Location: Narn – Year: 6999 NY
The fire crackled gently, its soft pop and hiss the only defiance against the vast hush of the snowy wilderness that surrounded them. In the flickering amber light, the snow sparkled like crushed crystal, a cold but beautiful world stretched beneath a dark velvet sky. Above them, the stars blinked faintly, as if watching the two figures huddled near the fire — strangers drawn together by fate, or something older than fate.
Adam sat nearest the flames, his fur — a deep, oceanic blue — catching the firelight in waves of gold and violet. Despite the heat licking at his face, his breath still fogged in the air, proof of the bitter cold that pressed in from every direction. His cloak, though heavy, did little to shield him from the truth: this land was a harsh one. But he didn't shiver. His thoughts were too loud.
Across from him, sitting on a frost-dusted log, was Trevor Maymum — a monkey Tracient whose fur was still damp from the otherworldly plunge he'd taken just hours ago. His tail, now curled near the flames for warmth, twitched from time to time, either in memory of the fall or out of nervous energy. If the cold bothered him, he didn't show it. There was too much fire in his spirit.
"You're not going to believe it, Adam," Trevor said, his voice bursting with breathless wonder. "I looked into the water — you know, just for the fruit! I wasn't doing anything wrong — and bam! It wasn't my reflection. I mean, it started as me, but then it changed. It was a lion Tracient — staring right back at me, like he knew me. And then…"
He made a dramatic swoop with his arms, mimicking a current pulling him. "I was underwater! One second I'm picking bananas, the next — whoosh! — I'm being dragged into the depths like some fish caught on a hook."
He grinned at his own theatrics, but Adam remained quiet, his golden eyes fixed on the fire, as though the answer to some riddle might reveal itself in the dancing flames.
Trevor leaned forward, his orange eyes gleaming. "And then I wake up in snow. Freezing! You're standing there like some guardian angel, all serious and glowy."
Adam stirred the fire with a long stick, watching the embers swirl upward like tiny spirits. "The Ford of Beruna," he murmured. "It's always been more than a river."
Trevor blinked. "What do you mean?"
"There are old stories," Adam said slowly. "Not just bedtime tales — real ones, passed down from the first guardians of Narn. It's said the Ford allows glimpses into other worlds. And sometimes… if the need is great enough, or the time is right, it does more than show."
Trevor tilted his head. "So, it pulled me in… why?"
"I don't know," Adam admitted, and his voice carried the weight of someone who had asked that question too many times before. "But I think something — or someone — wanted you here."
There was a pause. The wind howled faintly through the trees beyond the clearing, brushing snow from the pine boughs overhead.
Trevor scratched behind his ear. "You know… it's funny. Back home — wherever that is now — we had stories about the Ford too. The elders always said it connected to other places. When I was a kid, I went down there on a dare. I remember leaning over the water, and just for a second, I saw this strange world. Not like ours. Creatures there had barely any fur! Just… skin. And clothes everywhere. Big clunky things called shoes. No tails, no claws, no scent trails. And their voices—so loud, so fast."
Adam looked up at that, his brow furrowing. "You saw them?"
"I didn't know what I was seeing," Trevor said, shrugging, "but it stayed with me. I remember one had this wild stripe across his chin — they called it a beard. Thought it was some kind of honor mark at first."
He laughed, but Adam did not join in. He was looking past Trevor now, as if into some invisible horizon beyond the trees. His silence was thoughtful, but also… wary.
For a moment, Trevor studied him. The wolf Tracient was younger than he acted — maybe not in years, but in burdens. There was something ancient in his gaze, as if he had seen too much too quickly. He had the eyes of someone who remembered war, not as legend, but as memory.
"Adam?" Trevor asked gently.
Adam's voice was quiet. "When you saw the lion… did he speak?"
Trevor blinked. "No. But he looked at me. Deep, like he was seeing all of me. Not in a scary way. Just… knowing."
Adam gave a slow nod. "That's how he looks at everyone."
"Who is he?"
"His name is Asalan," Adam said, and the name left his lips like a secret — or a prayer. "Some say he's only a myth. Others say he created everything, even the stars. But I believe… I believe he's watching. Guiding. And if you saw him — truly saw him — then your coming here wasn't an accident."
Trevor grew still. Something in Adam's voice had changed — softened, like a wound being touched. And when Trevor looked at him again, he saw not just the warrior, but the weight he carried.
"You've been through a lot, haven't you?" Trevor said quietly.
Adam didn't answer at first. Then, he sighed.
"I've lost more than I can say. People I loved. Places I called home. And now… now there's something out there, something dark, hunting the Aryas. If Razik finds even one…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Trevor sat back, wrapping his tail tighter around himself. "Well," he said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes, "you've got me now. Can't promise I'll be helpful in a fight — I'm more of a climb-trees-and-steal-fruit kind of guy — but I'm a quick learner."
Adam looked at him, surprised by the earnestness. "Why would you help me?"
Trevor shrugged. "Because something — Asalan, fate, or just some magical splash of river water — dragged me out of my tree and into this. And if I'm here, I figure I'm meant to do something that matters."
Adam was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, a small smile touched his lips — not the grim, hardened smile he wore in battle, but something gentler. Warmer.
"Thank you," he said simply.
They fell into silence again, the fire crackling between them. And above, the stars continued their quiet vigil, as if listening.
The snow fell more gently now, but the cold was unrelenting — the kind of cold that pressed into your bones and whispered that it had always been there, long before you, and would be there long after you were gone. The fire, though still alive, had burned low, and its circle of warmth had grown small. Adam shifted closer to the embers, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, his gaze distant, as if searching the orange glow for something he could not name.
"Adam?"
The voice broke softly through the quiet — uncertain, almost hesitant. Trevor's words floated out into the stillness like a leaf drifting on a pond.
Adam blinked and turned. Trevor was no longer his usual, exuberant self. The monkey Tracient's face, usually alight with mischief or curiosity, had grown subdued. His orange eyes, now dimmed with something like sorrow, studied Adam with a weight that seemed too heavy for him to carry — as if some invisible thread of understanding had suddenly been pulled taut between them.
"Is this really Narn?" he asked, his voice just above a whisper. "I mean… truly?"
Adam felt his breath leave him in a long, slow exhale. He looked around at the vast, windswept plains stretching out from the fire — the trees rimmed with frost, the sky a bruised shade of iron, and the snow falling like silent ashes.
"Yes," he said quietly. "This is Narn."
He watched as the truth settled into Trevor's face like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through everything that had once seemed simple or sure.
"We've been under an evil dominion for a thousand years now," Adam added, his voice steady, but low — as though speaking the words too loudly might give them more power than they deserved.
Trevor didn't respond immediately. His eyes wandered over the lifeless landscape, the heavy clouds, the quiet too deep to be natural.
"A thousand years?" he echoed at last, the words tasting foreign on his tongue. "But… everything is so… dead."
And there it was — spoken aloud. The thing Adam had known since childhood, but which always cut a little deeper each time he heard it named. Dead. A world once bursting with color, silenced beneath snow and shadow.
"The storm hasn't stopped in living memory," Adam said, his voice soft but sure. "It's part of the curse Razik and his kind cast when they seized power. They've turned Narn into something it was never meant to be."
For a moment, Trevor said nothing. He simply stared at the horizon, the world he had fallen into pressing its weight against his shoulders. His tail lay still behind him. There was no joke this time. No jest on his tongue. Only silence — the kind that came when truth settled deep into the soul, rearranging things.
Then — movement.
Adam's head snapped up, instincts igniting. From the trees, silent and swift as a shadow moving between thoughts, came a figure. Striped fur, golden eyes like molten coin, and a step so light it did not stir the snow beneath it.
Kon.
He moved like a storm bottled up in flesh. His gaze fixed instantly on Trevor. A glint of danger flared in his eyes, and in a heartbeat, his hand flew to the knife at his side.
"Get away from him!" Kon barked, his voice sharp with alarm — a soldier's command laced with the memory of too many betrayals.
Adam stood, reaching out, but it was already too late. Kon surged forward, a blur of fur and muscle.
But Trevor — ever one step ahead, always dancing just beyond danger — didn't hesitate. Before Adam could shout a warning, Trevor's long tail uncoiled with expert precision, wrapping around Kon's legs and yanking hard.
Kon's momentum betrayed him. He lurched forward, caught off balance, and tumbled face-first into the snow. The knife skidded uselessly from his grip, vanishing into a snowdrift.
For a moment, all was still.
Then, a sharp wheezing noise broke the silence.
Laughter.
Trevor had collapsed backward into the snow, arms wrapped around his sides, his whole body shaking with uncontrollable mirth.
"Hah! That was too easy!" he gasped, kicking his heels in the snow. "Did you see that? You just—whoosh!—face full of ice!"
Kon groaned into the snowbank, his growl muffled but unmistakable. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, flecks of snow clinging stubbornly to his fur. His expression was not one of amusement.
"What… was… that?" he growled, golden eyes flaring as he wiped snow from his face.
Adam approached, hiding the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Easy, Kon," he said gently. "He's not the enemy."
Kon shot him a skeptical look. "You're telling me that thing isn't working for Razik?"
"Nope." Adam crossed his arms. "In fact, we saved his life. He was pulled into the Ford of Beruna — from another world."
Kon blinked. His mouth opened slightly, as if to object, but then shut again. He stared hard at Trevor, who now sat up in the snow, grinning like a schoolboy who'd just won a mischief contest.
Another world. The words danced in Kon's mind like strange runes he didn't know how to read. He looked to Adam again, searching for some crack in his certainty. But there was none. If Adam said it, it was true.
Still, Kon muttered darkly, "He doesn't look like a chosen one."
Trevor, ever ready, winked. "And you don't look like someone who can stay on their feet."
Kon's hand twitched toward his blade, but he stopped himself with a deep breath. "I don't like him."
Adam gave a small, patient smile. "That makes two of us not liking each other. But we need him."
Kon glanced at the horizon, where shadows loomed and the wind whispered secrets through the trees. He sighed, his shoulders heavy with the weight of too many losses. "The Vale of Shadows isn't far," he said at last. "But Razik's reach grows longer every day. We can't delay."
At the mention of the Vale, Trevor's ears perked. "The Vale of Shadows? Sounds cozy!"
"You don't even know what it is," Kon snapped.
"Doesn't matter," Trevor said brightly. "Can't go home, remember? Ford's iced over like a fishpond in winter. Might as well tag along."
Kon glared. Adam stepped between them, laying a hand on Kon's shoulder. "We need every edge we can get. You saw how fast he was."
Reluctantly, Kon nodded. He didn't like it. He didn't trust it. But he knew what he'd seen — and pride could wait when war was near.
Trevor gave a lazy salute. "Don't worry, stripes. I'll behave."
Kon rolled his eyes. "Stop calling me that."
With their uneasy alliance now forged, the three packed up camp in silence. The fire was buried beneath a mound of snow. The world beyond their clearing yawned open, vast and grey and brimming with untold danger.
They walked in single file through the thickening storm, boots crunching in the ice, breath fogging the air. The storm above roared with distant thunder, as if some ancient beast watched their passage from behind the clouds.
But they walked anyway — three souls drawn together by fate, or prophecy, or perhaps something older still.
And somewhere, deep beneath the snow and sky, the land of Narn remembered.
________________________
Razik's Stronghold – Narn, 6999 NY
The storm had not lifted.
It pressed down upon Razik's ruined fortress like a living weight, thick and unnatural. The air outside churned with blackened clouds, twisted as if by some unseen hand. They boiled over the jagged towers of the stronghold, swallowing the pale light of the moon and turning day and night into indistinguishable shades of ash. The sky wept no rain, only cold—a bitter wind that howled through the broken battlements, whispering tales of failure to the stone.
Within the heart of the keep, the throne hall—once a place of terror and pride—lay gutted. Pillars lay cracked, tapestries hung in scorched ribbons, and the floor was strewn with debris: shattered stone, torn ironwork, and soot from fires not yet fully dead. It had once echoed with Razik's commands, thunderous and cruel, but now it was a tomb of quiet anger. The silence, though broken by the distant scurrying of minions, felt deliberate, like the breath held before a storm strikes again.
Razik stood in the center of it all, unmoving. His cloak, black as oil and heavy with frost, billowed slightly from the gusts sneaking through the broken arches. Around him, his Hyena Tracient soldiers moved like shadows, hunched and wary. Their claws clacked against the stone as they scrambled to right fallen beams or drag away the remains of shattered columns. None dared approach him without cause. None dared speak unless summoned.
And yet, one did.
A single Hyena Tracient crept forward, head low, tail tucked, its voice a trembling whimper. "M-Master… we're rebuilding as quickly as we can. The damage is—"
Razik did not turn. He did not lift a hand. Only the air around him stirred sharply, and the Hyena was flung backward by a pressure unseen, as if the darkness itself had swatted it like a fly.
"Enough," Razik growled, his voice low and lethal. "I do not care about your rubble."
There was no echo. The hall swallowed his words, as if even sound feared him.
He stood there, hunched forward slightly, his long fingers curled into fists so tight that blood had begun to streak down his wrists, trailing like ink through the veins of his pale skin. The crimson mingled with the ash at his feet.
They had escaped.
Adam.
Kon.
Razik's jaw clenched as the names burned through him. He had underestimated them. He, who had turned cities to ash, who had outlived whole dynasties and devoured the will of countless warriors. He, who had not known defeat in decades, had been wounded—not by blade or fire, but by arrogance. That, and something else… something old.
"I underestimated them," he hissed again, this time more to himself than the room. He replayed the battle in fragments, sharp and unforgiving. The young Wolf—so calm under pressure, that ancient power flickering behind his gaze like the first spark of a buried sun. And the Tiger—Kaplan. His transformation still haunted Razik's mind, like a dream wrapped in fire and thunder. The ring. The swords. The light.
Razik turned his gaze slowly toward the remnants of the southern wall, blown open during the struggle. Snow crept in through the crack like fingers reaching for the warmth of blood. Even now, the cold did not bother him. It had been part of him long before he had ever ruled.
"They believe they've won something," he said aloud, his voice tinged with a cruel smile. "A battle… a sliver of hope. But hope is a lie. And victory—" He bared his teeth, white and sharp. "—is illusion."
He moved then, pacing across the hall with slow, deliberate steps. The stones beneath his feet groaned, scorched with Mana from the clash. The shadows followed him, not just cast by firelight, but living things, snaking along the ground like loyal hounds.
The Aryas.
That word alone made his fingers twitch.
They were no longer myths. Not mere whispers in ancient tombs or stories passed by trembling lips before bedtime. They were real—real. The Arya of Destruction had awakened. He had felt it. The surge when Kon transformed had shaken more than his fortress. It had stirred the world itself.
And if one Arya had surfaced…
Then the others could not be far behind.
He stopped at the foot of his broken dais, where his throne—once carved from obsidian and engraved with runes that twisted in the eye—now lay in pieces. He stared down at it, expression unreadable.
In the silence, his thoughts churned.
They're heading east.
To the Vale.
The name itself rang with old power, with secrets buried in snow and time. If they reached it, if they found what he suspected was hidden there… no. He could not allow it.
Razik turned, eyes glowing like embers behind the curtains of his hair.
"I want them found," he said, louder this time. The room seemed to flinch. "Search every inch of Narn. Tear down the forests. Split the mountains. I want eyes in every shadow, every cave, every whispering grove."
He stepped forward again, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"They are heading for the Vale of Shadows… and I will not be waiting."
The Hyenas around him nodded fervently, scrambling to carry out his orders. Some darted into the tunnels below the fortress, others vanished into the storm beyond the shattered gates. But Razik remained, unmoving, his gaze now fixed on the storm-wracked sky above. The wind howled through the cracks, and for a moment, it seemed to carry his voice with it.
"Adam. Kon. You won't escape me again."
The words weren't spoken. They were etched into the cold, carried by the breath of the storm as if Narn itself now bore his promise. Somewhere, far beyond the ruins of his stronghold, his enemies moved with the illusion of safety. But the storm was always listening. And Razik… Razik had just begun to hunt.
The flames in the ruined hall flared suddenly, as if in response to the fury of his resolve. The shadows writhed, the walls groaned. In the darkness, something ancient stirred.
And as the snow continued to fall, Razik smiled—a terrible thing, hollow and sharp as a blade.
There was still time.
There was always time… for vengeance.