Encounter with the Oracle

The tower stood like a needle against the bruised twilight sky, a sentinel of stone and forgotten whispers. Leo had been drawn to it, a moth to a flame, by an instinct deeper than memory. Each step up the winding path felt both alien and achingly familiar, as if his feet remembered a journey his mind could not. The air grew thin, sharp with the scent of ozone and something else, something ancient and wild, like moss on a tomb.

He pushed open the heavy oak door, its hinges groaning a protest that echoed through the cavernous space within. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light that pierced the gloom, illuminating tapestries faded into ghostly outlines of forgotten battles and mythical beasts. The silence here was not empty, but pregnant, heavy with the weight of ages. A low hum seemed to vibrate from the very stones, a resonance that settled in Leo’s bones, stirring something dormant.

At the heart of the great hall, seated on a throne carved from what appeared to be petrified lightning, was a woman. Her hair, a cascade of silver, spilled around her like a frozen waterfall. Her face, etched with the intricate lines of countless seasons, held eyes that were pools of obsidian, reflecting not the dim light of the chamber, but an inner luminescence. These were Morwen’s eyes. Leo knew her name, though he didn’t know from where. It simply *was*.