The darkness receded in pulsing waves as Ian's eyelids fluttered open. His lungs seized on a sudden, acrid sweetness—the sharp tang of incense curling through the air—before he realized he was lying on cold marble. A torch sputtered at the edge of his vision, its flame dancing across columns carved in curling cloud-rune motifs that soared toward a domed ceiling lost in shadow. His wrists, bound by soft cuffs of rune-etched ivory, whispered of ancient destinies as the polished stone pressed against his back, grounding him in a world he did not recognize.
He gasped, the sound exploding in the vast hall like a drumbeat. His heart thundered in his ears, and for an instant the echo of distant chanting froze him mid-breath. Torches shivered against wide walls of white marble, sending ribbons of amber light to chase the incense smoke as it drifted in lazy spirals. Ian tried to push himself up, but his bound arms tipped him onto one elbow. Panic flared in his chest—where was he? How had he come here?
A ripple passed across the ranks of priestesses before him. They stood in a perfect half-circle, their footsteps silenced on the stone. Each woman was clad in austere robes of silver-trimmed white, collars high and sacred, hair braided with strands of moon-pearls. Their hands hovered at their hearts, fingers trembling like leaves in barely-there wind. As Ian's blue eyes—still blurred with vertigo—adjusted, he saw their faces shift from frozen worship to wide-eyed astonishment.
One among them was taller, her silver gown catching torchlight in a cascade of pale radiance. She stepped forward, each rustle of silk echoing through the hush. The hum of arcane energy thrummed in the air, a low, living pulse that seemed to awaken something deep within Ian's chest. He felt drawn toward her, his pulse synced to her measured steps.
When she spoke, her voice quavered like a reed in the wind. "Behold," she intoned, "the Gift of Illyra." Her words rode the incense-thick air, reverberating off the marble like a prophecy come to life. A single white petal drifted from an altar wreath high above, leisurely spinning as though time itself had paused to bear witness.
The crown of priestesses parted before her, creating a narrow path lined with reverent silence. Ian's breath caught as the High Oracle's gaze—so pale it might have been carved of moonstone—locked with his. In that moment, he sensed every pair of eyes upon him: some alight with awe, others glimmering with a tremor of fear. His own reflection shimmered back at him in her steady stare, the silver flecks in his summer-sky blue eyes glowing faintly beneath the torchlight.
He tried to swallow, but his throat felt constricted. The cuffs at his wrists pulsed with a soft, otherworldly warmth, as if urging him to rise. Summoning the last of his courage, he pushed himself upright. Every movement drew the collective breath of the assembled priestesses, their silent chorus filling the hall more profoundly than any chant.
The High Oracle raised a slender hand, palm upward, and the rune patterns on her sleeve glowed for an instant—tiny sparks of light that danced like fireflies. "You awaken," she said, voice steady now, "to fulfill a promise older than this temple." Her words sent another shiver through Ian's spine. He could feel destiny coalescing in the hush of that vast chamber.
As the Oracle spoke, the other priestesses pressed closer, their heavy robes whispering on the marble like wind through chimes. The scent of incense grew almost overwhelming—sweet, heady, a reminder that he stood at the threshold of something immense. Ian's mind reeled, but at the edge of his panic lay a flicker of wonder: here, every stone seemed charged with purpose, every breath laced with magic.
When the final echo of the prophecy faded, the High Oracle dipped her head in solemn benediction. For a heartbeat, the hall was still. Then, from the circle's outer edge, a soft chant rose, low and mournful, building like the distant crash of waves. Ian's pulse matched its rhythm, drawing him into the sacred tide.
And in that charged silence, he felt a new weight upon his shoulders—an unspoken command to step forward, to claim the role they had foretold. Behind him, the cuffs at his wrists hummed quietly, and before him, the priestesses parted once more, revealing the braided hands of another sister, clasped around an object gleaming silver in the torchlight.
Ian's breath caught as the first clear notes of the chant climbed toward the domed ceiling. Whatever came next would change him forever. Ahead, in the wavering glow, that waiting shape—smooth as liquid moonlight—beckoned him into a fate he could neither understand nor refuse.