The hall was cold and cavernous, filled with faces I barely recognized and the heavy weight of expectation pressing down on me like stone. At the center rested the Stone of Fate, glowing softly on a pedestal, its shifting light casting strange shadows across the walls.
The air smelled of burning incense and fear, as I approached the priest I was reminded of the first time I had gone through this ceremony. My father had stood beside me—a looming shadow of rage and command. His bloodshot eyes burned into mine, leaving no room for refusal. The scarred hand that gripped my shoulder was iron-tight, a cruel reminder that this was no choice but an order.
"You will accept what the Stone shows," he growled, voice thick with whiskey and menace. "No whining. No running. You belong to the family—and to your fate."
My heart hammered like a war drum, each beat a desperate plea for escape. I stepped forward, trembling, the murmurs of the crowd fading into a dull roar in my ears.
When I touched the Stone of Fate, it was cold against my skin, but its power was immediate—an electric pulse coursing through my veins. I looked up, searching for a sign, for a miracle.
But the Stone did not waver. It chose.
The glow shifted, settling on the mark of a warrior—the path my father wanted for me.
I wanted to scream, to refuse, to break free.
But my father's grip tightened, dragging me forward into a role I had never asked for.
The ceremony was over before I could claim it as my own. My fate was sealed, not by my soul's desire, but by the cruel will of a man who saw me as nothing more than a weapon.
Slowly I walk forward to the raised platform and place my hand upon the stone of fate, its surface unlike anything I'd ever touched. It was small enough to fit in one hand, yet it pulsed with a weight far beyond its size—as if it held the destiny of a thousand souls within its core.
The Stone of Fate was a smooth orb, crafted from an iridescent stone that shimmered with colors shifting between deep violet and molten gold. Light seemed to dance beneath its surface, swirling like a storm trapped inside glass.
At its center, faint runes glowed softly, ancient symbols that seemed to shift and rearrange themselves as I watched. They whispered secrets I could not yet understand—names of paths not yet chosen, powers not yet awakened.
When held during the coming-of-age ceremony, the Stone of Fate would stir in response to the soul of the one who grasped it—revealing their true calling. Warrior, mage, rogue, or healer—the choice would no longer be theirs alone, but decided by the silent wisdom of this living relic.
It was more than a tool. The Stone of Fate was fate made tangible, a quiet judge and guide, holding the future in its glowing depths.
The Stone of Fate felt different beneath my hand.
Last time, its surface had been cold and smooth—obedient. A silent tool bent to my father's will. But now, as my fingers met its surface once more, something stirred deep within it. The light didn't pulse in steady waves like before. It shimmered erratically, as if unsure, or awakening from a long slumber.
The usual sigils began to bloom around the orb—familiar, expected. The Warrior, with its crimson glow pulsing like a heartbeat. The Mage, swirling with arcane blue. The Rogue, flickering in restless silver. The Healer, bathed in gentle green.
I braced myself. I knew the routine. Knew what my father expected.
But then… the light faltered.
A fifth sigil sparked into existence.
At first, I thought it was a trick of the eye—a flaw in the stone, a reflection. But no. The symbol hovered just above the surface, carved in light older than language. It didn't glow with the neat order of the others. It burned—a deep gold streaked with shadow, like sunlight buried in ash. The shape was unfamiliar, jagged and fluid at once, pulsing like a living thing. I had never seen it before… not truly.
But I had heard of it.
In bedtime whispers and forbidden tales. A path not offered in centuries. A class not chosen, but awakened.
Warden.
The stories spoke of it in reverent tones—guardians of fate, wielders of time-touched power, walking the line between worlds. Legends claimed Wardens served no kingdom or any god, only the balance itself.
My breath caught in my throat. The room fell away. For the first time in my life, the Stone didn't tell me what I had to be.
It asked.
And in that moment, I understood: the past still lived inside me—but it no longer ruled me. As the old stories course through my mind I'm reminded of The Warden legends.
It was not just a class—it was a calling, forged from the marrow of the others but shaped by something older, deeper.
The stories called them balance-walkers, guardians of the thread that binds all fates. Where the Warrior wields strength, the Mage commands arcane forces, the Rogue bends shadow to their will, and the Healer mends what is broken—the Warden does all, but answers to none.
They are the fulcrum.
Their strength is not in dominance, but in discipline—the power to choose when to act, and when to hold still. The Warden is the hand that steadies a falling world, the blade that strikes only when the weight of choice demands it. They do not serve kings, or gods. Their oaths are carved in silence, bound to the ancient laws that existed before even the pantheon dared name themselves divine.
In battle, a Warden channels the ferocity of a warrior's strike, the precision of a rogue's step, the will of a mage's spell, and the compassion of a healer's touch. But these powers are not scattered—they are woven together, like strands in a tapestry. Unified. Intentional. Controlled.
The Fate stone offered the Warden path not because it was the strongest—it wasn't.
It offered it because it was the most dangerous.
Not to others—but to the world's order. A Warden reshapes fate, not merely obeys it. A Warden questions the path laid out for them and has the power to choose another.
Few are ever given the option. Fewer still survive it.
Because once you walk as a Warden, you carry the burden of every path, and the consequences of choosing none lightly.
And in that moment, as the ancient symbol pulsed beneath my hand, I understood: the Stone had not chosen for him.
It had simply waited—for the boy to become the man who could finally choose.
Contemplating my decision in my mind knowing the dangers that will await me if this is the path I choose, I hear a familiar voice speak,
"Balance shall bleed where the Warden walks.
Chains shall break, and time shall bend.
The crownless king, the weeping blade—
shall rise again, through fire and end.
One who bears all paths must walk alone,
where gods have fallen and truth lies torn.
Choose, O Warden, the fate you make—
or be the storm that fate has sworn."