Arya's Perspective :
Arya's eyes shot open as a sharp pain erupted in his head. Sweat drenched his body, his clothes clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
"It's getting chilly," he muttered, rising to close the window.
The dream still lingered—vivid, unsettling. Those eyes… deep and endless, as dark as the night sky. And yet, within them, a strange purity—raw, unmasked—stared back at him. Emotions surged through him, though he couldn't tell if they came from the dream... or from within himself. Were they someone else's memories—or just a reflection of his own regrets?
He remembered that day all too well. The day everything changed. The day he altered not just his fate, but that of everyone who had loved him, trusted him, walked beside him. And in return… he betrayed them all.
Grief had followed ever since, a companion he never asked for. You rarely comprehend the weight of your actions—until it's too late to undo them.
He glanced at the wall clock. 4:00 a.m. Not long before sunrise. Slowly, he made his way to the nightstand and took a long sip of water. His eyes drifted to the window again.
Outside, the city lay in darkness. Only a single streetlamp flickered below, casting an eerie glow that reminded him of the silence before a storm. He thought about the life that was, and the life that could have been. But the past was done. And for the past fifteen years, he had lived this same nightmare over and over again.
His fists clenched.
"That damn prophecy."
If only he had ignored it. If only he hadn't acted on it—hadn't let jealousy and insecurity guide his choices. Could all of this have been avoided? He still didn't know. Had he played into the prophecy's hands? Or was it inevitable—some unseen force ensuring that fate unfolded exactly as written?
That thought offered no comfort. Because in the end, it was his actions that had made the prophecy come true.
But it wasn't over.
For the last five years, Arya had lived in a quiet town called Firstlight, waiting. The prophecy wasn't fully fulfilled yet. On the back of the torn page he had found years ago, the word "Firstlight" was scrawled in the same jagged handwriting. It took him years to decipher its meaning—or so he hoped he had.
He gazed out at the town again. Peaceful. Unremarkable. No grand monuments or strategic value. Just ordinary people living ordinary lives. Some locals claimed it was named after the hero Aeon, who began his godhood journey here. They said the name symbolized new beginnings.
Arya could only hope that held true for him as well.
He moved toward his desk. A weathered page lay there, yellowed and torn, its edges brittle from time. He picked it up—the same page he had picked from an old tome, hidden deep within a cryptic diary. The prophecy. The one that changed everything.
He never shared it with his companions. Some truths, he had kept close to his chest. Perhaps… too close.
He stared at the page once more. Maybe this time, it would reveal something new. Maybe some hidden magic still lingered in the ink, waiting to guide him forward.
The crude handwriting began to speak to him again:
"In Inceptia's hush, when stars first stirred,
And fate was forged in whispered word,
Three souls were born of different clay,
To shape the world, to guide its way.
One bore the strength of mountain deep,
A force that none could break or keep.
One held the cunning, sharp and clear,
A mind that danced 'twixt hope and fear.
One led with heart, both bold and wide,
The soul of truth, the world's true guide.
Together once, their purpose shared,
Through ruin's path, they boldly dared.
They calmed the storm, they stilled the flame,
And kingdoms rose upon their name.
But even stars will twist and fall,
When pride and pain undo the call.
A crack shall form, a wound unseen,
That festers slow behind the sheen.
A word, a wound, a fateful night,
Shall turn their bond into a fight.
And when the dust begins to clear,
One shall be left in shadowed fear.
The others march toward the flame,
Their burdens cast in silent shame.
But one remains, with tear-streaked face,
Bound by love, and lost in place.
Different roads shall stretch from what was one,
Divided now beneath the sun.
Yet still the stars in silence gleam,
And whisper hope within a dream."
But Arya knew… this wasn't the full prophecy.
The page was torn. He had searched for the rest—for ten years—across continents, temples, libraries, even black markets of forbidden knowledge. But there was nothing. No trace of the oracle who wrote it. No records of anyone who could see the future.
Still, he believed.
He had to believe that somewhere, a path to redemption remained. A final thread in this tapestry of fate. And he hoped—desperately hoped—that this quiet town of Firstlight held the missing piece.
Because if it didn't…He had nowhere left to go.