The silence that followed was not peaceful. It was heavy, pressing, and saturated with the weight of unspoken truths.
Aris stood before the shattered remnants of the ancient obelisk, his hand still pulsing from the surge of energy that had coursed through it. Ember clutched his arm, trying to steady him, her eyes filled with concern and something deeper—fear. Not for him, but of what he might become.
"You saw it, didn't you?" she whispered. "The future."
Aris nodded slowly. "I saw… fragments. Pieces of a war not yet fought. Blood on snow. A crown broken. A hand—mine—drenched in fire."
Ember's grip tightened. "Then we still have time to change it."
"But do we?" he asked, voice hollow. "Or are we just dancing along strings someone else has already pulled?"
Before Ember could answer, the clearing trembled beneath their feet. The cracked obelisk began to hum, glowing with residual energy. From the fissures in the earth, shadows slithered forth—like veins of darkness weaving across the land.
And then came the voice.
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It spoke straight into the mind.
"The Vessel has awakened. The balance fractures. The hunt begins."
Ember's breath caught. "That voice… I know it."
"Who is it?" Aris asked, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his waist—an ancient blade gifted by Liorin, humming faintly in response to the dark presence.
Ember shook her head. "I don't know his name. Only his title—The Collector. He devours those with destiny in their veins."
A sudden howl split the sky—high-pitched, primal, and not of any earthly creature.
From the treeline emerged twisted beasts, amalgamations of bone and shadow, crawling on spindly limbs and trailing mist as cold as death. At their center walked a figure cloaked in robes that shimmered like obsidian ink under starlight.
His face was hidden, but his aura screamed power.
The Collector had arrived.
They didn't run.
There was no point.
Aris and Ember stood side by side as the creatures circled them. Behind them, Riven, bleeding from a shoulder wound, limped into position, sword drawn. Myla hovered above on a summoned wind current, chanting under her breath as sigils flared around her.
"We hold," Ember said calmly.
"We die," Riven muttered.
"Same thing," Myla whispered. "If we die protecting him, we win."
The Collector raised a gloved hand, and the beasts froze.
"I do not come to slaughter. Not yet," he said, voice smooth and ageless. "I come to offer a choice."
"No," Ember replied coldly. "We've heard your kind of choice before. We're not pawns."
"You were never pawns," the Collector replied. "You are sacrifices."
And then everything shattered.
The world split.
Not physically—but spiritually.
Aris found himself alone, standing in a realm of mirrors—countless reflections of himself, each flickering with different lives.
One was king.
One was a murderer.
One was dead.
One stood beside Ember—older, wiser, scarred—but at peace.
The Collector's voice echoed through the prismed void.
"Every choice branches. Every path demands payment. Which Aris will you become?"
He clenched his fists. "I am the one who chooses—not you."
And with that, he stepped forward.
The mirrors cracked as he moved, fracturing further with each determined step.
He walked toward the version of himself with Ember by his side—not because it was the happiest, but because it felt true.
The Collector appeared again, this time as a towering figure of writhing shadows and molten gold eyes. "You think fate bends to will? You think love anchors you against inevitability?"
Aris didn't answer with words.
He thrust the dagger forward.
The Collector smiled.
The blade pierced him—but it wasn't enough.
The world exploded in light.
Aris awoke, gasping.
He was on the forest floor again, Ember beside him, gripping his collar with white knuckles. "You were gone for seconds, but your heart—" she shook her head. "It stopped."
"I saw him," Aris rasped. "I saw me. All the 'me's."
Ember helped him up. Around them, the beasts had retreated. The Collector was nowhere to be seen.
"Why would he leave?" Riven asked, eyes darting around. "He had us cornered."
"He didn't need to kill us," Aris said. "He only needed to show me."
Myla landed beside them, exhausted. "So what now?"
Ember stood straight. "Now, we move. The Collector is part of something larger. The prophecy is unraveling too fast. We need to find the Weavers."
Aris frowned. "Weavers?"
Ember nodded. "The ones who knit the fate-lines of this realm. If anyone can teach you to fight your destiny, it's them."
Days passed.
The journey through the Frosted Vales was brutal. Winds that could strip flesh. Spirits trapped in ice. Whispers at night that weren't dreams.
But they endured.
One night, as they huddled around a dying fire, Ember sat beside Aris, their shoulders brushing lightly.
"You've changed," she said softly.
"So have you."
"Are you afraid?"
"Of what I might become?" he asked. "Yes."
"But not enough to stop."
He shook his head. "Not enough."
She hesitated, then reached for his hand. "Good. Because if you stop walking, the rest of us won't know where to go."
For a moment, everything was still.
The stars above glittered, indifferent.
But down below, hearts beat in unison, kindled by fate, forged in fire.
Far away, in a temple hidden from mortal eyes, the Collector stood before a robed council of six.
"He resisted," one said, a voice like breaking glass.
"Of course he did," another rasped. "He's hers."
The Collector bowed. "It begins. Just as you foresaw."
"Then begin the purge," the head figure whispered. "We've let the threads tangle too long."
The chamber grew cold.
And so the next chapter of fate began—one that would drown empires, ignite passions, and demand the ultimate sacrifice.