Chapter 3: The Forbidden Magic of the Ancients

The golden light faded from Eryndor’s hands, leaving behind a tingling sensation, as if something ancient had just awakened within him. The forest was silent once more, but it was no longer the silence of dawn—it was the silence that followed a storm, a quiet filled with questions and unspoken fears.

The Veilborn assassins lay motionless where they had fallen, their obsidian blades shattered, their unnatural forms crumbling into mist. The lead Magister, still standing amidst the aftermath, studied Eryndor with an expression unreadable beneath his silver gaze.

"You have just tapped into something beyond mortal reach," the Magister said, stepping forward. "That power… it is divine magic, but it is unlike anything I have seen before."

Eryndor felt the weight of the moment press down on him, his breath still unsteady. "I don’t even know what I did," he admitted. "One moment, I was about to die, and the next… that light just—happened."

The female Magister, who had been tending to the fallen warrior of their group, now approached. Her expression was somber. "That was not just magic," she murmured. "That was something far older, far stronger."

The deep-voiced Magister finally spoke, his tone laced with reverence. "It was forbidden magic."

Eryndor’s brow furrowed. "Forbidden?"

The lead Magister nodded. "Long ago, when the gods still walked among us, they gifted magic to mortals, allowing them to wield the elements and bend the forces of nature. But divine power—that which you have just wielded—was never meant to be in mortal hands. The last time it was seen, it led to the downfall of an empire."

Eryndor swallowed hard, the weight of their words settling deep in his chest. He had never practiced magic. He had never even held a blade forged with enchantments. And yet, something inside him had just awakened—something tied to the prophecy, to the war of gods, and to the shattered sky.

"Then what does this mean for me?" he asked.

The lead Magister sighed. "It means you are more than a chosen warrior. You are a conduit—an inheritor of power meant only for the divine. If left untrained, this magic will consume you. If harnessed, it may save us all."

Eryndor clenched his fists. "And if I refuse to use it?"

The female Magister hesitated before speaking. "Then the world will fall into darkness."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, the lead Magister turned sharply. "We must leave this place. The Veilborn will not be the only ones hunting you now. If they know of your awakening, others will follow. And not all will be as merciful."

Eryndor looked down at the bodies of the fallen assassins, feeling a cold realization settle over him. He had already become a target.

With a slow breath, he looked back at the Magisters. "Where are we going?"

The lead Magister met his gaze. "To the only place where you can learn to control what you have become."

Eryndor felt a chill run down his spine. "And where is that?"

The Magister’s voice was grave.

"The Ruins of Azalthir—the last sanctuary of the forbidden magi."

The Journey to Azalthir

The days that followed were grueling. The Magisters led Eryndor through winding mountain passes and dense forests, avoiding roads and villages, keeping to the shadows. They traveled in silence for the most part, but Eryndor could feel the weight of his awakening pressing on them all.

Each night, as they made camp beneath the stars, the Magisters watched him closely, as if expecting his power to surge forth again. But it didn’t. No more golden light. No more visions. Just an unsettling stillness inside him, as if something slumbered, waiting.

It wasn’t until the fifth night that he broke the silence.

"You still haven’t told me what Azalthir is," he said, staring into the flames of their small campfire.

The lead Magister, who had since revealed his name as Vaelin Thorne, glanced at the other two before answering. "Azalthir was once the heart of all magic," he said. "Before the Gods' War, it was the greatest stronghold of knowledge, where scholars and magi from every kingdom studied the divine arts."

Eryndor frowned. "But now it’s in ruins?"

Vaelin nodded. "When Xaltheon betrayed the pantheon, he sought to claim all magic for himself. Azalthir was the first place to fall. The war that followed shattered the world, and the knowledge of the ancients was lost. The ruins still hold power, but they are cursed—guarded by the remnants of what was left behind."

Eryndor swallowed. "And you think I’ll find answers there?"

The female Magister, Lyara, who had been quiet for much of their journey, spoke softly. "Not just answers. You will find the truth of what you are."

Eryndor stared into the fire, his mind restless.

The truth.

Something deep inside him whispered that he was not ready for it.

The Ruins of the Forbidden

By the seventh day, they reached Azalthir.

The ruins loomed before them, rising from the valley like the bones of a forgotten giant. Massive stone spires, cracked and broken, jutted from the ground like jagged fangs. The air was thick with magic, an eerie hum vibrating through the stones. Strange glyphs, glowing faintly, pulsed along the walls of what had once been towering halls.

"This place is alive," Eryndor murmured, feeling the energy beneath his feet.

Vaelin nodded. "The echoes of the past never truly fade."

As they stepped forward, a sudden shift in the air made them freeze. The ruins trembled slightly, as if waking from an ancient slumber. And then—the voices began.

Whispers filled the air, weaving through the stone corridors, slipping into Eryndor’s mind.

"Who comes?"

"A child of prophecy."

"A vessel of the forbidden."

Eryndor clenched his teeth, his heartbeat hammering. The whispers were not coming from the ruins. They were coming from within him.

The moment his foot touched the main courtyard, the ground exploded with light. The air twisted, and in the blink of an eye, he was no longer standing in Azalthir.

He was somewhere else.

A place beyond time.

Before him, a shadowed figure sat upon a throne of stone. Its face was hidden, its form shifting like smoke.

"You have come at last," the being said, its voice neither male nor female, neither young nor old. "The power within you does not belong to the gods. Nor to mortals. It is something else."

Eryndor felt the weight of the being’s gaze. "Who are you?"

The figure leaned forward. "I am the one who was lost. The last keeper of forbidden magic."

The air trembled as the being lifted a hand, and the ruins around them pulsed with ancient power.

"You wish to understand what you are?" it asked.

Eryndor hesitated, then nodded.

"Then prepare yourself," the figure whispered. "For the truth will change you forever."

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