The Oracle's Prophecy

The air in the Oracle's chamber was thick with the scent of dried herbs and ancient dust, a stark contrast to the salty tang of the sea that Althea often found herself craving. Sunlight, filtered through stained-glass windows depicting forgotten constellations, cast a kaleidoscope of colors across the worn stone floor. Queen Lyra sat beside her, her presence a comforting anchor in the hushed reverence of the space. Cris, ever watchful, stood a respectful distance behind them, his gaze a silent shield.

The Oracle, a woman whose age was impossible to discern, her eyes like polished obsidian pools reflecting an inner world, gestured for Althea to approach. Her voice, when it finally came, was like the rustling of dry leaves, ancient and knowing. "You seek knowledge of the Serpent's Eye, child of the land."

Althea's heart pounded a nervous rhythm against her ribs. She clutched the tattered parchment detailing the artifact’s legend, its edges softened by Cris’s careful mending. "We do, wise Oracle. We are told it holds the key to breaking a… a binding curse." The word felt inadequate, a flimsy veil over the tempestuous truth of Cris’s existence.