The silence inside the Ice Fountain was unlike any Eryndor had ever known. It did not echo, nor did it stir. It simply existed—vast, still, and watching. As he stepped past the rim of the sacred basin, the cold did not bite. Instead, it wrapped around him like a memory, a forgotten lullaby sung in a voice that once knew love, loss, and longing.
His wounds no longer bled, but neither did they close. His breath fogged and vanished like smoke, his steps weightless, as though time itself was unsure whether to accept his presence.
The moment his foot met the liquid heart of the fountain, a light burst upward—a beam too bright to face. It pierced through his bones and into his soul. He cried out, but no sound escaped. The water had accepted him. The fountain had taken his name.
He did not fall. He was pulled.
Into the abyss of time.
Into memory.
Into fate.
The veil lifted, and Eryndor saw the world as it once was. The sky above the Hollow Waste burned gold, not with fire, but with life. Forests once stretched across the barren lands, rivers ran silver with untouched moonlight, and beasts roamed not in terror, but in harmony.
Then came the shadows.
He saw them—winged creatures black as despair, their forms impossible, eyes wide as the void. The Consumer. Not a beast, but a hunger that could not be reasoned with. A force not born of this world, but something older, something colder. Something endless.
It rose from beyond the edge of the world, devouring stars, memories, gods. And at its heart, it craved the fountain.
But there had been a war.
Eryndor gasped as the vision shifted, pulling him further into the echo of a time long gone. He saw them—the Watchers, robed in light and fury. And beside them, the werewolves, unchained, primal and noble, standing not as monsters, but as guardians.
Together, they had fought.
Claws met void.
Swords clashed with silence.
Blood became prophecy.
The Ice Fountain had stood between the Consumer and the world, its power acting as a barrier, its waters blessed with the ability to hold back the end. The battle was won, but only barely. In desperation, the leaders of the three families bound the heart of the fountain with a relic so ancient, its name had been erased from all memory.
Until now.
The voice that reached Eryndor was not sound, but truth. It vibrated through the marrow of his bones.
"To halt what comes, you must find the Seal of Time. Break it. Obey its bidding. But do not trust what it shows you. Not all truths are true."
In the vision, the seal formed before him—a black sun carved into a slab of crystal, held deep within a mountain of tears. And its name, whispered through frost and flame, branded itself into his mind.
"Nareth'Kai."
The Seal of Time.
Eryndor stumbled back into the present.
But what was the present now? Time no longer felt like a straight line. It was a spiral, turning inwards, devouring itself. His body burned with cold. His skin shimmered with light. He looked down at his hands and no longer saw flesh, only starlight wrapped in shadow.
He was not human anymore.
He was the Fountain now.
Its guardian, its vessel, its curse.
He looked toward the remnants of the cave. Above, the ceiling had shattered, letting in the deadened sky. Smoke and rubble swirled. Screams from the battle still echoed in his ears. Somewhere far beyond this moment, Zelaira had cried out. Kaelen had died. Seriane had been lost. And Morvane still roamed the earth with blood on his hands.
But now, something else stirred. A chill deeper than death.
The Consumer had felt the rupture.
And it would come.
The Hollow Waste—once protected—was now open. Its skies no longer shielded by the fountain's breath. The bones of the past, once buried deep beneath ice and ritual, had been unearthed. And the Watchers… they would not be enough.
No army would be.
Eryndor fell to his knees, light still pulsing from his chest. He tried to speak, but the air fled his lungs. He tried to cry, but even sorrow felt foreign in this form. He wasn't sure if he could feel anymore. He wasn't sure if he was still alive.
But in his mind, her face came to him.
Seriane.
Laughing in the snow.
Holding his hand under a moonlit tree.
Daring him to dream.
Her voice was a whisper now, but it reached him clearer than anything else.
"You are still you. You are not what they made you. You are what you choose to be."
With trembling resolve, Eryndor rose, stepping out of the basin. Where his feet touched, frost bloomed. The waters no longer sang, but glowed with quiet understanding.
He turned to what remained of the cave and lifted his hand.
One final vision carved itself into his heart—a glimpse of the future.
The Hollow Waste drowned in ash. The Watchers broken. The sky split. And at the center, Nareth'Kai—its light darkened, its voice louder than thunder.
And yet, behind it all, something watched even Nareth'Kai. A presence deeper than prophecy. A second hunger. One that whispered not with power, but with promise.
**"If you break the seal," it said, "you must choose which world will survive. And which one must burn."
Eryndor's eyes narrowed.
His fate was no longer tied to the fountain.
It was tied to choice.
To sacrifice.
To the truth that not all destinies are written in stars.
Some are carved in blood.
And he would face the storm.
Whatever it asked of him.
Whatever it cost.