Ryn followed the masked figure through the winding tunnels beneath the monolith. The air was thick with an eerie silence, broken only by the faint sound of their footsteps against the damp stone. Shadows flickered along the walls, cast by the dim glow of inscriptions etched into the cavern.
The whisper still lingered in Ryn's mind. It had been brief, fleeting, yet the weight of its presence was undeniable. Whatever had spoken to him was ancient, far older than anything he had encountered before.
The masked figure halted before a set of heavy stone doors. Arcane symbols covered their surface, radiating a faint golden light. He turned to Ryn. "Beyond this lies the threshold. Once you enter, there is no turning back."
Ryn frowned. "Threshold to what?"
The figure pressed a hand against the doors. The engravings shimmered, and with a low groan, the stone slabs began to slide apart. Beyond them was a vast chamber, its ceiling lost in darkness. At its center stood a massive construct—an altar of obsidian, pulsing with ancient engravings.
Ryn stepped forward cautiously, feeling the weight of something vast pressing upon him. The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the engravings on the altar flared to life, filling the chamber with a golden radiance. The whispers returned, more distinct this time, overlapping voices speaking in a language he could not comprehend.
The masked figure moved beside him. "This is the heart of the monolith. The inscriptions here predate known history."
Ryn reached out instinctively, drawn to the glow. The moment his fingers brushed against the surface of the altar, pain lanced through his palm. He gasped, pulling back, but it was too late.
The engravings surged, twisting and shifting, binding to him.
A vision struck him like a hammer. Darkness swallowed his senses, and in its depths, he saw glimpses of a ruined world—cities in flames, the sky torn apart by chaotic engravings unraveling reality itself. At the center of the destruction stood a figure, faceless yet familiar, surrounded by swirling sigils of immense power.
Then, a voice—no longer a whisper, but a resounding decree.
"You are marked."
Ryn fell to his knees, his breath ragged. The vision faded, but the weight of its meaning remained. He looked up at the masked figure, eyes wide. "What… was that?"
The figure regarded him for a long moment before answering. "A glimpse of what is to come."
Ryn clenched his fists, his mind racing. He had sought power, knowledge, a way forward. But now, he had become entangled in something far greater than himself.
The path ahead had been set.
And there was no turning back.
Ryn's breaths came heavy and uneven as he steadied himself on the cold stone floor. The aftershocks of the vision still pulsed through his mind—ruined cities, collapsing sigils, the faceless figure at the center of it all. The words echoed in his skull: "You are marked."
The masked figure observed him in silence, as if gauging his reaction.
Ryn forced himself upright, flexing his fingers. A burning sensation lingered on his palm, and when he looked, he saw something new—an inscription seared into his skin, pulsing faintly with a golden hue. The glyph was unlike anything he had ever seen before, an intricate pattern of interlocking lines that seemed to shift subtly before his eyes.
He swallowed hard. "What is this?"
The masked figure tilted his head slightly. "A fragment of knowledge. A key."
Ryn clenched his fist. The whispers had subsided, but the weight of something immense loomed over him. A sense of inevitability. He turned to the masked figure, his voice cold. "What does it unlock?"
The figure gestured toward the altar. "The first of many doors."
Before Ryn could respond, a sudden tremor rocked the chamber. The engravings on the walls pulsed erratically, their light dimming and flaring as if struggling against an unseen force. The masked figure tensed. "They've sensed the disturbance."
A second tremor, stronger this time. Dust rained from the ceiling, and Ryn could feel the change in the air—an oppressive force pressing down on them. The whispers returned, fragmented and sharp, filling his mind with chaotic murmurs.
A deep, guttural sound reverberated through the chamber, like stone grinding against stone. Ryn turned toward the far end of the hall, where a massive archway stood, lined with faded inscriptions. Darkness pooled beyond its threshold, shifting unnaturally.
The masked figure's voice was firm. "We leave. Now."
Ryn barely had time to react before the shadows surged forward. Tendrils of darkness laced with crackling inscriptions reached out, writhing hungrily. The masked figure moved swiftly, raising a hand. Symbols flared to life along his arm, forming a barrier of golden engravings that met the encroaching void.
"Run!"
Ryn hesitated only for a moment before turning on his heel and sprinting toward the exit. The ground beneath him trembled, the air thick with the scent of burning metal as the inscriptions fought against the consuming force. He didn't look back.
The moment he crossed the threshold, a deafening roar split the air. A pulse of golden light erupted behind him, and the force of it sent him sprawling forward. The masked figure emerged a second later, landing beside him in a crouch.
The entrance to the chamber collapsed in on itself, stone and sigils imploding into nothingness. Silence followed, heavy and absolute.
Ryn coughed, pushing himself up onto his elbows. His mind was still reeling. Whatever was inside that chamber, it had been watching.
The masked figure dusted himself off and turned to him. "You've been marked by something beyond mortal comprehension. If you wish to survive, you must learn to control it."
Ryn met his gaze, his fingers curling around the mark on his palm. The path ahead was no longer just about power or knowledge—it was about survival.
And whatever had left its imprint on him was far from finished.
The weight of fate pressed heavily upon him.
And he had no choice but to bear it.