tell us is another matter. The Oracle's ways are mysterious. The Oracle's knowledge is heavy. Some who seek the truth are destroyed by it."
They approached the temple, the horse's hooves crunching on green grass for the first time in weeks, the animal relaxing as it sensed life, as it felt the absence of death. The temple's doors were open, as if expecting them, as if they had been awaited.
Inside, the temple was a single vast chamber, walls covered in murals depicting scenes from history—wars that had destroyed kingdoms, kings that had ruled ages, the rise and fall of empires that had once been great. In the center of the room, an old woman sat on a throne, her eyes wrapped in a blindfold of white silk, her face carrying the weight of too many years, of too much knowledge.
The Oracle.
"Thorne Ashford," she said, her voice echoing in the vast chamber, carrying the weight of recognition, of knowing. "Lyra Moonwhisper. I have been waiting for you. The threads of fate told me you were coming. The patterns of causality showed me your approach. I have seen your journey, from the moment you were struck by the Church's bolt, to the moment you destroyed the Death Dragon. I have seen everything."
Thorne and Lyra exchanged glances, their minds racing with implications they didn't want to face, with the realization that they were standing before someone who knew everything, who had seen everything, who understood the patterns that bound the world together.
"You know us?" Thorne asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I know everything," the Oracle said, and there was weight in her words, weight that went beyond simple statement, beyond simple knowledge. "I know why you've come. I know what you seek. And I know the price you will pay. The threads of fate have shown me your future, and it is written in blood and fire, in darkness and light."
"Tell us how to stop the Plague," Thorne said, his voice tight with desperation, with the need to know, to understand, to find a way.
The Oracle was silent for a long moment, her mind racing with the weight of what she knew, with the burden of what she had seen. Then she said, "The Iron Plague was created by the last Dragon Lord, Morthos, a thousand years ago. He sought immortality, and found it in death. He bound his soul to dragon fire, using the power that shouldn't exist to create a curse that would turn the living into the dead, and the dead into his army. He sought to rule forever, to command the darkness itself, and he nearly succeeded. He was destroyed by the last Dragon Lord, or so the legends say. His bones were scattered, his phylactery was hidden, his soul was bound where no one could find it. But the Plague remained, the curse continued, because the source of its power was never found."
"Morthos is the Death King," Thorne said, and there was weight in his words, weight that came from seeing the fortress in the desert, from seeing the Death Dragon, from knowing what Morthos was doing. "We've seen him. We've seen his fortress. We've seen his Death Dragons."
"Yes," the Oracle said, and there was sorrow in her voice, sorrow that came from too many years of knowing, of seeing. "And he's not just raising the dead. He's raising the Great Dragons. He's finding their bones, calling their fire back from the corners of the world, giving them form again. But they won't be dragons anymore. They'll be undead dragons. Death Dragons. And when he has enough Death Dragons, he'll sweep across Aetheria and destroy everything. The living will become the dead, and the dead will serve him forever. The darkness will consume the world, and nothing will remain."
"How do we stop him?" Lyra asked, her voice tight with fear, with the desperate need to believe that there was a way, that something could be done.
"To destroy the Plague, you must destroy its source," the Oracle said, and there was finality in her voice, finality that came from too many years of knowing, of understanding. "The source is Morthos's phylactery—the object where his soul is bound, the anchor that keeps him in the world, that prevents true death. As long as the phylactery exists, Morthos cannot be killed. As long as the phylactery exists, the Plague will continue. The curse will spread, the dead will rise, and the darkness will consume everything."
"Where is the phylactery?" Thorne asked, his voice tight with desperation, with the need to know, to find, to destroy.
"In the Citadel of Night," the Oracle said, and there was weight in her words, weight that went beyond simple location, beyond simple place. "In the frozen north, beyond the Wall of Ice, in a place where no living thing can reach, where the cold itself is deadly. Morthos created it there, in the heart of the Plague, in the place where the darkness is strongest. He hid it where no one could find it, where the cold itself would protect it, where the ice itself would guard it."
"The Wall of Ice," Thorne said, and there was fear in his voice, fear that came from knowing the place, from understanding what waited there. "I've heard of it. No one who crosses it ever returns. The dead guard it, the Plague powers it, the cold itself kills those who try."
"Because the dead guard it," the Oracle said, and there was sorrow in her voice, sorrow that came from too many years of knowing, of seeing. "Morthos's greatest army is stationed there, waiting for his command. The Death Knights, the Death Dragons, the dead themselves—all of them wait at the Wall of Ice, guarding the phylactery, guarding the source of the Plague. To reach the Citadel, to destroy the phylary, you must defeat them. You must fight through an army that cannot be killed, that cannot be stopped, that will consume everything in its path."
Thorne was silent for a long moment, his mind racing with the weight of what she had said, with the impossibility of what she was asking. Then he said, "We'll do it."
"It's a suicide mission," the Oracle said, and there was gentleness in her voice, gentleness that came from too many years of knowing, of seeing. "Even with your dragon blood and her silver magic, you cannot defeat Morthos's army alone. The dead are too many, the Death Knights too powerful, the Death Dragons too wrong. You'll be overwhelmed. You'll die."
"We'll find allies," Thorne said, and there was determination in his voice, determination that came from knowing there was no other choice, from accepting what had to be done. "There must be others who want to stop the Plague. There must be others who are fighting, who are hiding, who are waiting for someone to lead them. We'll find them, and we'll unite them. Together, we might have a chance."
"There are," the Oracle said, and there was hope in her voice, hope that came from too many years of knowing, of seeing. "But they are scattered, broken, hunted by the Church and the dead alike. The Dragon Knights are hiding in the Western Kingdoms, hunted to extinction. The Moonwhisper mages are scattered across the Southern Isles, broken and leaderless. The free peoples are gathering in the Eastern Reaches, waiting for the end, preparing for a death they know is coming. You will have to unite them. You will have to give them hope, give them leadership, give them a reason to fight again."
She stood and walked to a table covered in maps and scrolls, her movements slow, measured, the movements of someone who had seen too much to hurry, who had nothing left to prove. "This is the path you must take. First, to the Western Kingdoms, where the last of the Dragon Knights are hiding. Find them, unite them, give them hope. Then to the Southern Isles, where the Moonwhisper mages fled. Find them, unite them, give them leadership. Then to the Eastern Reaches, where the free peoples are gathering to make their final stand. Find them, unite them, give them a reason to fight again."
She turned to face them, her blindfolded eyes seeming to see them, to know them, to understand everything they were. "Unite them. Lead them. And then march north, to the Wall of Ice, to the Citadel of Night. Fight through Morthos's army. Destroy the phylactery. Kill Morthos. End the Plague. Save the world."
Thorne looked at the maps, then at Lyra, seeing the weight of what she was asking, seeing the impossibility of the task ahead. "It's a long journey. A hard journey. A journey that will destroy us, that will consume everything we are."
"It's the only journey that matters," Lyra said, and there was determination in her voice, determination that came from knowing there was no other choice, from accepting what had to be done. "The world is dying, and we're the only ones who can save it. If we don't do this, nothing will. If we don't unite them, if we don't lead them, the darkness will consume everything. We have to try."
The Oracle nodded, and there was approval in her face, approval that came from too many years of knowing, of seeing. "Go now. The Plague spreads with every passing day. The dead rise with every sunrise. Morthos's army grows with every moon. You have until the winter solstice. If Morthos completes his Death Dragon army before then, if he has enough Death Dragons to sweep across Aetheria before the snow falls, then all is lost. The threads of fate have shown me this, and the patterns of causality have confirmed it. You have until the winter solstice. No longer."
Thorne tightened his grip on Dawnbreaker, the blade responding to the dragon fire that burned in his veins, the power that shouldn't exist feeding on his will. "We won't fail. We'll find the Dragon Knights, and we'll unite them. We'll find the Moonwhisper mages, and we'll give them leadership. We'll find the free peoples, and we'll give them hope. And then we'll march north, to the Wall of Ice, to the Citadel of Night. We'll fight through Morthos's army, we'll destroy the phylactery, we'll kill Morthos, and we'll end the Plague. Whatever it takes."
"I know," the Oracle said, and there was faith in her voice, faith that came from too many years of knowing, of seeing. "Because I have seen your fate. And it is written in blood and fire, in darkness and light. The threads of fate have shown me that you are the one who can do this, that you are the one who will do this. The patterns of causality have confirmed it. You are the hope of Aetheria, the last chance for the world."
She raised a hand, and the temple doors opened behind them, the movement carrying the weight of command, of a blessing, of a sending forth. "Go. And may fate be with you. May the threads that bind the world together guide you. May the patterns that make every action matter carry you to victory. And may the fire that burns in your veins be enough to destroy the darkness."
And Thorne and Lyra walked out of the temple, into the light of a new day, into a journey that would destroy everything they were, that would consume the world, that would end the Plague or end them.
And they knew, with a certainty that went beyond hope, beyond faith, that nothing would ever be the same again.