Jolthar nearly stopped in his tracks. "A child of Inadrys? Here?" His eyes widened as he looked back toward the courtyard, seeing Myron in a new light. "I've never t anyone with divine bloodline before."
"Few have," Pascal nodded sagely. "Though you might be seeing more in the days to co. The world is changing, young master. The recent visit from the Elven emissary proved as much. They brought troubling news of the Nyphorites rising again in the eastern lands."
"The Nyphorites?" Jolthar's brow furrowed. "I thought they were just legends—creatures of darkness and chaos."
"Would that they were?" Pascal's voice grew grave. "But no, they're all too real. It's why the Patriarch himself has ridden to war. These are dangerous tis we live in, young master. Dangerous tis indeed."
And that's when Jolthar rembered fighting against the Nynthralls, their appearance, and this war—was it related?—A thought crossed his mind.
They arrived at Jolthar's assigned chambers, and Pascal pushed open the heavy wooden door. The room was spacious yet modest by the estate's standards—a comfortable bed with crisp linens, a writing desk beneath a window overlooking the mountains, and a small sitting area near a crackling fireplace.
"I'll co for you in the morning," Pascal said, bowing slightly. "Rest well, young master. You'll need your strength in the days ahead." With that cryptic remark, he closed the door, leaving Jolthar alone with his thoughts.
When he was about to leave, Jolthar stopped him. "Ah, could you bring cow's milk with sugar in it for tomorrow morning's breakfast, please?"
Pascal furrowed his brows, but he nodded. "I shall do so, young master, well then." With that he bowed and left the room.
The young warrior took advantage of the adjoining washroom, grateful to shed the dust of travel from his skin. The hot water seed to wash away more than just dirt; it carried with it the weight of the day's revelations.
A demigod in the clan, Nyphorites rising, the Patriarch at war... the world seed to be tilting on its axis.
Clean and weary, Jolthar sank into the bed, his muscles relaxing into the soft mattress. But just as sleep began to claim him, an otherworldly sensation prickled at his consciousness.
His warrior's instincts surged to life, and he leaped from the bed, every nerve suddenly alert.
The air in the room grew thick with swirling mist, taking on an opalescent quality that defied natural law. The very fabric of reality seed to bend and ripple, and through this dinsional distortion stepped a figure that Jolthar knew all too well from his dreams and mories.
"Goddess Qalena!" The na left his lips in a reverent whisper. It had been more than a couple of years since he last saw her live, other than the visions in his dreams.
She was beauty incarnate, power made flesh. Her form seed to shift between states of reality—sotis solid, sotis translucent as moonlight on water. Her hair floated as if suspended in an invisible current, each strand shimring with colours that had no nas in mortal tongues. Her mature figure radiated an allure that transcended re physical attraction, speaking to sothing deeper and more primal in the soul.
"You have grown up, child," her voice resonated through both air and spirit, each word carrying harmonics that spoke of ancient power.
Jolthar stood transfixed.
The last ti he t her, her re presence had brought him to his knees, the weight of her divine power crushing his mortal fra.
Now, though he could remain standing, every muscle in his body trembled with the effort. The air grew heavy, charged with power that made breathing feel like drawing in liquid lightning.
She approached him with fluid grace, each step leaving montary impressions of starlight on the floor. Her hand, when it touched his cheek, felt both burning hot and freezing cold, yet sohow pleasantly warm. At her touch, the overwhelming pressure of her presence eased, allowing him to breathe normally again.
Her smile held mysteries of the universe. "Child, I am here to tell you sothing. The war of gods is coming, and you must prepare for it. There are others, but you must beco strong and rise up."
Her words sounded too cryptic for him to understand.
Before he could process these words, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, completely shocking him and widening his eyes.
The kiss was both terrible and wonderful, an experience beyond mortal comprehension.
His eyelids slowly dropped down, and his shoulders sunk down—that's when he felt sothing flowing inside him.
Power flooded through him—raw, primal, divine power that rewrote the very essence of his being. His blood sang with it, his bones humd, and his soul expanded to contain energies that threatened to tear him apart.
For what felt like both an eternity and a re mont, he existed in a state of transformation.
When she finally pulled away, he felt forever changed, as if he had died and been reborn in the span of that kiss.
"I am giving you power," she said. "Utilise it and beco the strongest." Jolthar couldn't register her words as he was busy watching wet lips.
The mist still swirled around Jolthar's feet as Qalena's form solidified once more, her eyes now holding a gravity that made his newfound power pulse anxiously within him.
"There is more you must know," she said, her voice carrying the weight of ancient secrets. "You are not alone in your journey from another world, my child."
"What!"
Jolthar's heart skipped a beat. He had always assud his transportation to this realm was unique. Until now, he didn't have the assumption that there were various others like him. He was busy with his own life here.
"Others?" he managed to ask, his voice barely a whisper in the mystical atmosphere.
"Yes," Qalena's ethereal form shifted, creating patterns in the air that reminded Jolthar of constellations. "Like streams flowing into a great river, multiple souls have been drawn from other worlds to this realm. Each chosen, each blessed by different gods."
She raised her hand, and in the mist appeared shadowy figures—silhouettes of people, each crowned with different divine symbols. "So were brought here by gods who seek to protect this realm," her expression darkened, "others by deities with far more sinister purposes."
"How will I know which is which?" Jolthar asked, his warrior's mind already analysing this new threat.
"That is the cruel jest of it all," Qalena said, her mature features showing a mont of sympathy.
"Those blessed by dark gods may not even know they serve darkness. So believe they fight for justice, for right, when they are rely pawns in a ga of divine conquest."
"We are just puppets in your show."
She shook her head, denying him that all gods aren't manipulative beings.
Jolthar scoffed.
She moved closer, her presence making the air thick with power once again. "You must be cautious, child."
"Are there signs I should look for?" Jolthar's mind raced through all his past encounters, wondering if he'd already t any of these other chosen ones.
"Trust your instincts." Qalena's hand touched his chest, right above his heart. "You will see light around them when you co across them; my power will be able to help you identify them."
She waved her hand through the mist, and Jolthar saw brief flashes of faces—so peaceful, others twisted with malice, all bearing the sa otherworldly aura he now realised he possessed.
"So have been here longer than you, building power, gathering allies. Others are newly arrived, as lost as you once were." Her voice grew urgent. "So will seek to unite the chosen ones, to pool their power. Others work to eliminate any they see as competition for divine favour."
Jolthar's mind reeled with the implications. "How many-"
"Enough to change the fate of this world, should they work together," Qalena interrupted. "Or enough to tear it apart should they turn against each other."
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