Echoes of the Past

The air in the Whispering Caves tasted of dust and forgotten prayers. Ahrayatan, his armor a dull gleam in the flickering torchlight, kicked a loose stone that skittered into the echoing darkness. Beside him, Tamaton, his usually immaculate robes smudged with the grime of their arduous trek, consulted a brittle scroll. The silence between them was not comfortable; it was taut, stretched thin by unspoken anxieties and the weight of their shared purpose.

“These markings,” Tamaton murmured, his finger tracing a series of faded symbols on the parchment, “they speak of the Sundered Age. A time when the realms themselves were said to bleed into one another.”

Ahrayatan grunted, his gaze fixed on the cavern mouth, as if expecting the Semagans to materialize from the very stone. “More tales of old. What matters is Ahtawan. Where are they keeping him?”