The morning came slowly, with a thick fog that clung to the earth like a damp shroud. Ronan sat by the remnants of the fire, his mind still tangled in Kaelen's cryptic words. The shadows of the night seemed to cling to him, even as the first light of dawn struggled to break through the mist. Doomfang, silent as always, lay nearby, his wings folded, eyes glowing faintly as he observed Ronan from a distance.
Ronan couldn't shake the feeling that Kaelen had been right. The power he shared with the wyvern—no, the bond that was forged between them—wasn't just a blessing. It was a curse. He could feel it in the depths of his soul. Every day, the wyvern's presence grew stronger, pushing against the boundaries of his will.
You are mine, Forsaken, Doomfang whispered inside his mind, the words cold but matter-of-fact. We are bound by fate, and that which binds cannot be undone.
Ronan gritted his teeth, fighting the creeping dread that threatened to consume him. He couldn't let this be his life. He had to find a way out of this bond. There had to be a way to regain control of his own destiny.
But the truth was, he didn't know how. He had never been trained to be a Beastbinder, never prepared for the raw power that surged through him, threatening to unravel everything he had ever known about himself. Doomfang was no simple creature. The wyvern was ancient, powerful, and far beyond anything Ronan could comprehend. And yet, it was bound to him, and there was no escaping that fact.
"Stop thinking so hard," came the voice of Doomfang, almost teasing. You will wear yourself thin. Relax.
Ronan's brow furrowed as he rose to his feet. He wasn't sure if he could relax—not with the weight of Kaelen's words still heavy in his mind. "I'm not sure how to relax when I don't even know what the hell is going on."
That is why you must stop thinking, Doomfang replied, his voice more soothing than before. Let the bond guide you. Let me guide you. The more you fight it, the more you will suffer.
Ronan scowled but didn't reply. He knew Doomfang was right in a way. The more he fought the bond, the harder it became to control. It was as if every time he resisted, the wyvern's power grew stronger, pushing him deeper into the abyss.
The sound of something moving through the trees broke his thoughts, sharp and sudden, like a warning bell ringing in his chest. Ronan's heart skipped a beat as he instinctively reached for his dagger, though he knew it wouldn't be enough to face whatever was coming.
Doomfang's eyes flashed, his body tensing as he raised his head. Stay alert, Forsaken. We are not alone.
From the mist emerged another figure, cloaked in dark robes, but this one was different from Kaelen. There was no amusement or warmth in the stranger's presence—just cold, calculating menace. Ronan could feel the air grow heavier as the figure drew closer, the tension almost palpable.
The figure stopped a few paces away, his face obscured by the hood of his cloak. For a long moment, neither of them moved, as if they were sizing each other up. Then the figure spoke, his voice like gravel being ground beneath a boot.
"Ronan Blackthorn," the figure said, his words cutting through the mist like a blade. "I have been searching for you."
Ronan's stomach twisted. There was something familiar about the way the figure spoke—something that sent a chill racing down his spine.
"Who are you?" Ronan demanded, his hand still gripping the dagger. "What do you want?"
The figure tilted his head, as if considering the question. "I want nothing from you. I seek only to offer you a choice."
A choice. Again, the word sent shivers through Ronan. He wasn't sure if he was ready for another cryptic encounter, but he had no choice but to listen.
"What kind of choice?" Ronan asked cautiously, his mind racing.
The figure stepped forward, his movements swift and deliberate. "You have been marked by the wyvern. That much is clear. And with that mark comes power. But power comes at a cost. You must decide whether you will use it for your own purposes—or if you will allow others to control it."
Ronan's heart raced. Another one of them, he thought bitterly. Another player in this twisted game, pulling at the strings of his fate.
"Why should I trust you?" Ronan's voice was filled with distrust, though he couldn't help but be curious. The stranger's presence was unlike Kaelen's—more direct, more focused.
The figure smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You shouldn't. But you will have to, for the simple reason that you have no other choice. You cannot escape the mark, Forsaken. It has bound you to something greater than yourself."
Ronan felt the weight of the words sink in. He had hoped that his bond with Doomfang could be controlled, that he could find a way to break free, but this stranger's words struck a deeper fear in him. The wyvern, the power, the bond—it was all part of something bigger, something he could neither understand nor control.
"What do you want from me?" Ronan repeated, more forcefully this time, though his voice cracked with uncertainty.
The figure reached into his cloak, pulling out an object—a small, ornate box, crafted from dark metal and etched with strange runes that seemed to pulse with a faint, ominous glow. He held it out toward Ronan.
"I want you to take this," the figure said. "Inside is a key—a key to unlocking your true potential. With it, you can embrace your power, wield it as you see fit, and rise above the forces that seek to control you."
Ronan hesitated, staring at the box. His instincts screamed at him to refuse, to turn away from this dark gift. But something inside him, something deep within the bond he shared with Doomfang, whispered otherwise.
Take it, Forsaken. You have no choice.
The wyvern's voice reverberated in his mind, cold and insistent.
With a deep breath, Ronan reached for the box, his fingers brushing against the metal. The moment he touched it, a surge of energy coursed through his body, like a jolt of lightning striking him from within. His vision blurred, and for a brief moment, he could feel the power of the wyvern flooding into him, filling every fiber of his being.
"Now you are ready," the figure said softly, as if watching Ronan's transformation with some satisfaction. "Embrace the power, Forsaken. It is yours to command."
The figure turned and began to walk away, his steps disappearing into the mist, leaving Ronan standing in the clearing, the strange box in his hand and the weight of his decision pressing heavily upon him.
Ronan stared at the box, his heart pounding in his chest. What had he just done? And what did it mean for the future? The power he had unlocked was no longer just a tool—it was a force, one that would shape his every step from now on.
He glanced at Doomfang, whose eyes glowed brighter than ever, and in that moment, Ronan realized that the road ahead would not be easy. It would be fraught with dangers, with enemies seeking to control him, and with the growing darkness inside him that threatened to consume him.
But there was no turning back now. He had made his choice, and now he would have to live with it.