The Stone Table, Narn – Year 6999 NY
The wind in Narn did not simply blow; it whispered of things long dead. It was the kind of cold that spoke with an ancient voice—one not made of words, but memory. It clawed at fur and skin alike, curling around limbs with the insistence of something alive and unseen. And yet, the five figures who trudged through the white silence did not turn back. Each of them walked with a heaviness that could not be blamed on the cold alone.
It had been several days since the Narn Lords Summit, but the weight of what had been decided there had not lessened. If anything, it had grown with each passing hour, settling like snow upon the shoulders of Adam, Kon, Trevor, Darius, and Kopa. Every step that drew them closer to the Stone Table also drew them further away from the lives they had once known—lives filled with questions, uncertainty, and a kind of youthful freedom that now seemed to have vanished entirely into the frost.
The land stretched out before them like a canvas of silence—vast, white, and unwelcoming. Long ago, this had been the very heart of Narn, a place where ancient songs were once sung beneath golden trees and high banners. But that was a time veiled by shadow and story, and now, the only thing that remained was ruin, buried beneath snow and sorrow.
None of them spoke much on the journey. Words, it seemed, would only disturb something sacred in the stillness. There was an unspoken reverence, a shared knowing that this was not a journey of mere geography, but of soul.
Adam kept near the front, just behind Darius. His breaths came in quiet puffs, his eyes fixed on the trail ahead. Each gust of wind that bit into him seemed to strip away another layer of the boy he had once been. And yet, he did not feel empty—only sharpened. As if he was being carved slowly into something new.
King of Narn, they had called him.
He hadn't argued. He hadn't accepted it either—not in the way Darius had, not in the way Kon wore his strength like a quiet cloak. The title was a garment too large for him still. But in the silence of that frozen land, with the winds tugging at his cloak and the ghosts of his bloodline watching unseen, Adam began to feel something stirring. Not pride. Not certainty. But the first trembling edge of resolve.
The snow deepened.
"We're getting close," Darius murmured, his voice more breath than sound, as though even speech risked stirring something ancient in the air. His lemon-green eyes, luminous even in the ashen gloom, scanned the ridge ahead with quiet intensity. "It's just beyond this hill."
Adam gave a slow nod, though he barely heard the words. His feet pressed forward, but his thoughts lingered behind—in memory, in uncertainty, in that strange, aching place where the past and future seemed to braid together. He had been here before. He remembered the silence, the weight, the presence of something far greater than himself. Asalan had led him then—noble, tender, unshakeable. That encounter had left a mark not just on his heart, but on the shape of his soul. He hadn't understood it then. He barely did now. But the Table… the Table knew him. And it was waiting.
Kon and Trevor walked just behind. They were quiet too—each man walking in the shadow of his own thoughts.
Trevor, for all his usual energy and irreverent spark, had not cracked a single joke since morning. His bright orange eyes were alert, flicking from shadow to movement, from friend to horizon. There was no wild grin on his face now—only a taut line, a readiness tempered by unease.
"I'm not gonna lie, fellas," he said at last, his voice low, as if afraid to be heard by the land itself. "This place gives me the creeps."
His words dropped like a stone into a deep well. Even the wind seemed to quiet in their wake.
Kon responded with a grunt that might have been agreement. His golden eyes stayed fixed ahead, scanning the frost-bitten ridge. "It's worse than I remember," he muttered. His voice was gravel, sharpened by memory. The shadows fell thickly around him, as if his own stripes had begun to leak into the world beyond. His posture was tense, shoulders set and jaw locked. Whatever Kon remembered of this place, it was not comforting.
And then, all at once, they stopped.
The air shifted.
Spread across the slope ahead, dark shapes moved—slow, methodical, and armed. Razik's men.
They were unmistakable. Tall, lean Tracients wrapped in grey leathers and dark steel, their faces obscured by bone-like masks. They moved with trained precision, their boots crunching the snow in perfect rhythm. Cold discipline in every motion.
"Looks like Razik's men," Kopa whispered, his eyes narrowing to slits. He had crouched low beside a rock, his antlers lowered slightly, voice like the first snap of ice on a lake. "They've doubled security since our last pass."
Adam lowered himself beside him, peering over the ridge. A dark frustration stirred in his gut. "We'll need to get through them if we want to reach the Table."
Darius remained still, arms folded, the weight of leadership etched across his features. He did not rush to speak, and when he did, his voice was level and low. "We can't risk a direct confrontation. If we alert them, reinforcements will follow. Razik will know we're here."
Kon's fists curled unconsciously. Even kneeling, his presence crackled with latent power. "I could take the ones on the left," he whispered, eyes narrowing. "Trevor and Adam handle the right. Quick and clean."
Trevor raised an eyebrow, half a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You sure about that, stripes? We get spotted, we'll be toast faster than you can swing a claw."
The tension was building like static—too many eyes, too many instincts pulling toward action. But before anyone could move, a calm voice cut through them.
"Leave this to me."
They all turned.
Kopa had stepped forward—not brashly, but with the quiet certainty of one who knows his place in the rhythm of the world. His breath misted as he knelt and placed both hands to the snow. A murmur slipped from his lips, almost inaudible, like a prayer or a song remembered only by the earth.
And then—movement.
From the frozen ground beneath the patrols, vines began to sprout.
Thin at first, like hairs of green fire, they burst forth with impossible speed. Leaves unfurled despite the frost, glowing with an ethereal light, as if warmed from within by an ancient spring. The vines curled around the guards' boots, silent and elegant. They did not resist, did not strike—only breathed.
Then, a fine silver mist.
It released with a whisper. The guards stiffened, eyes widening for a heartbeat—then closed. One by one, they crumpled into the snow, sleeping as if enchanted.
Trevor blinked. "Well I'll be…" he exhaled. "Now that's what I call gardening."
Kon didn't speak, but he gave a single approving nod. The faintest flicker of admiration passed through his eyes, quickly buried beneath discipline.
Darius stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Kopa's shoulder. His expression was rare—a smile, true and unguarded. "You've done well, Kopa," he said quietly. "The old ways have not left you."
Kopa nodded once, and though he said nothing, his antlers shimmered faintly, kissed by the lingering mana that still drifted like smoke from the vines.
Darius turned to the group. "Now, let's move. The Table awaits."
And with the path clear, they ascended the last rise—unhindered, but not untouched. For already, the Stone Table felt closer, like a pulse just beneath the skin of the land.
________________________
With the last of the guards silenced and the cold wind carrying nothing but the hush of falling snow, the group began their ascent.
The hill rose like a sentinel before them, steep and unyielding, as if daring them to approach the sacred place beyond. Each footstep broke the snow's crust with a muffled crunch, but not one among them spoke. There was no need. The silence had become part of the rite—an unspoken reverence for what they were about to do.
As they crested the final incline, the land changed.
The snow stopped.
Not a flake fell, nor a chill touched their fur.
Before them, in solemn majesty, stood the Stone Table.
Adam stopped in his tracks.
Even though he had seen it before, his breath caught in his throat all the same. The sight was timeless—unchanged, untouched by the decay and shadow that had swallowed so much of Narn. It stood on a small plateau of living earth, a miracle in a land otherwise draped in frost and death. Grass grew here—real grass, soft and vibrant, whispering faintly in the breeze like the remnants of a lullaby. Wildflowers peeked from the mossy edges, their petals open as if in welcome.
The Stone Table itself was a thing of both terrible power and deep beauty—vast and worn by time, its surface cracked and etched with runes older than memory. Five towering stone pillars circled it in a silent arc, each carved with an ancient crest that shimmered faintly with inner light. The pillars did not belong to the world of men or beasts—they were relics of the First Time, the elder days when Narn had breathed freely under the watchful gaze of Asalan.
Trevor let out a slow breath as he stepped closer, his wide orange eyes reflecting the soft light that bled from the symbols. "This place… it's alive, isn't it?" His voice, though casual, carried awe he could not hide.
Darius, who had approached the table with the reverence of one returning to the heart of his faith, nodded solemnly. "Yes. The Stone Table has stood since the dawn of the world. Long before the Aryas were forged. Long before the clans were given their names. The land remembers what we forget, and here… the land still remembers."
Adam said nothing. His hand drifted toward the stone, fingers brushing the ancient surface. It was just as he remembered.
The first time he had come here, he had not known what it meant. Asalan had stood with him then—silent and golden, the warmth of his mane against Adam's trembling shoulder. The lion had said little, but in that silence Adam had learned more than words could teach.
Now, the Table felt different.
Not gentler—but heavier.
More aware.
It was watching them.
No, Adam corrected himself, not watching—waiting.
They approached the five pillars.
Each crest bore the mark of a great clan: a roaring flame, a wolf howling against a crescent moon, three claw slashes, two curved horns of a bull, 3 spirals clustered in a triangular form. The designs shimmered softly beneath the gray sky, untouched by time or dust. They pulsed faintly now, one after the other, as though recognizing the bloodlines that had returned to them at last.
Darius stepped toward the crest of the Boga Clan—a wide, open sun flanked by twin bull horns—and turned back to the others.
"It is time," he said, his voice deep and clear. "The prophecy demands not only your blood and power, but your pledge. This is the vow that binds all Grand Lords to the land itself. You must speak it before your ancestors. You must speak it before Narn."
Without hesitation, they moved.
Adam found his place before the Kurt Clan's pillar, the crest of the wolf gleaming faintly in response. The carved stone was cold beneath his fingertips, but there was something steadying in its touch—as if his mother and father were standing just behind it, unseen.
Kon stood before the pillar of the Kaplan Clan, its crest carved into a glyph of destruction and rebirth. His jaw was tight, his good eye burning with quiet purpose.
Trevor bounced once on the balls of his feet before taking his place in front of the Maymum pillar. The curling symbol of the trickster monkey gleamed like a dance of silver lines across stone, bright and mischievous.
Kopa remained respectfully behind them all, not as one diminished, but as a quiet guardian. His place was not before a pillar—but beside the hearts of those who were.
Darius raised his hand, then placed it upon his crest.
And then, he spoke.
The words did not echo.
They resonated.
They pulsed through the ground, through the stone, through the bone.
They were ancient. They were truth.
"I promise to save you,"
"I promise to protect you,"
"I promise to beautify you,"
"I promise to stand by what is right and what is just."
"I promise to fight all your evils in whatever way I can."
"For my country, for my people,"
"And for Asalan."
One by one, their voices joined his. Kon's was deep and solemn. Trevor's carried a light tremble beneath the humor. And Adam… Adam's voice caught slightly at the first line, but grew stronger with each word, until the last syllable rang with conviction.
The Table responded.
A soft glow spread from the crests, threading golden light across the grass like veins beneath skin. The runes carved into the Table flared brighter, burning momentarily with ancient mana. The very air shifted—no longer heavy, but clear, as if a veil had been lifted.
Each of the four Grand Lords felt it.
A warmth blooming in their chests.
Not the heat of battle, nor the fire of raw mana—but something deeper. Like roots taking hold. Like a bond being sewn with golden thread.
It was not power.
It was belonging.
The land knew them.
And now, they knew the land.
Adam closed his eyes as the last echo of the vow faded into the wind. The responsibility was no less immense—but it was no longer a burden he bore alone. The Table had accepted them. And in doing so, it had reminded them of something they had nearly forgotten:
This was home.
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The final echoes of their vow faded slowly, like mist dissolving into the cold air—yet the silence that followed did not feel empty. It felt charged, as though the very hilltop had held its breath and now, at last, was exhaling.
The stone crests on each pillar began to glow with renewed light—soft at first, but swelling steadily, until their radiance washed over the Table and all who stood near it. Their glow was not garish or fierce. It was deep—like memory made visible, like old oaths remembered by the earth itself.
The Aryas the Grand Lords bore responded in kind.
Adam's crescent pendant, which until now had remained dormant against his chest, pulsed with a warm silvery-blue light. It wasn't hot, but it hummed like a heartbeat—a silent confirmation. His hand instinctively rose to it, fingers brushing the cool metal as he felt its power stir within him for the first time in days. It was no longer just a symbol. It was awake.
Trevor's headband shimmered with golden-orange light, playful and flickering like firelight seen through leaves. For a moment, his ever-smirking face turned solemn, the weight of the moment pressing past even his humor.
Kon's ring gleamed fiercely—its crimson glow so vivid that it painted his fur with streaks of blood-red. His jaw tensed, and though he did not speak, his hand clenched into a fist over his heart. He felt it in his bones: his Arya was no longer only his to wear. It was his to answer.
Darius, standing proudly before the Boga crest, shone brightest of all. His golden nose ring lit up with a brilliant green flare, a verdant blaze that reflected in his lemon-colored eyes. His expression was one of calm power, a quiet acknowledgment that the mantle he bore as the oldest Grand Lord was not only his by birth, but by calling.
Then it happened.
Without wind, without warning, a light broke through the very center of the Stone Table—pure and radiant, like the sun refracted through crystal. It did not descend from the sky, nor rise from the ground. It simply was. And from it stepped Asalan.
His form came into being not all at once, but like dawn spilling over a mountain ridge—first his golden mane, then the mighty shape of his leonine form, his every movement accompanied by a soft sound like bells heard from deep within the earth. His fur shimmered with a brilliance that defied comparison, and his eyes—those ancient, knowing eyes—glowed with a fierce compassion. Around him, the very air seemed to know peace, and the frost beneath his paws melted in reverence.
The four Grand Lords bowed without command, falling to their knees as one. It was not submission, but something greater. A love mingled with awe. A reverence so total that words became too small to carry it.
Asalan looked upon them.
His voice, when it came, was as it had been in Adam's memory—low, warm, eternal. It did not echo, yet it filled the space beyond sound.
"Rise, my children," he said. And the very earth seemed to lean forward to listen.
One by one, they obeyed—rising slowly, almost hesitantly, as if fearing they might disturb the moment. Their eyes remained fixed on him, wide and silent. Even Kon, who rarely bowed to anyone, did so now with no reluctance.
"You have done well to come here," Asalan continued, "to renew your vows. This place remembers you now—not only as heirs, but as guardians." His gaze turned to each of them in turn, and none who met it could hold it for long. It was like staring into the heart of the sun and seeing your soul reflected back.
"I welcome you," he said, his voice softening, "as the protectors of Narn."
As they rose to their feet, the hush that followed the sacred words of the pledge still clung to the air like the residue of incense in a holy chamber. The wind had softened; even the snow seemed to pause in its fall, as if the land itself were holding its breath in reverence for what had just transpired.
Asalan turned his gaze upon them, his eyes a golden mirror of eternity—eyes that had seen kingdoms rise and fall, hopes bloom and wither. And yet, as he looked at each of them now, his expression was not burdened by time, but softened by affection, like a father looking upon children who had endured more than their youth should allow.
To Adam, he spoke first, his voice like velvet over stone.
"You have carried the burden of your parents' legacy with grace. You may not yet see it, but your strength and resolve are a seed planted in deep soil. From it, Narn will rise again."
Adam bowed his head slightly, but inside, his chest tightened. There was no pride in the Lion's praise—only a quiet ache. He did not feel ready. How could he lead a broken kingdom, inherit a legacy soaked in sacrifice, and shoulder the weight of creation itself? Still, Asalan's words wove warmth into his doubt, a quiet reassurance that somehow, he would grow into the title he had never asked for.
To Kon, Asalan's voice turned solemn and sure.
"You are the son of Orin and Serena, two of the fiercest hearts I have ever known. You carry their fire within you—and though pain has shaped you, it has not consumed you. That fire will not fail in the battles to come."
Kon met Asalan's gaze, jaw tight, the muscles in his neck flexing slightly. He never spoke of his parents. Not since the day he'd buried them. Yet here was Asalan, speaking their names with reverence, piercing through the silence Kon had worn like armor. The tiger's shoulders straightened. He said nothing, but a storm of emotion passed through his amber eyes—grief, pride, and something else… resolve.
To Trevor, Asalan smiled—not with the pity some gave the young, but with admiration.
"Your spirit is unbreakable, young one. Do not lose that, for it is your greatest strength."
Trevor blinked. No joke came to his lips, no clever retort. He wasn't used to praise that didn't have conditions, and certainly not from a creature of legend. Deep inside, he had wondered if his jokes were just armor, if his energy was a mask for fear. But Asalan's words rang clear, cutting through the self-doubt like sunlight through fog. He nodded slowly, and for once, he was quiet—but the gleam in his eye was brighter than before.
Finally, Asalan turned to Darius, and though the King of Archen Land was already a man of might and honor, even he bowed his head.
"You have held strong in the face of adversity, King of Archen Land. Your leadership will be vital in the days ahead. You have stood alone before. Now, you no longer have to."
Darius's nod was subtle, but his chest swelled slightly with the unspoken weight of those words. For decades, he had carried the kingdom on his back, its sorrows, its scars. To be seen—not as a symbol but as a soul—was a rare and humbling thing.
But it was Trevor, with his ever-curious eyes, who noticed what the others had missed. He turned slightly, squinting at the fifth pillar—the one that had remained unoccupied. Its crest glowed now, bright and steady like the others.
"Uh… Asalan," Trevor said cautiously, pointing. "Why is that one glowing too?"
The wind seemed to hush again, and Asalan's golden mane shimmered beneath the dim light as he turned toward the empty pillar. A shadow passed over his face—like a cloud briefly veiling the sun.
"The ritual of the Stone Table," he said slowly, "binds all wielders of the Arya. It does not matter where they stand—only that their bond to Narn was once true. And so, the Arya of Emotion has answered."
A silence fell, this one deeper than reverence. A chill passed through the group—not of wind, but of realization.
Trevor furrowed his brow. "Wait, you mean—"
But Adam had already stepped forward, dread washing over him like ice water. His voice, when it came, was quiet but unwavering.
"Asalan… does this mean he's here? That The Shadow… is connected to us now?"
The name tasted like ash in his mouth.
Asalan met Adam's gaze, and for a moment, the lion looked impossibly old.
"Yes," he said simply. "The Arya of Emotion, though twisted beyond recognition, is still bound to the same ancient pact of Narn. Its magic cannot forget its origin. And so, the one who now holds it—the one who was once counted among us—he too is bound. He hears the call of the Stone Table. He watches. He listens."
The glow of the fifth crest pulsed gently, like a silent heartbeat echoing from some distant soul.
Kon growled softly, his claws flexing. "So even here… even in our sacred rite… we are not alone?"
His voice was taut with fury, but underneath, something else: betrayal.
Trevor's ears twitched as his tail flicked behind him, unsettled. "I don't like this, not one bit."
Darius, whose gaze had been fixed on the fifth pillar, spoke with grim finality.
"So, even as we renew our vows to protect Narn, he listens. The very enemy we fight now knows our hearts."
Asalan's nod came slowly. "He has not yet manifested fully—were it not for my presence, he might have tried. But I cannot hold him back forever. His influence swells like a tide behind a dam. Cracks have already begun to show."
The light atop the fifth pillar dimmed slightly, but did not fade.
There was a moment when no one spoke. The snow began to fall again, slow and steady, dusting their fur and armor alike. And though the Table still glowed, and though the sky held no visible enemy, every one of them could feel it.
They were being watched.
Not from the trees or the rocks, but from within the very magic they had come to honor.
The Shadow had been a tale once. A whispered name. A phantom beyond the veil.
Now, he was listening.
And he would remember everything.
_______________________________
Trevor, ever the curious one, cocked his head and took a step toward the fifth pillar, his orange eyes narrowing with childlike wonder—and a pinch of mischief.
"So, if he's connected… why not let him show himself? We know he's here, right? Why not face him head-on?"
The words hung in the cold air like a dare shouted into a haunted canyon.
Kon's fur bristled visibly, the dark stripes across his shoulders stiffening like thorns. His fists clenched reflexively, and a low growl hummed in his throat. But it was Darius who answered first, his voice calm but sharp. "That's a dangerous proposition, Trevor. But it may be the only way to truly understand how far The Shadow's reach has extended."
Trevor glanced at him sidelong, his confident posture hiding the ripple of discomfort sliding down his back. "Yeah, well… I don't like the idea of someone listening in without showing their face. Feels wrong."
Adam stepped forward, not impetuously, but with the quiet gravity of someone who already knew what needed to be done. He turned toward Asalan, his heart thudding in his chest like a distant war drum.
"If he's here," Adam said softly, "we can't ignore him. As much as I despise the thought, maybe facing him now will give us some insight into his plans. Can we do that, Asalan? Can we let him manifest?"
The Great Lion regarded him with that gaze—ageless, penetrating, and unflinching. His mane shimmered in the gathering dark like a crown forged from sunfire. And for a moment, he did not speak.
Then, finally, with a voice deep as thunder but warm as a hearth, Asalan said, "You are brave, Adam. But remember—The Shadow is not to be underestimated."
He paused, and in that pause was a thousand years of memory.
"Still… you are right. He must show himself, for all of you to know the enemy you face."
A hush fell over the hilltop. Even the wind stilled.
Asalan turned his golden face to the fifth pillar. The light in his mane flared—not harshly, but steadily, like a ward against darkness.
"Very well," he said, his voice a command given to eternity itself. "I will allow him to take form. But remember—his presence is dark and filled with deceit. Trust not the words that come from his lips."
The moment the words were spoken, the air thickened—as if the world itself were holding its breath. The glow of the fifth symbol began to twist and change, its gentle light dimming, curdling into a blackness that bled outward like ink dropped into water. The temperature dropped sharply. Even Kon, who had grown used to the cold, felt his bones ache.
Then came the wind—low and whispering, but carrying no voice. It wasn't wind that spoke, but memory. Old, ancient memory. Something beneath the surface of the world uncoiling, like a serpent roused from slumber.
A tremor passed beneath their feet. It wasn't violent. It was worse. It was subtle. Intentional.
The ground itself seemed to shiver.
A shadow bled outward from the base of the fifth pillar, spiraling and pooling, rising like smoke that refused to dissipate. The light of the other four Aryas dimmed, as though in deference or fear. Even the Stone Table seemed to lean away.
Trevor stepped back without realizing it. "I—I was kidding, you know," he mumbled, voice tight.
The dark aura twisted upward, growing limbs, spine, breath. Then came shape. Then came face.
A figure stepped forth—not burst, not charged, not thundered. He simply arrived, as if he had always been here, just waiting to be noticed.
A Fox Tracient.
His fur was white—not the warm, soft white of youth or snow, but the bleached white of something left too long in the dark. Unnatural. Colorless, yet saturated with wrongness.
His eyes opened slowly—two pits of icy blue flame with subtle hints of violet, glowing not with life, but with frozen hate.
They cut through the group like knives.
His posture was flawless. No tremble. No tilt of the head. Not even breath. He stood regal, draped in silence and darkness like a king with a throne made of broken oaths. The power that radiated from him was not violent—it was calm. Measured. Ancient. And it made the hill feel too small to hold him.
Trevor dared a whisper. "That's him… isn't it?"
Adam didn't answer. He couldn't. His heart had stopped the moment those eyes landed on him.
Darius took a step forward. Kopa did too—but not out of bravery. Out of instinct. Instinct to shield the young ones. Instinct to stand between life and death.
The figure—The Shadow—smiled.
It was not cruel. It was not kind.
It was empty.
And that, somehow, was worse.
_________________________________________
The Shadow, in all his malevolent glory, had arrived.
He stood there—more specter than creature, wrapped in an elegance sharpened to a point. The chill in the air deepened, not from the wind, but from the presence of him. A wrongness that clung to the soul.
"Well, well, well…" the Fox Tracient drawled, his voice a smooth, venomous melody that coiled like smoke around the hearts of those who heard it. His lips curled into a serpentine grin, and his pale fur caught the dim, unnatural light in a way that made it shimmer like frost on a blade. "If it isn't the saviors of Narn. And here I was, thinking you'd all forgotten about me."
Trevor, ever the defiant spark in any gathering of storms, crossed his arms tightly across his chest. The usual humor in his orange eyes was now replaced by a steady flame. "Yeah, well, we haven't. And we're here to take Narn back."
The Shadow chuckled—a sound that wasn't laughter so much as it was mockery made manifest. "Oh, you sweet, naïve little monkey. Do you truly believe you have what it takes to face me? To undo what's already been done? Narn belongs to me now."
Kon stepped forward, slow and controlled. The earth beneath his feet almost seemed to tense with him. His tiger eyes burned golden. "Narn doesn't belong to anyone," he said, his voice like a blade being drawn. "And we'll make sure of that."
The Shadow tilted his head, amused. There was something serpentine in the gesture—casual, almost affectionate, but with eyes that could kill. "Brave words, Lord Kaplan. But bravery alone won't save you. You may wield the Arya of Destruction… but you are not yet worthy of its full power. You are raw. You are fragile. You are not ready."
Adam could feel the pressure building in his chest—the rising heat of indignation, of righteous fury held in check. Every word the fox spoke dripped poison, but he knew better than to drink it. He locked eyes with The Shadow, unblinking, and let the silence answer first.
Then, slowly, firmly: "We know who you are," Adam said, his voice steady as winter stone, "and we know what you've done. You won't rule Narn forever. We will stop you."
The Shadow's grin widened, his fangs gleaming beneath the shadowlight. "Such confidence, Adam Kurt. You remind me so much of your father—so full of hope, so incorruptibly determined. And look where that got him." He leaned in slightly, though the distance between them never changed. "Do you truly believe you'll fare any better?"
The words sliced deeper than any blade. Adam's breath hitched—only slightly—but it was enough. The wound had been pressed. The mention of Abel Kurt brought a flood of emotions he wasn't prepared for: a strong hand on his shoulder which he never felt, the scent of leather and pine, his father's voice which he never knew—warm, brave, lost.
But he did not flinch.
He held the Shadow's gaze like a shield held firm against a storm.
It was Darius who moved next, stepping forward like a mountain walking into the wind. The golden ring on his snout shimmered, catching the sickly light and bending it into something stronger.
"You've said enough," the king intoned, his voice like tempered steel. "We're not here to trade insults with you. The prophecy has already begun. There's nothing you can do to stop it."
The Shadow's eyes narrowed into pale slits. "The prophecy," he hissed. "You put so much faith in an ancient tale, one written before your bones had breath. You worship it like a holy relic. But I… I rewrite stories. I end them. The Aryas will be mine—one by one, piece by piece. And when I hold all five, the world will bow."
There was a flash of something behind his eyes then. Not fire. Ice. The quiet, terrifying stillness of a mind that had drowned every echo of mercy.
Trevor stepped forward once more, tail twitching behind him like a warning. His brow furrowed. "Is that why you're hiding behind your little army? Sending Razik and his circus to do your dirty work? If you're so powerful, why not come down here and face us yourself?"
The Shadow's grin twisted into something less human. "Oh, I will, Grand Lord of the Maymum Clan. Soon enough, you will beg to take back those words. You will dream of silence."
And then he tilted his head again, gaze sweeping across each of them—Darius, Kon, Trevor, and Adam—before settling like a blade upon Asalan.
"But for now," he said, voice softening into the most dangerous of tones, "I will bide my time. I have… other matters."
The mist around him began to rise, twisting like serpents in mourning. The shadows clung tighter, pulling at his form as if hungry for his departure. But his eyes—those haunting, blue stars—never left Adam's.
"Until we meet again, saviors of Narn," he whispered. "Enjoy your fleeting moments of hope. They will not last."
And then he was gone.
Not like a man stepping away—but like a nightmare un-dreaming itself.
The air that remained felt colder than before. Empty. Hollow.
No one spoke for a moment.
The wind blew softly across the hilltop.
Even the Stone Table, for a breath, seemed to mourn.
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For a long moment, no one spoke.
The echoes of The Shadow's presence still lingered in the air, not in sound, but in sensation—in the quiet tremor of the earth, in the chill that crept beneath even the thickest fur, and in the silence that seemed too profound to be natural. It was as if the very ground had drawn breath and forgotten how to exhale.
Adam stood motionless, eyes fixed on the fifth pillar that now stood dormant and cold once more. His chest rose and fell slowly, each breath weighed with everything that had just unfolded. Something ancient and immovable had brushed against him—against them all. Not simply an enemy, but an idea wrapped in flesh: the notion that evil could possess legacy, wear history like a crown, and speak of destiny as though it had a rightful claim.
For a moment, he didn't feel like a Grand Lord.
He felt like a boy standing where men had once knelt, before stone that remembered blood.
Then, softly—like a candle lit in the corner of a long-dark room—Asalan's voice broke the silence.
"The road ahead will not be easy."
His tone was calm, but carried that peculiar, unshakable strength—like water beneath ice, always moving, always sure. His golden eyes glowed with the last remnants of his celestial presence.
"The Shadow will stop at nothing to reclaim what he believes is his," he continued, voice deepening slightly. "But you must remain strong… and united. Narn's future rests in your hands."
The words fell over them like a mantle, not light nor heavy—but fitted, tailored to each of their shoulders. They did not weigh down so much as remind.
Adam turned slowly, facing the Lion once more. He swallowed, the cold biting the inside of his throat, but his voice came out clear—clearer than he expected.
"We won't fail, Asalan," he said. "We'll see this through."
He meant it. And not as a boast.
He meant it the way a seed promises spring.
Asalan's expression did not change, but his golden eyes seemed to glimmer—not with magic, but with something older and more enduring. Pride, yes, but also love. That deep, paternal love that required nothing in return but courage.
"I know you will," said the Lion. "You have already begun the journey to reclaim Narn. But this…" He paused, as the wind lifted around him. "This is only the beginning."
There was something final in the way he said it, not ominous but certain—like the last line of a story that promised a second volume.
Slowly, gently, Asalan's light began to dim.
His form faded not with drama, but with reverence—like the sun slipping behind the horizon, or a dream at the moment one wakes. The golden shimmer that had warmed the hilltop dissolved into the wind, and in its place returned the stillness of Narn.
The snow stirred once more.
The wind returned.
And the Stone Table, ever solemn, returned to its long vigil beneath the storm-heavy sky.
Adam stepped forward first, placing a hand on the smooth stone. It was cold again, but no longer lifeless. It throbbed with quiet memory, with a kind of sleeping hope.
Beside him, Kon stood tall and silent, his breath steady, his gaze fixed on the horizon—not in challenge, but in readiness.
Trevor exhaled, then chuckled softly under his breath. "Well," he said, breaking the silence with a whisper of humor, "I guess I can cross 'meet the ancient evil of the world' off my list."
But even he didn't smile long. Not out of fear—but out of respect.
Darius, standing behind them, closed his eyes for a moment and let the silence settle. He was not a boy like they were. He had carried this burden longer. But never had it felt so near to release.
And Kopa, ever quiet, stood apart and watched. He saw not just warriors before him, but boys who had stepped into myth—and had not flinched.
No one spoke as they turned from the Table.
The snow crunched beneath their feet as they made their way down the hill—not with the swiftness of escape, but with the rhythm of a march. They were not hurrying. They were beginning.
Behind them, the Table stood alone again.
Before them, Narn waited.
And though the sky remained gray, something had changed. Something fundamental and unseen. A thread pulled tight in the loom of time. A story that had, at last, resumed its telling.
They walked as one.
Grand Lords. Friends. Sons of the prophecy.
And Narn—forgotten but not forsaken—watched them go.