The torches hissed in the damp night air.
The village had fallen into an uneasy silence after Eryndor's words, but Sunny couldn't sleep.
Something about the man's grin — about what he had said — gnawed at him.
Shen had already retired, his usual sharpness dulled by fatigue, but Sunny sat outside, staring at the distant tree line where shadows writhed like restless spirits.
And then… he heard it.
A strange, uneven hum.
A melody, almost like a lullaby, carried by the wind.
Words followed — sharp, broken, but heavy with meaning.
> "The river runs red…
the dawn will be stolen…
Adam walks again."
Sunny rose slowly, his hand resting near the hilt of his dagger. From the far edge of the torchlight, a man appeared — thin, frail, with a crooked staff clutched in his hands. His robe was torn, his hair a tangled mess, but his eyes… his eyes burned like dying stars.
Gasps rose from the shadows of the huts.
> "The Poet," an elder whispered.
"No," another voice trembled, "the Prophet."
The man tilted his head toward Sunny, as though recognizing him instantly.
"Ah," he rasped. "The thief of shadows. The one who does not belong."
Sunny didn't react. His expression stayed flat, but his gaze sharpened.
The Prophet stepped closer, his voice steady despite the madness that swirled around him.
> "Adam is coming," he said, almost gently.
"The first blade, the last shadow. The end of all debts. The fire will rise, the sky will bleed, and the thief will be crowned by ruin."
The villagers muttered nervously, clutching their charms and amulets. Shen emerged from his hut, hand on his blade, ready for a fight.
"Who is this lunatic?" Shen snapped. "Sunny, stay back."
But the Prophet ignored him entirely. His eyes stayed locked on Sunny, and his cracked lips curved into a knowing smile.
> "You seek the inheritance," the Prophet whispered.
"You think it will save you. But it won't. It will only burn you alive. Still… only you can claim it. Not them. Not anyone. Only you."
For a moment, silence thickened between them.
Sunny's jaw tightened. His thoughts sharpened like a blade. This man knew too much… far too much.
"Then what do you want?" Sunny asked quietly.
The Prophet tapped the butt of his staff against the dirt, the hollow sound echoing like a drumbeat.
> "Protection," he said.
"There are things in the dark. Things that hunger for me. Take me to the place where the silence ends. Guard my steps… and I will show you the path to what you seek."
Shen scoffed. "You expect us to play escort for some madman?"
But Sunny didn't even glance at him. His eyes stayed on the Prophet, calculating, weighing every word.
Finally, he nodded.
"Fine," Sunny said. "We'll protect you. You take me to the inheritance."
The Prophet's grin widened, twisted and wild, but his tone stayed eerily calm.
> "Good," he murmured.
"Then the path is set. Guard me well, little thief… because the moment you fail, the world will eat you whole."
---
As they walked back toward the cluster of huts, Shen hissed under his breath.
"Have you lost your mind? Trusting a mad poet? Sunny—"
Sunny cut him a look that silenced him instantly.
Inside, though, Sunny's thoughts were colder, sharper, more dangerous.
This was perfect.
The Prophet would lead them to the inheritance. Shen and the others would keep the threats away, clear the path, and never see what he was planning until it was too late.
And when it was over — when the inheritance was his and theirs meant nothing —
> He would kill them both.
The night swallowed his thoughts.
The Prophet's soft humming filled the silence, weaving that same cryptic line again and again.
> "Adam is coming… Adam is coming…"