The wind that greeted them beyond the Clockwork Realm was a stark contrast to the sterile, manufactured air they had just left behind. Here, the air was bitter, biting at exposed skin, but undeniably alive. It carried the scent of rain-soaked earth and decaying leaves, a primal perfume of moss and wet stone. It whispered of old things, secrets buried deep beneath the soil for centuries, a hush that spoke of forgotten ages and ancient power. They descended from the clockwork stairs, the intricate metal giving way to rough, uneven ground, and followed a winding path that snaked down into a misty glen.
The trees here were gnarled and ancient, their branches twisted into strange shapes, growing in unnatural circles as if compelled by some unseen force. A thick fog clung to the ground, swirling around their ankles like spectral tendrils, obscuring the path ahead and lending an eerie, ethereal quality to the landscape. The air hung heavy and damp, clinging to their clothes and chilling them to the bone.
A disquieting silence permeated the glen. No birds called out from the branches. No small beasts scurried through the undergrowth. It was a silence that pressed in on them, amplifying the sound of their own breathing, the crunch of their boots on the damp earth. Yet, beneath their feet, something stirred. They could feel it – a subtle vibration, a faint tremor that resonated through the ground and up into their very bones. It was a barely perceptible pulse, a rhythmic thrumming like the last, faltering beats of a dying heart. It was a signal. Something was alive, somewhere.
At the very center of the glen, bathed in the ethereal glow of the mist, stood a mailbox. It was an anomaly, utterly out of place in this primeval setting. Rusted and scarred by time, bound with thick iron straps that seemed to groan under their own weight, the mailbox nevertheless hummed with a palpable energy. It was a conduit, a focal point for the strange power that permeated the glen, thrumming with anticipation.
Orien approached it first, drawn by an invisible thread. He moved slowly, cautiously, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword before he remembered it was still tucked away. There was no lock, no keyhole, no visible means of opening it. Instead, a single symbol was burned into the front of the mailbox, etched deep into the rusted metal: a hand, poised and elegant, grasping a quill.
He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and touched the symbol. A jolt of energy surged through him, a brief flash of warmth that chased away the chill. The mailbox responded with a low groan, the rusted hinges protesting as the door creaked open with a sigh that seemed to echo the sorrow of ages past.
Inside, nestled in the darkness, was a single letter. The paper was old, yellowed with age, the ink faded but still legible. It emanated a faint warmth, as if imbued with a life of its own.
Addressed to: Orien Vale. The letters seemed to glow faintly.
His breath caught in his throat. He reached inside with a trembling hand and pulled out the letter. He unfolded it carefully, as if afraid it would crumble to dust at his touch. He hesitated, his eyes scanning the words, before finally beginning to read aloud, his voice catching on the first line.
"My son," he began, the word hanging in the air like a fragile prayer.
The wind seemed to hush around them, as if even the elements were listening.
"If you are reading this, then the stars have moved as they were meant to. The threads of fate have aligned, and you stand where you were always destined to be. I am sorry I could not stay. I am sorry I left so many things unsaid, so many lessons untaught. Time was a cruel mistress, and our moments were stolen by shadows."
Orien's hand trembled violently now, the letter shaking in his grasp. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, the weight of his father's words pressing down on him. The others leaned in close, their faces etched with concern, silent and respectful in the face of his grief. Elira placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Ryric stood a little further back, but his gaze was intense and unwavering.
"You come from a line of those who walk the Trials—not as challengers seeking glory, but as keepers, guardians of its delicate balance. It is a heavy burden, a sacred duty passed down through generations of our blood. I was meant to train you, to guide you along this path, to prepare you for the trials ahead. But I failed. My time was cut short, and I was forced to leave you unprepared."
A wave of shame washed over Orien, a bitter taste in his mouth. He had always felt a sense of inadequacy, a nagging feeling that he had failed to live up to his father's expectations. Now, those fears were being confirmed, laid bare in the stark words of the letter.
"There are more letters, hidden throughout the path. Each will come to you when you need it most, when the weight of the Trials threatens to crush you. They will offer guidance, a flicker of light in the darkness. Trust the ink. Trust your blood. For within your veins flows the strength and wisdom of generations."
He paused, his eyes scanning the next line.
"And remember, Orien: the Trials do not test if you are worthy. They reveal what you already are. They strip away the layers of doubt and fear, exposing the truth of your being. Do not fear the trials, my son. Embrace them. For it is through them that you will discover your true self."
He finished reading, his voice barely a whisper. The weight of his father's words settled upon him, a heavy cloak of responsibility and expectation.
"—Thalan Vale"
When the last word faded into the stillness, the wind, which had been unnaturally quiet, stilled completely. The fog seemed to thicken, swirling around them like a shroud. And the mailbox… shifted. The rust seemed to flake away, the iron gleaming like polished steel.
It now bore Elira's name, etched into the metal in elegant script.
She stepped forward, her hand hovering over the mailbox. A strange mix of curiosity and trepidation warred within her. She opened it slowly, wary of what she might find inside. The hinges creaked, and she steeled herself.
"Elira Voss," it began, the words resonating with an unnerving familiarity. "You were never meant to live in shadow, to be defined by the darkness that clings to your past. You are a creature of light, capable of extraordinary things."
The letter was written in a handwriting that was eerily familiar, yet subtly different. It was her own, but… twisted, as if reflected in a distorted mirror. The words were laced with a haunting knowledge, a chilling understanding of her deepest fears and regrets. The letter came not from a parent or friend—but from herself. A version of her that had walked a different path, a shadow self born of choices she had not made.
"In one life, you spared him, clinging to a misguided sense of mercy. In another, you killed him sooner, ending his suffering but condemning yourself to a lifetime of guilt. In this one, you carry both weights, the burden of your past choices etched upon your soul."
A chill ran down her spine. How could this letter know so much? It spoke of things she had never told anyone, secrets she had buried deep within her heart.
"You are not a blade, Elira. You are not merely a weapon to be wielded by others. You are the one who chooses where it cuts, the hand that guides the steel. You have the power to shape your own destiny, to forge a new path free from the shadows of the past."
Her heart pounded in her chest, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. The words of the letter resonated with a terrifying truth, a realization that she had always been more than she believed herself to be.
"And soon, you must decide whether Orien lives. The fate of the Trials, perhaps the world, rests on your choice. Choose wisely, Elira Voss. The consequences will be far-reaching."
She blinked, her vision blurring. The words swam before her eyes, refusing to make sense. "What?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the pounding of her heart.
The ink on the letter began to fade, the words dissolving into a swirling grey mist. The paper grew brittle, crumbling to ash in her hands, leaving nothing but a fine layer of dust on her fingertips. The message was gone, vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her reeling with confusion and fear.
Ryric's letter was shortest, a stark and brutal pronouncement that cut through the fog of uncertainty.
He approached the mailbox slowly, his face grim. The mailbox now bore his name. With a deep breath he opened the mailbox and pulled out the letter. He unfolded it, read it quickly, and crushed it in his fist.
"You will lose them both."
He looked up, his gaze meeting Elira's. She could see the pain in his eyes, the raw, unfiltered anguish that he usually kept hidden beneath a stoic facade.
"But that does not mean you cannot lead. Even in the face of loss, you have the strength to guide others. Your purpose will be revealed if you allow it."
He closed his eyes for a moment, his face etched with a profound sadness. When he opened them again, his gaze was resolute.
"Do not chase the crown, Ryric. Do not seek power for its own sake. Let it find you, when the time is right. Your strength lies not in authority, but in loyalty."
Ryric flung the letter to the ground. It was gone an instant later.
The mailbox vanished without a sound, disappearing into the mist as if it had never been there at all. In its place stood a new path, branching off from the original trail. It was barely visible at first, a faint glimmer in the fog, but as they watched, stones began to emerge from the earth, glowing with soft light with ancient runes carved into their surfaces. They pulsed with an inner power. Thunder rolled far off in the distance, a low rumble that echoed through the glen, signaling a storm on the horizon.
Elira walked ahead first, her steps hesitant but determined. The weight of the letter, the impossible choice it presented, pressed down on her. Orien followed close behind, the letter from his father still clenched tightly in his hand. He stared at the ground, lost in thought, his face a mask of grief and confusion. Ryric brought up the rear, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes scanning the surrounding forest for any sign of danger.
They spoke little as they walked, the silence broken only by the crunch of their boots on the rocky path and the distant rumble of thunder. The air grew heavy with anticipation, charged with an unspoken tension.
But when they reached the crest of a hill overlooking the road ahead, they stopped. Their breath caught in their throats. The sight that greeted them was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. Below, in the valley, stretching as far as the eye could see, lay a camp of warriors. Dozens of figures in gleaming armor, their faces obscured by helmets, moved with a disciplined precision. Banners bearing the Mark of Vale snapped in the wind, a symbol of power and authority.
One figure stepped forward, breaking away from the ranks. She was tall and commanding, with a regal bearing that spoke of authority and strength. Her silver hair cascaded down her back, shimmering in the fading light. But it was her eyes that caught Orien's attention. They were the same shade of blue as his own, filled with a familiar spark of intelligence and determination.
"I am Nira Vale," she said, her voice clear and strong, carrying across the distance. "And we've been waiting for you."