The storm had passed, but Vireth stood unmoving at the cliff's edge, staring into the forest below—dense, damp, and ancient. In the deep, undisturbed places of the world, magic still breathed. And in that breath lived remnants of those who remembered. The witches.
Not the kind born of superstition or storybooks, but the primal daughters of the first spell, those who remembered the language spoken before words were invented.
Vireth descended silently, the mist clinging to his celestial robes. His bare feet found the forgotten path with instinct. The forest accepted him—its branches parted just enough, its roots bent ever so slightly—acknowledging what he once was.
He carried no weapons. Only his name and his purpose.
In the heart of the forest, beneath the twisted boughs of trees that had no known species, a circle of stone obelisks stood. Their surfaces bore etchings no mortal hand could replicate—sigils that shimmered faintly under the black moon.
He stepped into the circle.
From the shadows emerged three figures. Women. Witches. Daughters of the old blood, cloaked in wind, starlight, and fragments of bone.
"You are late, Vireth," the tallest said, her voice sharp as broken ice.
"And yet I came," he replied calmly.
"The gods fell centuries ago. Why does one still wander with purpose?" asked the second, her mouth hidden behind a veil of woven silver threads.
"I seek the Egg of Elarion," he said.
At this, all three witches grew still.
"The world shifts," said the third, younger and stranger than the others. Her eyes shimmered with changing colors. "And now so do the ancient relics. The Egg... awakens."
"You know where it is," Vireth pressed.
"We know what it is," the veiled one replied, stepping forward. "The last ember of a god's true power. A prison. A key. A test."
"And we know who seeks it," said the youngest. She waved her hand, conjuring a column of violet smoke that rose into the air. It twisted, forming images: a shattered city, a man with thorns for a crown, black eyes that saw too much. "You're not alone, Vireth."
He studied the images carefully. "The Seeker," he whispered.
"Not a god. Not a man. Something in between. Something hungry," the eldest witch said. "He has no right to the Egg, yet his ambition burns through the veil of fate."
Vireth turned away from the smoke, tightening his fists. "If he finds the Egg of Elarion first—"
"He won't unlock it," interrupted the younger. "Not yet. Not without the riddles solved. Not without the path complete."
"Then tell me the path," he said.
The witches circled him now, weaving around him like smoke around flame. The air shimmered with the taste of old magic.
"The Egg was placed in a hidden chamber deep beneath the earth," the veiled witch said. "Beyond traps crafted from thought, time, and sacrifice. The path cannot be walked by one alone."
"Why?" Vireth asked.
"Because the final puzzle... is belief," said the youngest, softly. "And gods have so few believers now."
They stopped. The circle was complete.
"You will need help," the eldest whispered. "Not from your own. From mortals. From those who still remember wonder. Or pain. Or both."
Vireth's eyes narrowed. "And if they fail?"
"Then the Egg remains closed. Or worse... is broken."
Silence fell, heavy and sharp.
Then, the veiled witch stepped close, her long fingers brushing his temple. A burst of heat filled his mind—a map burned into memory, not of place, but of trials, patterns, sequences. A vision. A riddle.
"You have the first clue," she said. "But beware. Every step forward awakens something darker."
The youngest smiled suddenly, tilting her head. "The Egg of Elarion does not merely store power. It reflects it. Amplifies it. Corrupts, even... if the bearer is unworthy."
Vireth turned to leave.
Behind him, the witches spoke in unison, their voices echoing through the trees:
"To seek the Egg is to be tested. To hold it is to be changed."
And as he vanished into the mist, the black moon cracked the sky above with a faint, red glow.