Deep within an ancient forest, a campfire crackled and flickered, casting shifting shadows over the quiet gathering. Towering trees loomed like sentinels, their twisted branches clawing toward the starless sky. Around the fire sat a handful of figures cloaked in silence, their faces shrouded by hoods and shadows. They had traveled from lands everywhere, drawn to see the Soothsayer’s final prophecy.

  At the heart of the circle sat the Soothsayer herself, the most powerful seer the world had ever known. Her frail form seemed carved from fragile porcelain, her skin pale as parchment, etched with the weight of countless visions. Resting her trembling hands atop a crystal sphere, she seemed impossibly still, save for her eyes; burning with an undimmed light, a spark of purpose that defied the passage of time. The sphere glimmered faintly in the firelight, its surface smooth and flawless yet filled with fathomless depths, as if it held the mysteries of the universe within.

  The air hung heavy, thick with reverence, as though even the ancient forest held its breath. The crackle of the fire was the only sound, punctuating the sacred stillness as all waited for words that would shape the fate of the world.

  The Soothsayer’s voice rose slowly, cracked by age yet steady with resolve. Each word fell like the toll of a bell, resonating across the clearing, imbued with power that seemed to reach through time.

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  “When light and chaos walk as one,

  Four relics sought, four trials done.

  Magic fractured, lost in time,

  The path to mend, or leave behind.”

  A soft breeze whispered through the trees, stirring the leaves, and lifting glowing embers from the fire. They spiraled upward, dancing like fleeting stars before vanishing into the darkness. The Soothsayer’s breath grew shallow, yet her voice strengthened, pulling from some unseen well of power.

  “Through shadowed doors and ancient halls,

  Each step will rise, each step will fall.”

  Her frail body trembled, her knotted fingers tightening around the crystal sphere. Her gaze fixed on something beyond this world, her voice carrying the weight of finality.

  “A journey begun, a shadow’s call,

  One to bind the dark or set it free.”

  As the last words left her lips, the fire dimmed, the shadows creeping closer as if drawn by the gravity of her words. Her hands slipped from the crystal, and her head fell forward, her breath stilling. For a heartbeat, the clearing stood frozen, the silence absolute, as though the world itself grieved her passing.

  Then, in the faintest whisper, her voice stirred again, carried on the soft breeze.

  “Ella Starling…”

  The name lingered in the air, drifting into the night as her spirit moved on, destined to return when the world would again need her sight. Around the dying fire, the cloaked figures remained motionless, their silence heavy with the weight of what they had seen. The prophecy hung over them, a fragile thread holding together a fractured world.