Of Fate’s Chosen

  The Maker turned—His golden face so beautiful, so radiant, that time itself stood still, unaware it held its endless breath.

  “I choose thee.”

  His voice was joy and ecstasy.

  His words—terrifying.

  — Excerpt from the Hallowed Tome, “The Tale of the First Man”

  Kessel had served as Master of the Diviners for well over thirty years, and never in his distinguished career had he failed to find a spirit trace.

  This time, though, the aged mage was confounded.

  He was beginning to understand why.

  The creature’s body was not its own.

  It was merely a vessel—one into which the soul of some other-dimensional being had been planted.

  The magic used to alter the once-human form and anchor the foreign spirit was powerful—possibly ancient. The fact that the body had been preserved so long without decay only reinforced that.

  A dire warning grew louder in Kessel’s mind.

  Technically, the spell had worked perfectly. Every incantation, every glyph had functioned as designed. The compulsion had reached through the Veil, found the trace, and pulled the spirit into contact.

  But what unsettled him was what the spell had found.

  This wasn’t the spirit they’d been tasked to locate—not exactly.

  Instead, they had touched something unexpected.

  An impossibly ancient soul—expelled from its own body millennia ago.

  Jorden’s corpse had been hijacked.

  A possession this old and powerful suggested forces far greater than Kessel dared contemplate.

  Now they would need to trace the path of that possession to its final destination—requiring another dimensional shift.

  And to make matters worse, Jorden would need to guide it—placing their lives in the hands of a spirit whose intentions remained unknown… and who, if successful, might return to the world of the living alongside them.

  Kessel reviewed the emperor’s orders again, but doubt gnawed at him.

  If all went well, perhaps this would be another strange-but-successful operation.

  Perhaps his fears were unfounded.

  But if Jorden was deceiving them—

  If this thing wasn’t what it claimed to be—

  Then Kessel would have helped loose a monster upon the world.

  And he wasn’t sure he could live with that..

  He shuddered, glancing once more at the corpse of the beast Lord Greyblood had slain.

  Would the body even allow the original spirit to return?

  And if it did—if the spirit somehow managed to inhabit the vessel again—what then?

  What did one who had wandered the realm of the dead for so long do with life, once reclaimed?

  Kessel swallowed hard. He was meddling with forces far beyond his depth.

  He could speculate forever, but it wouldn’t solve the problem.

  The only surefire way to bring the group back unscathed was to deny the spirit’s request and end the divination here.

  That would mean failure.

  The mission abandoned.

  All the time, expense, and imperial effort spent preparing this ritual—wasted.

  Yet if he agreed…

  If he let Jorden pursue the creature’s displaced soul…

  If they followed this trace to its end…

  His six companions could be walking into unimaginable peril.

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  Never in his life had Kessel dared trace a soul into the outer dimensions.

  This one would certainly lead there.

  And while such a journey didn’t guarantee disaster, the further one strayed from their own reality, the stranger things became—and the less control he had over them.

  Giving his amulet a resolute tug, Kessel made his decision: he would proceed—cautiously, and only for a short while longer.

  At the first sign of danger, he would utter the word of power and end the spell.

  Between his own considerable experience, the strength of his amulet, and the Demon’s Eye, he felt confident he could control what came next.

  “Fine,” he said. “Spirit, take your place within the body at my feet. Once you are settled, I will reestablish the link between flesh and soul. If we survive what follows, you will have the means you seek—to pursue the peace that still eludes you.”

  Jorden’s body quivered as its long-absent inhabitant began to return, sinking once more into the radically altered shell.

  Chanting the binding ritual, Kessel watched as the estranged soul twitched its host’s fingers, kicked its legs, spasmed and flexed within the reshaped frame.

  He re-uttered the fusing incantation, brow furrowed in concentration. Heat fled his limbs, and cold sweat beaded along his shoulders.

  The medallion flashed—a blinding burst. Flesh swelled across the gaunt, reptilian form. Scaled skin softened and widened. Color shifted.

  Then—Jorden’s eyes snapped open, and from his throat came a long-suppressed sigh.

  Light flared from the pentagram as the soul fused into its clay vessel. His chest rose and fell. Time slowed.

  And then—utter silence.

  The wails of the restless dead ceased.

  Not even the wind dared intrude.

  A heartbeat.

  Soft at first, but present.

  It pulsed through the plane, growing stronger with each beat, devouring the silence as it gathered force and rhythm.

  The ritual passed.

  Kessel stood in awe of what had occurred—of what had been allowed to occur.

  He had not caused this.

  No. He had performed enough magic to recognize an intercession when he saw one.

  For a few precious seconds, he felt it.

  The presence of Aric.

  The Maker’s love infused him—warmth beyond description. Power flooded the area: infinite, immutable.

  But even a gift from a god carried a cost.

  Kessel wept, for he feared the price.

  Meanwhile, Jorden stood—shining and remade—radiant beyond mortal measure.

  There was beauty in him now, but not the kind born of flesh. It was the brilliance of something holy.

  He moved beside Kessel, speaking in an otherworldly voice wreathed in prophecy.

  “And in that place which is everywhere and nowhere,

  life shall arise from death.

  Hell itself will calm.

  Behold the prophet of Aric.

  In voice long silenced shall he name the final of the Chosen,

  brand them with fire, wreath them in responsibility,

  and cast them back into the world of men.

  Lo, Aric’s task shall weigh heavy upon their hearts.”

  Jorden smiled, his luminous gaze settling on the pentagram that protected Biaun.

  To the astonishment of all, he walked toward it—and stepped over the edge.

  The magical ward flared—brief and bright—but made no effort to halt the prophet’s advance.

  Kessel’s breath caught.

  “That ward shouldn’t have let anything through,” he whispered. “Not unless…”

  He didn’t finish the thought.

  “Biaun Greyblood, son of Evan Greyblood,” Jorden intoned,

  “receive the blessing of Aric, thy father.

  I charge you with the protection of the realms and all of Aric’s peoples.

  I brand you with the Maker’s light.”

  His hand reached out and touched the knight’s chest.

  A surge of blinding brilliance erupted.

  Biaun inhaled sharply. His body seized, and his eyes flew open.

  Pain lanced through him—searing and exquisite—yet something deeper bloomed beneath it.

  Joy. Purpose. Peace. As if the agony was a door, and something divine had stepped through.

  For the briefest moment, Biaun felt the touch of Aric.

  Time unraveled before him—not restrictive, but fluid.

  A passage, a river, a road across which movement was not only possible, but meant.

  He saw his destiny—not the events themselves, but the shape they would form.

  And in that vision, he knew:

  His choices mattered.

  They would bear the weight of fate.

  The heat he had so often felt within his chest took form.

  The flesh burned, raw and angry, as if he had truly been branded.

  He staggered, gasping. His hand found the skin above his heart.

  It pulsed hot beneath the heavy, dark cloth and protective armor.

  Pain bloomed outward in waves from a newly seared wound—not a scar of injury, but a mark of divine purpose.

  Either unconscious of the pain he had caused Biaun—or simply unconcerned—Jorden stepped beyond the knight’s protective ward in another brief flash of sigil-light. He moved through the chamber in slow, wandering arcs, as if uncertain of his next purpose.

  Passing wards without heed, the prophet eventually paused before Aehyl’s. He stopped. His glowing eyes rested on the young elf for several heartbeats. Then, with the slightest tilt of his head—acknowledgment, perhaps—he turned and walked on.

  Across the chamber, within his ward, Talose glanced around in growing alarm. His gaze darted from sigil to sigil, but no one moved. No one offered him comfort or guidance.

  Then Jorden came to a stop.

  The prince's eyes fell to the man’s bare feet. Gone were all signs of the twisted reptile. The frail limbs had become whole—muscular and well-proportioned—the body of a seasoned warrior reborn. His torso and head were likewise transformed, bearing the grace and strength of the hero he claimed to have been millennia ago.

  Talose swallowed. Something in his heart turned.

  This soul—this creature—had endured untold torment across countless ages, all so he might stand now, to deliver the Maker’s will. Shamed by his fear, the prince forced himself to meet Jorden’s gaze.

  “Receive thy Father’s blessing, Talose Ozewrath,” Jorden said softly, voice like a memory echoing across time.

  “I charge you with the protection of the realms and all of Aric’s peoples.

  I brand you with the Maker’s light.”

  Talose flinched.

  A searing pain bloomed across his chest as the sigil flared to life. His cloak suddenly felt ten times heavier, each movement scraping cloth against raw flesh.

  Then the visions came.

  A chasm—immense, abyssal—draped in webs and littered with the bones of the ancient dead. Grief lanced through him at the sight. And at the chasm’s heart: a cave. Vast and silent. A palace lay buried beneath its stone—a forgotten place, hidden in a strange cavern lit only by the silvery shimmer of subterranean waters.

  As Talose struggled to stand beneath the weight of fire and vision, Jorden leaned closer and spoke just loud enough for him to hear.

  “The will of Aric is a great burden, young prince. Do not lose faith in His wisdom, no matter how difficult the task.

  I have wandered this realm for ages untold, and I know now—what once seemed a curse has ended in blessing.

  Are we not all tools of our Creator?” he said with a weary smile, one dark brow arched in irony.

  Nodding dumbly, Talose wasn’t sure how to respond. A horrible feeling crept over him—that even this reborn prophet, who had suffered unimaginable torment across dimensions, had pitied him enough to offer extra encouragement.

  He watched as Jorden returned to Kessel’s side. Questions swarmed his thoughts, urgent and unspoken, but he understood enough of what was happening to know: no easy answers would be forthcoming.