Eternal Destiny (Continued)

Chapter 9

The darkness in the room is not merely the absence of light; it was an absolute, heavy weight that seemed to press down against Richard's eyelids long before he actually opened them.

​When his eyes finally fluttered open, his vision was greeted by a vast, void-like stretch of nothingness. There were no walls that he could immediately discern, no wooden planks or stone masonry beneath him, only a smooth, pitch-black surface that reflected nothing. Floating directly above his head, suspended in the quiet air like a tiny, dying star, was a single orb of pure white magic. It cast a dim, soft luminescence over the immediate area, barely strong enough to illuminate a ten-foot radius around him.

​Richard groaned, the sound scraping against the back of his dry throat. He instinctively reached up to rub his temple, expecting to feel the sharp, throbbing ache that usually accompanied magical exhaustion, the familiar punishment his body exacted whenever he pushed his reservoirs past their limits. But there was no physical sensation. No warmth of blood, no strain in his muscles, no cool night breeze against his skin. He couldn't even feel the heavy weight of his red cloak.

​He sat up slowly, his fingers brushing against the cold, frictionless floor.
​"Daiya...?" he murmured, his voice sounding oddly muted, as though the darkness swallowed the acoustic waves the moment they left his lips.

​Memory returned in fragmented, disorienting flashes: the roaring heat of Daiya's magical fire dragon, the rushing wind against his face as he plummeted toward the arena sand, the frantic beating of Cotaz and Loki's wings, and then... that terrible, suffocating wave of pitch-black energy that had threatened to tear through his arm. He remembered forcing it back. He remembered the desperate, dying embers of his light magic as he struck out at Daiya's chest just as she unleashed her own spell.

​Did we both pass out? Is this an afterlife? he thought, his heart hammering against his ribs in sudden panic.

​"You are not dead, young one," a voice rasped from the gloom.

​Richard flinched, his head snapping toward the sound.

​Sitting in the shadow just beyond the reach of the floating light orb was the figure of a man. He was leaning back against what appeared to be an invisible wall, his knees pulled up slightly toward his chest. He looked ancient, far older than anyone Richard had ever encountered in Elothia or beyond. His body was frail and withered, draped in simple, unadorned robes of faded cloth that looked as though they would crumble to dust if touched. His hair was long, stringy, and stark white, falling in loose strands over a face deeply etched with countless lines of severe exhaustion and age.

​Yet despite his frail frame, there was an unmistakable aura that clung to him, a faint, rhythmic hum of raw, dormant authority that made the air surrounding him vibrate ever so slightly.

​The old man shifted, his sunken eyes slowly opening to reveal irises of a piercing, brilliant hue. He looked at Richard for a long moment, taking in the sight of the young mage with an expression that bordered on bittersweet melancholy.

​The man parted his cracked lips and spoke. The words that tumbled out were soft, rhythmic, and melodic, ringing with a fluid, archaic cadence that felt almost like a musical composition:

​"Elenila'vantareth, calen'doril elu'messiar. Rhû-möranis thal'enor..."

​Richard blinked, his eyebrows pulling together in utter confusion. The language sounded ancient, ancient in a way that felt deep and deeply woven into the fabric of the world itself, yet he couldn't parse a single syllable of it. It sounded like the whispers of wind through primeval forests, but to his ears, it was entirely alien.