The Burden of Choices

  In the forgotten lands of Ithralis, a continent once full of life, the small nation of Bastreo stood as a quiet reminder of its past. Decades of war and the corrupting influence of the Nox had reduced Ithralis to ruins. Bastreo, now barely more than a single city, was all that remained of a once-proud nation. Most of its residents had already left for The Holy Lands—Ardrath, hoping for a safer life. But some stayed behind, holding on to whatever peace they could find, even as the ruins around them whispered of what was gone.

  As the Solaris rose over Ithralis, illuminating the lands, its morning amber light stretched across the city, drawing long shadows on the old cobblestone streets. Lyra Artheros stood by the front door of her small home, her fingers trembling as she turned the lock. Beside her stood her son, Theron, quiet as always.

  Lyra was chosen as an Oracle at a young age. She fulfilled her role with devotion and dedication, but now she carried a heavy burden—one even her young son understood. Theron was born with a rare illness that slowly drained the Sol—life essence—from his body. An illness that would eventually claim his life. Lyra felt as if she had been forgotten by the very mother she had devoted her life to.

  Lyra’s eyes filled with tears as she locked the door, maybe for the last time. She once believed that being an Oracle was a blessing. Now, it felt like a curse. Oracles were chosen to guide mortals and keep the balance between Sol and Nox, the forces of life and death. They had great responsibility, but for Lyra, it came with a cost. And if she lost Theron, she knew she could never return to the place she called home. The memories alone would push her to insanity.

  She had accepted a request from the Oracle’s Academy—one she couldn’t refuse. It would decide the fate of many and might even stop another war. She had already seen Bastreo fall apart once. She didn’t want to see it happen again. But more than anything, she knew there was no cure for Theron’s illness. Still, she held onto the smallest hope, even if it was foolish. It was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Lyra had chosen to fight for the future, even if it meant sacrificing her livelihood to save others.

  Lyra let out a slow breath. "We should go now. The caravan won’t wait."

  Theron hesitated, his expression remaining unreadable, but not for Lyra. She watched him as he struggled to speak, but she didn't interrupt him, the silence stretching between them. Then, at last, he spoke—his voice quiet but steady. "Can I visit Father's grave first? Just one last time?"

  A tight feeling rose in her chest, but she made herself smile. "Of course. I'll wait for you. I will be at the gates."

  After a moment, she added, "Maybe you should clean the gravestone. It’ll be a long time before we come back..." She ended the sentence with a tone of uncertainty.

  Theron nodded, ran to the back of the house, picked up a bucket and cloth, and hurried toward the cemetery, disappearing into a small patch of forest, separating endless graveyards from the small city. Meanwhile, Lyra turned toward a neighbor’s house to say goodbye. The morning air was cool, and the fading thin clouds of mist wrapped the city in silence.

  Whispers of the Forgotten

  The graveyards of Bastreo carried whispers of the past, each gravestone a quiet marker of lives once lived and lost. Rows of cracked and worn stones stretched across the barren land, a stark reminder of two brutal wars. Long ago, Nox had devoured this place, but Lady Selratha, the Goddess of the Afterlife, had purified it. Though the corruption was cleansed, the land remained sterile, unable to support even the smallest blade of grass.

  Theron wasn’t wandering aimlessly; he was searching purposefully. He knew exactly where his father’s grave was—he could feel it. His ability to sense Sol had sharpened over the years due to the illness draining it from his body. Unlike his mother, who could selectively sense Sol, Theron experienced its constant pull. His body absorbed it involuntarily, making him acutely aware of the remnants left behind by the dead.

  Bastreo was small, offering little opportunity to interact with other children. He spent most of his time helping his mother at the Sanctum of the Divine Mother Mythril or learning to control his overwhelming senses. In a way, the graveyard had become more familiar to him than the city itself.

  Reaching his father’s gravestone, he hesitated. For a moment, he simply stood there, letting the waves of Sol ripple through him. Slowly, he placed his hand on the cold stone. Instantly, fragmented visions filled his mind.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Theron could see the patterns that the dead engraved in the Sol as Nox slowly consumed them, converting them back into Sol—returning them to the great cycle of existence. Through this, he could glimpse the last moments of the people buried here. Even if he had never known them personally, their bravery, fear, and faith—their every breath—were laid bare before him.

  Theron had no memories of his father, Kaelion Artheros. He had been too young when Kaelion fell in battle, giving his life to free their homeland from the Noxborns. A celebrated warrior of Bastreo, his name had once been spoken with reverence, but time had reduced his story to a fading legend. His sacrifice ensured Lyra and Theron's comfort, but no security could fill the void he left behind.

  Kaelion’s last stand played out in Theron’s mind like a haunting melody. Exhausted from slaying hundreds of Noxborn, he fought until his strength failed. His sword slipped from his grasp, and the spell granting him sight in the darkness began to fade. In the last fleeting moments of its effect, he saw the advancing horde. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the dagger on his back—his last weapon.

  He threw himself into the fight, cutting down creatures one after another, until there were too many to stop.

  Each time Theron saw this memory, pride and sorrow warred within him. His father had died a hero—a truth the world seemed to have forgotten, but one that burned brightly in Theron’s heart. Yet, the same question always lingered: How did Father feel in those last moments?

  He withdrew his hand from the gravestone and took out a cloth to clean it. His ability to sense the dead’s final memories was Theron’s secret. He hadn’t told anyone—not even Lyra. The only ones who knew were him and his silent father.

  "Goodbye, Father," he whispered in a calm tone. "I don’t know when I will return. By then, the Sol in your grave might be gone. I wish I could be like you—strong, fearless… I’m going to your friend’s house. Mom said they’ll train me with a sword. Next time I visit, I’ll know how to use one… and I’ll take your old sword. That’s a promise.”

  As he turned his back to his father’s grave, a soft breeze rustled through the air, as if Kaelion was agreeing to the promise. He didn’t dwell on it. There was one last place he wanted to visit.

  At the forest’s edge stood a massive, solitary tree. Sustained by the lingering Sol released by the countless dead, it had grown tall and resilient—a silent witness to the passage of time.

  Theron hurried toward it, knowing he was already late. He reached the tree’s base and looked up at its wide branches. Taking a deep breath, he climbed. Sitting on a strong branch, he let his eyes wander over the endless gravestones. The sight calmed him, grounding him in the present—until the urgency of time pulled him back.

  With one last look, he descended and ran toward the city gates.

  The Departure

  As Theron neared the gates, even though there weren’t many people, he could still feel the concentration of Sol in the air.

  Lyra stood waiting, her serene presence commanding quiet respect despite her sadness. They had arrived just in time—the caravans were preparing to depart.

  The Artheros family was well-known in Bastreo. Kaelion’s valor as a warrior and Lyra’s healing touch as a priestess of Mother Mythril had earned them a place in the hearts of the people. Many residents had gathered to bid them farewell, not just out of gratitude but to honor their sacrifices. Bastreo had a small population even for a city, so most of the people knew each other well.

  Theron started running straight toward the caravan, but Lyra called after him.

  “Theron, come here. We should thank everyone before we go.”

  He stopped mid-stride and glanced back. “You can say my part. I’ll be at the caravan. Which one are we in?”

  Lyra sighed. “The second one.”

  With that, she turned toward the crowd, and Theron hurried ahead.

  There were four caravans set to travel to the Holy Land of Ardrath. These morning caravans transported supplies and passengers, making the journey from Bastreo to Ardrath and returning in the afternoon.

  Standing before the crowd, Lyra retrieved a holy scripture—an Oracle’s sacred text. Turning to a specific page, she began reciting an incantation. Her voice, steady and melodic, rose into the morning air, weaving hope and gratitude into each word. A soft golden glow surrounded her as she spoke—a final blessing for the city she had loved so dearly.

  Meanwhile, Theron stood by the caravan, a mix of excitement and nerves swirling in his chest. He had never left Bastreo. His illness made travel risky, and his heightened sensitivity to Sol made crowded places overwhelming.

  Beyond the gates stretched the fabled Stone Bridge, a colossal feat of engineering that once symbolized unity between continents. Now, it stood mostly forgotten, a pathway to the unknown. But the tattered flags hanging on its sides still clung to the past.

  After bidding farewell, Lyra made her way toward the caravan. As she approached, Theron climbed inside, his expression brightening at the sight of a familiar face.

  Orlan, a merchant from Bastreo, greeted him with a warm grin. “Well, well, look who’s finally leaving the nest. You ready for the big world, lad?”

  Theron smirked. “I just hope Ardrath is as amazing as everyone says.”

  Orlan chuckled. “That depends on who you ask.”

  Once everyone was on board, the caravan lurched forward. Theron watched as Bastreo slowly disappeared behind them.

  This wasn’t just a journey—it was the start of something new. Something that would test his strength, his abilities, and his resolve.

  " Thank you for reading"