The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 30 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 31: Voices
Far from any mortal path, deeper than torchlight could reach, there was a chamber carved by no human hand. Its air was heavy, damp with ancient stillness. Shelves of black stone stretched along the walls, each lined with cushions of strange, woven silk that seemed to shimmer faintly on their own. But the true presence in the cavern was not what eyes could see.
Colours shifted faintly in the air, halos of amber, violet, green, and white that pulsed like heartbeats, each wrapped in its own veil of silence. Within those auras stirred whispers, no sound, only thought. Voices layered over one another, some deep and rumbling, others high and clear, a chorus that never broke the cavern’s hush.
‘…the flow trembles again…’
‘…a dark tongue stirs, clawing at old roots…’
‘…blood thickens in the east, and the balance falters…’
Each word sent ripples through the unseen light, the colours flashing brighter, then dimming as though in an uneasy rhythm. They spoke of things beyond the reach of the chamber, sensing shifts in currents that no mortal could touch.
One voice, low and heavy as stone, murmured:
‘It awakens too soon.’
Another, sharp as a crack of iron, hissed:
‘Then we should not wait.’
But the softer tones held sway, carrying sorrow like a veil:
‘We are not free. We can only listen… and remember.’
The cavern quieted once more, yet the air seemed to thrum louder in the silence, as though the very walls carried their unease. Outside, unseen fires burned and blood was spilled, but here, in the chamber, the shapes upon their silken rests pulsed faintly in the dark, each heartbeat quickening.
The cavern quaked with resonance, every aura flaring as though struck by lightning. The silence that usually bound them broke into overlapping voices, some filled with awe, others with fear.
‘…it breathes…’
‘…the orange one… the violet… both at once…’
‘…born in flesh, impossible…’
The colours within their veils surged violently, struggling to contain the shock. The birth of a dragon with two hues, never seen, never sung of, not in even the oldest echoes of memory.
One voice, brittle with age yet sharp as tempered steel, hissed:
‘It should not exist. Such unions are forbidden.’
But another, ancient beyond reckoning, spoke slow and deep, a sound like roots tearing through stone.
‘This is no accident. The eldest bloodlines, those who carried fire before the First Language was given, have crossed unseen. Their strands twined in secret. Now that thread is woven into the world.’
A ripple of disbelief coursed through them.
‘…then it is not mistake but destiny…’
‘…or catastrophe.’
The cavern pulsed with their unease, every aura trembling at the thought. For a dragon to be born with two colours was to unmake everything they understood about balance and order. It was a crack in the foundation of the ancient laws, a living omen.
At last, the deepest voice, old as ash and ember, murmured:
‘The orange-purple has come. The question is not what it means… but what will be asked of it.’
The cavern pulsed in uneasy rhythm, colours flickering in their veils, orange, green, red, brown, each aura trembling as the weight of the orange-purple’s birth rippled through them. Voices overlapped in hushed tones, but none dared deny what they felt.
‘…an impossibility…’
‘…never before, not in any age…’
‘…what does it mean?’
Then one of the oldest voices rose, slower than the rest, carrying the weight of centuries. Its tone silenced the chamber.
‘This is not new. It was written in prophecy.’
Shock flared among the others, their lights stuttering.
‘Prophecy?’
‘From when?’
‘How could we not have known?’
The elder voice rumbled like a deep, patient fire.
‘More than a thousand years past. A whisper kept quiet, for the sake of mankind’s survival. It spoke of a nameless one, a man adrift, his memories stolen. He would wander across the realms, searching for his beginning, yet never finding it. In his path he would gather companions, creatures and kin of other races, and with them stumble, by chance, upon one of us before birth.’
The chamber throbbed, every aura straining forward.
‘…one of us? Found?’
‘…a bond impossible—’
The voice pressed on, iron steady.
‘The prophecy told: when the egg hatched in his presence, its aura would twine with his own. That thread would bind man and dragon as one, their souls resonating, never to be undone.’
The whispers became frantic, disbelief colliding with fear.
‘…a man, carrying our light?…’
‘…no mortal could endure such fire…’
‘…then this—orange and violet—’
The elder voice answered, final and grim.
‘Yes. The prophecy has awakened. What was hidden in shadow is now set in motion. And it was kept secret, not for us, but to protect mankind from what it might unleash.’
The chamber dimmed, the auras quivering but silent. For the first time in an age, none had words. Only the steady thrum of the ancient language remained, echoing the truth they could no longer deny.
The prophecy’s words lingered like smoke, heavy and unshakable. For a long breath, none dared answer. Then, tentative, one of the younger voices flickered in pale blue, trembling with urgency.
‘…then what are we to do? If the nameless one and the new flame are bound, can we not guide them? Can we not ensure they walk the right path?.'
Another aura joined, sharp with desperation.
‘If we remain silent, what if they falter? What if their bond unravels into ruin? Should we not reach, should we not shape—’
The oldest voice rumbled, low and final, its authority cutting through their clamour.
‘No. We must not. To interfere is to fracture the weave. Our place is to listen, to mark the currents, and nothing more.’
The cavern darkened, their glow dimming in sorrowful silence. Still, one voice dared to press again, softer, nearly breaking.
‘…then we are powerless?’
The elder’s tone answered with the weight of centuries, steady but cold.
‘We are watchers. Nothing more. Their choices are not ours to make. The river runs as it will, whether to ocean, or to fire.’
The voices fell quiet at last, united in their fear, their auras flickering faintly against the hush of the chamber. Only the thrum of the ancient language remained, like a heartbeat deep in the stone.
A small beetle scuttled into the cavern, its tiny legs clicking softly against the stone. Its presence barely disturbed the ancient silence, yet one of the older female voices stirred, reaching out through the shimmer of auras.
She brushed against the beetle’s mind, peering into the tiny, fragmented impressions it carried. Rain, cold and unrelenting, pattered across moist earth. Grey clouds loomed heavy overhead, sunlight piercing briefly, hesitant. Then fire flickered, licking at timber and stone. Rubble lay scattered, lifeless forms strewn like refuse for scavenging birds.
And there, a shadow amidst the chaos, a man wrapped in a faint, grey aura. His shape moved among the destruction, but the voice could see no defining features, no face to anchor him, only the quiet certainty of his presence.
The older female voice recoiled, then shared what she had glimpsed with the others, her tone trembling yet calm:
‘…The world beyond moves, and so does he. Rain, fire, ruin… and a man in grey, but no name, no face. We see only the currents he drags behind him. His path is already stirring the threads of the world.’
The other voices pulsed in alarm and curiosity, their colours flickering uncertainly in the gloom. The cavern seemed to grow smaller, the weight of the unseen world pressing closer as they absorbed the beetle’s revelation.
A ripple of panic pulsed through the cavern. The older voices quivered, their auras brightening and dimming erratically.
‘It must be him! The one with no name!’ one voice shrieked, jagged and sharp.
‘No! How could it be? His aura is wrong… grey, not… not the twin flame of prophecy!’ another countered, trembling.
Arguments layered upon arguments, clashing like storm-driven waves. Questions poured forth: ‘What if we are too late?’ ‘Are we blind to the signs?’ ‘Does the prophecy bend under our eyes?’ The cacophony of voices threatened to tear the fragile silence of the cavern apart.
And then, a stir, a vibration that had gone unnoticed for centuries. The oldest of the oldest voices, silent until now, unfurled like a shadow stretching across the room. Its aura pulsed deep indigo, almost black at the edges, and with it came a weight of frustration.
‘Quiet,’ it rumbled, low and inexorable, carrying the authority of countless eons. The younger voices faltered, a flicker of awe stilling their panic.
‘The man of grey is not the one you fear. He is not the nameless. The one of purple and orange, a twin of flame and shadow, holds that fate. Your fears are mislaid, your judgements premature. Watch, and learn, but do not bind the future with your folly.’
The cavern dimmed as the voices absorbed the words, some reluctant, some relieved, others still trembling with unease. The argument dissolved, leaving a fragile, uneasy silence. The grey-aura man moved beyond their perception, a shadow threading through the world, while the purple-orange aura glimmered elsewhere, distant yet central to the prophecy’s riddle.
The indigo aura of the oldest voice pulsed slowly, deliberate, as it spoke again. This time, its words flowed to the younger voices, a guiding current beneath the tremor of their thoughts, but also as a subtle reminder to the older ones.
‘Clear your minds of distraction. Strip away the noise. Reach out with tendrils of your consciousness, but keep your guards raised. Protect your own minds, even as you extend them into the world. Feel the flows of magic as if they were whispers on the wind. Sense everything, yet touch nothing. Start small, track insects, rodents, the smallest of creatures. Peer into their thoughts, glean what passes beyond these walls.’
A pause, a quiet emphasis threading through the cavern.
‘Beware: some elves can slip into the forms of animals. Avoid them. Some creatures are sentient, bound to awareness beyond instinct, direwolves, others you may encounter. Do not engage. We cannot act directly. Our task is to listen, watch, and observe. Learn. Until the day comes that we may step forth, this is all we can do.’
The voices pulsed, each a ripple against the cavern walls, a network of curiosity and caution unfurling like delicate filaments. Outside, the world moved and bled, unaware of the silent watchers threading through its smallest veins.
A tremor of impatience rippled through the cavern. Several of the younger voices spoke at once, sharp and jagged.
‘We cannot sense far enough! We try, but it is too slow! The world moves beyond us!’
The indigo aura pulsed, a slow, deliberate heartbeat that seemed to swallow the frantic energy around it. Its voice, deep and resonant, carried a calm authority that drew the younger voices into focus.
‘Patience is not absence of action, nor is it waiting in emptiness. Calm your own mind first, and the currents of the world will begin to flow through you. Force nothing, grasp nothing. Let the threads of magic ripple past and through you, like a river following its course. Only when your mind is still will the smallest stirrings, the faintest whispers, reveal themselves.’
The cavern dimmed slightly as the younger voices faltered, tentative, feeling the weight and precision of the words. A hush settled, only the faint pulse of the indigo aura marking the rhythm of a lesson older than most could comprehend.
‘Seek patience, and the world will unfold. Seek control, and it will slip from your fingers.’
The younger voices quieted, drawing in the rhythm of the indigo aura’s lesson. Slowly, they extended their tendrils, small and careful at first, brushing against the currents of magic that flowed beyond their cavern.
Through the smallest openings, they reached the minds of insects skittering across moss and stone, feeling the tickle of their perceptions, the warmth of rain-soaked earth beneath tiny feet, the tremor of wind in their antennae. A mouse shivered in its nest, and one voice jumped at the sudden clarity of its fear, while another noted the faint pulse of hunger.
Encouraged, they extended further, brushing against birds pecking at scattered seeds, insects crawling along roots, feeling a hint of the chaos beyond the cavern without disturbing it. The flow of magic answered, subtle and patient, as if acknowledging those who waited.
The indigo aura pulsed in quiet approval. ‘See now, the world does not yield to force. It offers itself to those who wait, who watch with calm. Every movement, every thought, a thread connecting all things. You are learning, little by little.’
A glimmer of understanding passed through the younger voices. They were still tentative, still impatient at times, but the first stirrings of awareness threaded through them, and the world outside, its smallest, quietest moments, began to unfold before them like a map written in whispers.
One of the older voices, deep and resonant, shifted its awareness beyond the insects and rodents. Its tendrils of perception stretched further, brushing against currents of magic that were larger, more defined, more alive.
A ripple of recognition stirred in its consciousness. A male, wandering far from the familiar lands, his aura faint but unmistakably tinged with purple and orange. ‘The one they called no-name,’ the voice thought, a note of awe threading through its resonance.
Above him, high on the thermals, a second presence shimmered. Stronger, brighter, swirling with the same orange-purple aura, but alive, independent, and moving with grace and power. The dragon. The air trembled faintly around its wings, carrying the pulse of something ancient and dangerous.
Even higher, a streak of white glimmered against the horizon. Another dragon, her rider barely visible from this distance, moving with deliberate speed, watching, waiting. The older voice sensed the layering of these presences, the converging threads of fate that pulled across the land.
‘All connected,’ the voice whispered silently to the others. ‘He moves, and so does she. And above, another waits. Watch, and remember, patience must hold until the threads entangle’.
The other voices trembled with the echo of recognition, some cautious, some eager. The currents of magic pulsed more insistently now, a subtle warning that the world beyond their cavern was stirring in ways unprecedented, dangerous, and alive.
The older voice’s consciousness flowed outward, brushing against the threads of magic that radiated from the land. There, below, moving with quiet purpose, a male with the unmistakable purple-orange aura. ‘No-name,’ the voice recognised, noting the gentle undulations of power that pulsed from him.
It watched as he dismounted from his horse, landing softly on the earth. His hands glowed faintly, the purple-orange aura rippling as he knelt beside a peregrine falcon, its wing clearly broken. With careful, deliberate motions, he placed his hands over the injured limb. Light pulsed and shimmered in quiet rhythm, and the falcon’s wing mended under his touch. Once healed, the bird climbed onto his arm. No-name stood, raised his arm, and the falcon stretched its wings before soaring skyward, vanishing into the distance.
The no-name then knelt again, this time among two wolves, their fur bristling slightly as they circled him. He scratched behind their ears, murmuring softly, and the wolves leaned into his hands, calm and content under his touch.
The older voice transmitted the scene to the others, sharing what it saw. A hum, deep and resonant, emanated from the indigo aura voice, the oldest among them. ‘Kindness flows even through the smallest of gestures,’ it murmured, approval threading its tones. ‘The one with purple-orange glows not just with power, but with heart. Remember this… for it is rare, and it is precious.’
The younger voices trembled slightly, absorbing the warmth and contrast of compassion in a world so often dark and turbulent, the lesson seeping quietly into their consciousness: power tempered by mercy, strength exercised with care, a light even in the midst of uncertainty.
The older voice’s awareness stretched further, catching every flicker of motion beneath the no-name’s purple-orange aura. ‘I see companions,’ it murmured softly to the other voices. ‘An elf with orange aura, an elf with green, another with red… all mounted on horses. The two wolves run alongside him, keeping pace without hesitation. And… a large raven, radiating a strange green aura.’
The indigo aura voice hummed low, caution threading its tones. ‘The raven must be a shapeshifter.’
Acknowledging the warning, the older voice drew tighter around its senses, tendrils of consciousness quivering as it heightened its vigilance. ‘Noted,’ it said, ‘all must be watched carefully.’
Below, no-name’s movements shifted. He paused, eyes sweeping over the horizon, a faint flicker of tension in his posture. For a moment, it seemed as though he sensed something, a presence or disturbance beyond his companions. Then, just as suddenly, he shook his head, dismissing the thought as if brushing off a shadow, and resumed his steady pace.
The older voice relayed the moment to the younger ones, a silent reminder: perception is fleeting, and even the cautious may falter, but the patterns of aura, of intent, and of movement will always speak if you are patient enough to listen.
For weeks, the silent voices traced the movements of the group, their consciousness threading through the landscape like faint currents of wind. They observed the no-name and his companions as they journeyed vast distances, pausing in scattered settlements.
‘Healing hands, one of the older voices murmured, bones set, fevers eased, heavy loads lifted with ease…’ The group moved with quiet purpose, their aid not ostentatious but deeply felt. Even as they gave, they collected supplies, tools, and knowledge for the road ahead.
The older voice made careful note of the orange-purple aura of the dragon: always lingering just beyond view, hiding whenever the group mingled with the people. It sensed vigilance, a conscious effort to remain unseen, even while hovering close enough to protect.
Higher in the sky, the white aura of the dragon with the red-haired rider separated from the main group, drifting in a slow, purposeful arc. Observing closely, the older voice caught a fleeting exchange: the red-haired rider handing something unseen to no-name before vanishing into the horizon.
‘Strange, the indigo aura voice commented softly, intent unseen, yet the flow of energy shifted. A choice made, a message delivered… We can only wait and observe.’
The voices hummed in quiet anticipation, a ripple of curiosity and concern passing between them. Even in observation, they were bound to patience. The world below moved with subtle hands, shaping futures one small act at a time, while the dragons and the no-name wove themselves through it all, unseen yet sensed, protected yet enigmatic.
The days folded into one another as the group pressed onward, the older voices tracing every step in quiet observation. Each settlement left faint echoes, illness eased, wounds tended, burdens lifted, but always the orange-purple dragon lingered just out of sight, a pulse of warmth shadowing no-name.
The no-name moved with deliberate care, his purple-orange aura gentle yet insistent, radiating when he helped, when he touched, when he healed. The wolves flanked him, alert and synchronised, sensing what he did, watching as he guided the group.
Then, in the late afternoon, as the dust from the trail curled in lazy eddies, no-name slowed abruptly. His gaze darted to the treeline, scanning the shadows. A tingle ran along his spine, a presence, faint and fleeting, pressing at the edge of perception. His body stiffened, subtle, almost imperceptible, yet every hair seemed to rise in awareness. His aura pulsed in quiet alarm.
‘He didn’t understand it, didn’t see us, but he could feel it, he was being watched. We need to be more careful,’ the older voice murmured to the younger ones, ‘his aura is stronger than expected.’ The threads of his essence shifted and pushed against our awareness, teasing, testing.
He shook it off, forcing his focus back to the road, but the pause lingered in the air, a ghost of awareness. As night fell, and the group made camp beneath a blanket of stars, no-name moved among the wolves, lifting a branch here, adjusting a tarp there, yet his eyes occasionally flicked toward the darkness beyond the firelight. The orange-purple dragon stayed coiled in shadow, its presence a whisper against the quiet. The tension of being observed hummed faintly through the air, threading itself into the night, unseen but undeniable.
‘Patience,’ the indigo aura murmured. ‘The currents stir before the storm, and we must learn to listen before we speak.’
Chapter 31: Voices
Far from any mortal path, deeper than torchlight could reach, there was a chamber carved by no human hand. Its air was heavy, damp with ancient stillness. Shelves of black stone stretched along the walls, each lined with cushions of strange, woven silk that seemed to shimmer faintly on their own. But the true presence in the cavern was not what eyes could see.
Colours shifted faintly in the air, halos of amber, violet, green, and white that pulsed like heartbeats, each wrapped in its own veil of silence. Within those auras stirred whispers, no sound, only thought. Voices layered over one another, some deep and rumbling, others high and clear, a chorus that never broke the cavern’s hush.
‘…the flow trembles again…’
‘…a dark tongue stirs, clawing at old roots…’
‘…blood thickens in the east, and the balance falters…’
Each word sent ripples through the unseen light, the colours flashing brighter, then dimming as though in an uneasy rhythm. They spoke of things beyond the reach of the chamber, sensing shifts in currents that no mortal could touch.
One voice, low and heavy as stone, murmured:
‘It awakens too soon.’
Another, sharp as a crack of iron, hissed:
‘Then we should not wait.’
But the softer tones held sway, carrying sorrow like a veil:
‘We are not free. We can only listen… and remember.’
The cavern quieted once more, yet the air seemed to thrum louder in the silence, as though the very walls carried their unease. Outside, unseen fires burned and blood was spilled, but here, in the chamber, the shapes upon their silken rests pulsed faintly in the dark, each heartbeat quickening.
The cavern quaked with resonance, every aura flaring as though struck by lightning. The silence that usually bound them broke into overlapping voices, some filled with awe, others with fear.
‘…it breathes…’
‘…the orange one… the violet… both at once…’
‘…born in flesh, impossible…’
The colours within their veils surged violently, struggling to contain the shock. The birth of a dragon with two hues, never seen, never sung of, not in even the oldest echoes of memory.
One voice, brittle with age yet sharp as tempered steel, hissed:
‘It should not exist. Such unions are forbidden.’
But another, ancient beyond reckoning, spoke slow and deep, a sound like roots tearing through stone.
‘This is no accident. The eldest bloodlines, those who carried fire before the First Language was given, have crossed unseen. Their strands twined in secret. Now that thread is woven into the world.’
A ripple of disbelief coursed through them.
‘…then it is not mistake but destiny…’
‘…or catastrophe.’
The cavern pulsed with their unease, every aura trembling at the thought. For a dragon to be born with two colours was to unmake everything they understood about balance and order. It was a crack in the foundation of the ancient laws, a living omen.
At last, the deepest voice, old as ash and ember, murmured:
‘The orange-purple has come. The question is not what it means… but what will be asked of it.’
The cavern pulsed in uneasy rhythm, colours flickering in their veils, orange, green, red, brown, each aura trembling as the weight of the orange-purple’s birth rippled through them. Voices overlapped in hushed tones, but none dared deny what they felt.
‘…an impossibility…’
‘…never before, not in any age…’
‘…what does it mean?’
Then one of the oldest voices rose, slower than the rest, carrying the weight of centuries. Its tone silenced the chamber.
‘This is not new. It was written in prophecy.’
Shock flared among the others, their lights stuttering.
‘Prophecy?’
‘From when?’
‘How could we not have known?’
The elder voice rumbled like a deep, patient fire.
‘More than a thousand years past. A whisper kept quiet, for the sake of mankind’s survival. It spoke of a nameless one, a man adrift, his memories stolen. He would wander across the realms, searching for his beginning, yet never finding it. In his path he would gather companions, creatures and kin of other races, and with them stumble, by chance, upon one of us before birth.’
The chamber throbbed, every aura straining forward.
‘…one of us? Found?’
‘…a bond impossible—’
The voice pressed on, iron steady.
‘The prophecy told: when the egg hatched in his presence, its aura would twine with his own. That thread would bind man and dragon as one, their souls resonating, never to be undone.’
The whispers became frantic, disbelief colliding with fear.
‘…a man, carrying our light?…’
‘…no mortal could endure such fire…’
‘…then this—orange and violet—’
The elder voice answered, final and grim.
‘Yes. The prophecy has awakened. What was hidden in shadow is now set in motion. And it was kept secret, not for us, but to protect mankind from what it might unleash.’
The chamber dimmed, the auras quivering but silent. For the first time in an age, none had words. Only the steady thrum of the ancient language remained, echoing the truth they could no longer deny.
The prophecy’s words lingered like smoke, heavy and unshakable. For a long breath, none dared answer. Then, tentative, one of the younger voices flickered in pale blue, trembling with urgency.
‘…then what are we to do? If the nameless one and the new flame are bound, can we not guide them? Can we not ensure they walk the right path?.'
Another aura joined, sharp with desperation.
‘If we remain silent, what if they falter? What if their bond unravels into ruin? Should we not reach, should we not shape—’
The oldest voice rumbled, low and final, its authority cutting through their clamour.
‘No. We must not. To interfere is to fracture the weave. Our place is to listen, to mark the currents, and nothing more.’
The cavern darkened, their glow dimming in sorrowful silence. Still, one voice dared to press again, softer, nearly breaking.
‘…then we are powerless?’
The elder’s tone answered with the weight of centuries, steady but cold.
‘We are watchers. Nothing more. Their choices are not ours to make. The river runs as it will, whether to ocean, or to fire.’
The voices fell quiet at last, united in their fear, their auras flickering faintly against the hush of the chamber. Only the thrum of the ancient language remained, like a heartbeat deep in the stone.
A small beetle scuttled into the cavern, its tiny legs clicking softly against the stone. Its presence barely disturbed the ancient silence, yet one of the older female voices stirred, reaching out through the shimmer of auras.
She brushed against the beetle’s mind, peering into the tiny, fragmented impressions it carried. Rain, cold and unrelenting, pattered across moist earth. Grey clouds loomed heavy overhead, sunlight piercing briefly, hesitant. Then fire flickered, licking at timber and stone. Rubble lay scattered, lifeless forms strewn like refuse for scavenging birds.
And there, a shadow amidst the chaos, a man wrapped in a faint, grey aura. His shape moved among the destruction, but the voice could see no defining features, no face to anchor him, only the quiet certainty of his presence.
The older female voice recoiled, then shared what she had glimpsed with the others, her tone trembling yet calm:
‘…The world beyond moves, and so does he. Rain, fire, ruin… and a man in grey, but no name, no face. We see only the currents he drags behind him. His path is already stirring the threads of the world.’
The other voices pulsed in alarm and curiosity, their colours flickering uncertainly in the gloom. The cavern seemed to grow smaller, the weight of the unseen world pressing closer as they absorbed the beetle’s revelation.
A ripple of panic pulsed through the cavern. The older voices quivered, their auras brightening and dimming erratically.
‘It must be him! The one with no name!’ one voice shrieked, jagged and sharp.
‘No! How could it be? His aura is wrong… grey, not… not the twin flame of prophecy!’ another countered, trembling.
Arguments layered upon arguments, clashing like storm-driven waves. Questions poured forth: ‘What if we are too late?’ ‘Are we blind to the signs?’ ‘Does the prophecy bend under our eyes?’ The cacophony of voices threatened to tear the fragile silence of the cavern apart.
And then, a stir, a vibration that had gone unnoticed for centuries. The oldest of the oldest voices, silent until now, unfurled like a shadow stretching across the room. Its aura pulsed deep indigo, almost black at the edges, and with it came a weight of frustration.
‘Quiet,’ it rumbled, low and inexorable, carrying the authority of countless eons. The younger voices faltered, a flicker of awe stilling their panic.
‘The man of grey is not the one you fear. He is not the nameless. The one of purple and orange, a twin of flame and shadow, holds that fate. Your fears are mislaid, your judgements premature. Watch, and learn, but do not bind the future with your folly.’
The cavern dimmed as the voices absorbed the words, some reluctant, some relieved, others still trembling with unease. The argument dissolved, leaving a fragile, uneasy silence. The grey-aura man moved beyond their perception, a shadow threading through the world, while the purple-orange aura glimmered elsewhere, distant yet central to the prophecy’s riddle.
The indigo aura of the oldest voice pulsed slowly, deliberate, as it spoke again. This time, its words flowed to the younger voices, a guiding current beneath the tremor of their thoughts, but also as a subtle reminder to the older ones.
‘Clear your minds of distraction. Strip away the noise. Reach out with tendrils of your consciousness, but keep your guards raised. Protect your own minds, even as you extend them into the world. Feel the flows of magic as if they were whispers on the wind. Sense everything, yet touch nothing. Start small, track insects, rodents, the smallest of creatures. Peer into their thoughts, glean what passes beyond these walls.’
A pause, a quiet emphasis threading through the cavern.
‘Beware: some elves can slip into the forms of animals. Avoid them. Some creatures are sentient, bound to awareness beyond instinct, direwolves, others you may encounter. Do not engage. We cannot act directly. Our task is to listen, watch, and observe. Learn. Until the day comes that we may step forth, this is all we can do.’
The voices pulsed, each a ripple against the cavern walls, a network of curiosity and caution unfurling like delicate filaments. Outside, the world moved and bled, unaware of the silent watchers threading through its smallest veins.
A tremor of impatience rippled through the cavern. Several of the younger voices spoke at once, sharp and jagged.
‘We cannot sense far enough! We try, but it is too slow! The world moves beyond us!’
The indigo aura pulsed, a slow, deliberate heartbeat that seemed to swallow the frantic energy around it. Its voice, deep and resonant, carried a calm authority that drew the younger voices into focus.
‘Patience is not absence of action, nor is it waiting in emptiness. Calm your own mind first, and the currents of the world will begin to flow through you. Force nothing, grasp nothing. Let the threads of magic ripple past and through you, like a river following its course. Only when your mind is still will the smallest stirrings, the faintest whispers, reveal themselves.’
The cavern dimmed slightly as the younger voices faltered, tentative, feeling the weight and precision of the words. A hush settled, only the faint pulse of the indigo aura marking the rhythm of a lesson older than most could comprehend.
‘Seek patience, and the world will unfold. Seek control, and it will slip from your fingers.’
The younger voices quieted, drawing in the rhythm of the indigo aura’s lesson. Slowly, they extended their tendrils, small and careful at first, brushing against the currents of magic that flowed beyond their cavern.
Through the smallest openings, they reached the minds of insects skittering across moss and stone, feeling the tickle of their perceptions, the warmth of rain-soaked earth beneath tiny feet, the tremor of wind in their antennae. A mouse shivered in its nest, and one voice jumped at the sudden clarity of its fear, while another noted the faint pulse of hunger.
Encouraged, they extended further, brushing against birds pecking at scattered seeds, insects crawling along roots, feeling a hint of the chaos beyond the cavern without disturbing it. The flow of magic answered, subtle and patient, as if acknowledging those who waited.
The indigo aura pulsed in quiet approval. ‘See now, the world does not yield to force. It offers itself to those who wait, who watch with calm. Every movement, every thought, a thread connecting all things. You are learning, little by little.’
A glimmer of understanding passed through the younger voices. They were still tentative, still impatient at times, but the first stirrings of awareness threaded through them, and the world outside, its smallest, quietest moments, began to unfold before them like a map written in whispers.
One of the older voices, deep and resonant, shifted its awareness beyond the insects and rodents. Its tendrils of perception stretched further, brushing against currents of magic that were larger, more defined, more alive.
A ripple of recognition stirred in its consciousness. A male, wandering far from the familiar lands, his aura faint but unmistakably tinged with purple and orange. ‘The one they called no-name,’ the voice thought, a note of awe threading through its resonance.
Above him, high on the thermals, a second presence shimmered. Stronger, brighter, swirling with the same orange-purple aura, but alive, independent, and moving with grace and power. The dragon. The air trembled faintly around its wings, carrying the pulse of something ancient and dangerous.
Even higher, a streak of white glimmered against the horizon. Another dragon, her rider barely visible from this distance, moving with deliberate speed, watching, waiting. The older voice sensed the layering of these presences, the converging threads of fate that pulled across the land.
‘All connected,’ the voice whispered silently to the others. ‘He moves, and so does she. And above, another waits. Watch, and remember, patience must hold until the threads entangle’.
The other voices trembled with the echo of recognition, some cautious, some eager. The currents of magic pulsed more insistently now, a subtle warning that the world beyond their cavern was stirring in ways unprecedented, dangerous, and alive.
The older voice’s consciousness flowed outward, brushing against the threads of magic that radiated from the land. There, below, moving with quiet purpose, a male with the unmistakable purple-orange aura. ‘No-name,’ the voice recognised, noting the gentle undulations of power that pulsed from him.
It watched as he dismounted from his horse, landing softly on the earth. His hands glowed faintly, the purple-orange aura rippling as he knelt beside a peregrine falcon, its wing clearly broken. With careful, deliberate motions, he placed his hands over the injured limb. Light pulsed and shimmered in quiet rhythm, and the falcon’s wing mended under his touch. Once healed, the bird climbed onto his arm. No-name stood, raised his arm, and the falcon stretched its wings before soaring skyward, vanishing into the distance.
The no-name then knelt again, this time among two wolves, their fur bristling slightly as they circled him. He scratched behind their ears, murmuring softly, and the wolves leaned into his hands, calm and content under his touch.
The older voice transmitted the scene to the others, sharing what it saw. A hum, deep and resonant, emanated from the indigo aura voice, the oldest among them. ‘Kindness flows even through the smallest of gestures,’ it murmured, approval threading its tones. ‘The one with purple-orange glows not just with power, but with heart. Remember this… for it is rare, and it is precious.’
The younger voices trembled slightly, absorbing the warmth and contrast of compassion in a world so often dark and turbulent, the lesson seeping quietly into their consciousness: power tempered by mercy, strength exercised with care, a light even in the midst of uncertainty.
The older voice’s awareness stretched further, catching every flicker of motion beneath the no-name’s purple-orange aura. ‘I see companions,’ it murmured softly to the other voices. ‘An elf with orange aura, an elf with green, another with red… all mounted on horses. The two wolves run alongside him, keeping pace without hesitation. And… a large raven, radiating a strange green aura.’
The indigo aura voice hummed low, caution threading its tones. ‘The raven must be a shapeshifter.’
Acknowledging the warning, the older voice drew tighter around its senses, tendrils of consciousness quivering as it heightened its vigilance. ‘Noted,’ it said, ‘all must be watched carefully.’
Below, no-name’s movements shifted. He paused, eyes sweeping over the horizon, a faint flicker of tension in his posture. For a moment, it seemed as though he sensed something, a presence or disturbance beyond his companions. Then, just as suddenly, he shook his head, dismissing the thought as if brushing off a shadow, and resumed his steady pace.
The older voice relayed the moment to the younger ones, a silent reminder: perception is fleeting, and even the cautious may falter, but the patterns of aura, of intent, and of movement will always speak if you are patient enough to listen.
For weeks, the silent voices traced the movements of the group, their consciousness threading through the landscape like faint currents of wind. They observed the no-name and his companions as they journeyed vast distances, pausing in scattered settlements.
‘Healing hands, one of the older voices murmured, bones set, fevers eased, heavy loads lifted with ease…’ The group moved with quiet purpose, their aid not ostentatious but deeply felt. Even as they gave, they collected supplies, tools, and knowledge for the road ahead.
The older voice made careful note of the orange-purple aura of the dragon: always lingering just beyond view, hiding whenever the group mingled with the people. It sensed vigilance, a conscious effort to remain unseen, even while hovering close enough to protect.
Higher in the sky, the white aura of the dragon with the red-haired rider separated from the main group, drifting in a slow, purposeful arc. Observing closely, the older voice caught a fleeting exchange: the red-haired rider handing something unseen to no-name before vanishing into the horizon.
‘Strange, the indigo aura voice commented softly, intent unseen, yet the flow of energy shifted. A choice made, a message delivered… We can only wait and observe.’
The voices hummed in quiet anticipation, a ripple of curiosity and concern passing between them. Even in observation, they were bound to patience. The world below moved with subtle hands, shaping futures one small act at a time, while the dragons and the no-name wove themselves through it all, unseen yet sensed, protected yet enigmatic.
The days folded into one another as the group pressed onward, the older voices tracing every step in quiet observation. Each settlement left faint echoes, illness eased, wounds tended, burdens lifted, but always the orange-purple dragon lingered just out of sight, a pulse of warmth shadowing no-name.
The no-name moved with deliberate care, his purple-orange aura gentle yet insistent, radiating when he helped, when he touched, when he healed. The wolves flanked him, alert and synchronised, sensing what he did, watching as he guided the group.
Then, in the late afternoon, as the dust from the trail curled in lazy eddies, no-name slowed abruptly. His gaze darted to the treeline, scanning the shadows. A tingle ran along his spine, a presence, faint and fleeting, pressing at the edge of perception. His body stiffened, subtle, almost imperceptible, yet every hair seemed to rise in awareness. His aura pulsed in quiet alarm.
‘He didn’t understand it, didn’t see us, but he could feel it, he was being watched. We need to be more careful,’ the older voice murmured to the younger ones, ‘his aura is stronger than expected.’ The threads of his essence shifted and pushed against our awareness, teasing, testing.
He shook it off, forcing his focus back to the road, but the pause lingered in the air, a ghost of awareness. As night fell, and the group made camp beneath a blanket of stars, no-name moved among the wolves, lifting a branch here, adjusting a tarp there, yet his eyes occasionally flicked toward the darkness beyond the firelight. The orange-purple dragon stayed coiled in shadow, its presence a whisper against the quiet. The tension of being observed hummed faintly through the air, threading itself into the night, unseen but undeniable.
‘Patience,’ the indigo aura murmured. ‘The currents stir before the storm, and we must learn to listen before we speak.’