Age Of Stories

The prisoners continued their march through the valley at a steady pace—not too fast, not too slow. Zayne kept his head forward, but his focus lingered on the lackey walking beside him. He wasn't sure why he decided to learn about this frightened whelp, but something about it felt like instinct.

Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was just to pass the time, but what he considered a casual conversation, the lackey clearly saw as an interrogation.

From their exchange, Zayne learned the lackey's name was Tamir and his unfortunate circumstances. Tamir had been a house servant for as long as he could remember, bound to the service of 'Young Master Dayne', the trembling noble boy a few steps ahead of them.

Dayne, as it turned out, was the sixth child of Lord Hunsen—a lesser noble whose health had taken a turn for the worse. With the patriarch weakened, Dayne had made his bid for power, attempting to outmaneuver his older siblings through schemes that were, at best, laughable. He had neither the cunning nor the ruthlessness needed to succeed in such a brutal game, and it hadn't taken long for his more experienced brothers and sisters to crush his ambitions.

He was sent to prison by his siblings as what he believed to be a warning, but Zayne knew that was unlikely. He was basically a pathetic afterthought in the grander scheme of noble succession.

Zayne listened, unimpressed. Dayne had spent his life wrapped in silk and luxury, yet the moment he tasted real struggle, he crumbled like wet parchment. He hadn't even been beaten or tortured—just locked away—and now he was here, stumbling and weeping like a lost child just from a few pokes in the belly button.

The mere sight of him irritated Zayne. It wasn't the fact that he was a noble that bothered him. No, it was the pretentious types that annoyed him—those who talked big but couldn't handle the consequences when they were inevitably punched back.

To Zayne, sympathy was earned, not given, and Dayne had done nothing to deserve it.

Tamir, on the other hand, was an oddity. He was small, frail-looking, and seemingly lacking in strength, yet despite the arduous climb and the long march, he didn't appear the least bit exhausted. No sweat clung to his face, and his breathing remained steady, unlike his so-called master, who was drenched and gasping for air.

Zayne studied him, considering the possibility that his years of servitude had conditioned him to endure physical exertion better than most similar to himself. It was a stretch but possible.

Still, something about it nagged at him.

A servant with such a frail looking body shouldn't be in better condition than literal trained guards or the other stronger looking prisoners. There was something off about Tamir, though Zayne couldn't quite put his finger on it yet.

His thoughts shifted as his surroundings began to feel... wrong.

He hadn't noticed at first, but now, as he looked ahead, he realized that the end of the valley didn't seem to be getting any closer.

The path stretched endlessly, and the mountains flanking them seemed different.

Weren't they taller before?

Had the slopes been that jagged earlier?

It was subtle but undeniable. The landscape was shifting. And then there was the heat.

The warmth he had felt earlier, the one that had initially been a minor irritation, had grown stronger. It wasn't unbearable, but it was enough to make the guards murmur amongst themselves.

"Is it just me, or does the armor feel a bit less comfortable?"

"Yeah, my privates feel stuffed and like they're being cooked."

"What privates feel stuffed? You know we've seen you all in the shower, right?"

"What are you trying to say?!"

"Yes, it feels a lot warmer than before..."

Zayne kept his expression neutral, but inside, his unease grew.

This wasn't normal.

Something was wrong.

He was no stranger to gut instincts, and right now, his gut was screaming at him that this was no ordinary journey.

His eyes flickered to the lead female guard ahead, the Loreforged. If something was truly off, she would notice first. But she kept moving forward without hesitation, her focus unshaken.

Zayne exhaled slowly, his mind racing with possibilities. He wasn't planning on escaping. Not yet. But he had to be prepared. The world was shifting around them, and he had no intention of being caught unaware when the inevitable happened.

As they walked, something suddenly came up in Zayne's thoughts. He glanced at Tamir and asked, "Why are you here?"

Tamir blinked in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Zayne kept his gaze forward but elaborated. "You're just a servant, right? So why are you here with that noble brat? Shouldn't it have been just him?"

Realization dawned on Tamir's face. He sighed. "Because of my young master's actions, the household believed he had servants helping him enact his plans. But since he was already unpopular with most of the family and had no backers, they picked me— the only one who served him without question."

Zayne hummed in thought. He wasn't particularly surprised. "Did you actually help him, then?"

Tamir shook his head frantically. "No! I didn't. I didn't even know how he enacted them. I only knew about the plans after the fact, but I never had a hand in any of it."

Zayne nodded in understanding. Then, after a moment, he asked, "So why didn't you just denounce him to save yourself?"

Tamir hesitated. "Why would I do that?"

Zayne snorted. "You're following an idiot who couldn't even make a proper plan and got himself locked up. Why would you follow someone like that to your torment when you could've easily absolved yourself? It's not like he's secretly some misunderstood good guy, right?"

Tamir glanced toward his young master as if expecting some reaction. None came. Finally, he spoke. "I… He's not a good person, I won't argue that. But that has nothing to do with my loyalty. The patriarch assigned me to serve him, and I won't fail someone who took care of me my whole life. I know my place. Even though I'm a servant, things could've been much worse for me. I'm grateful for that."

Zayne stared at him, genuinely surprised. Tamir wasn't wrong—there were definitely worse fates for a servant in a noble household. But still, Zayne found it hard to imagine why anyone would willingly subject themselves to someone as pathetic as that snotty brat.

He shook his head and looked away for a moment.

Tamir assumed he had displeased Zayne with his answer, but before he could return to silence, Zayne spoke again, his voice lower but sharp. "Blind loyalty is what separates fools from survivors. Just because someone has done something for you doesn't mean you should let yourself be demeaned at their whim. Your loyalty should belong to yourself first—and to those who prove they're worthy of it."

Tamir stayed quiet, absorbing his words.

Zayne continued. "What you have isn't loyalty—it's subservience. True loyalty means standing by someone at their worst but also making sure they stay at their best. If the person you're loyal to doesn't do the same for you, then you're just wasting your time. If I were you, I'd start respecting myself before throwing that word around."

Tamir said nothing. For the first time, he seemed genuinely lost in thought.

Tamir furrowed his brows as a strange scent crept into his nostrils, sharp and acrid, like rotting eggs left to fester in the heat. It was subtle at first, just an intrusive tickle in his nose, but within moments, it grew more pronounced. His stomach twisted in mild discomfort.

He turned his head slightly, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air more deliberately. Something was wrong.

"What is it?" Zayne's voice cut through the steady rhythm of trudging footsteps, his tone casual but alert.

Tamir hesitated before answering, feeling a bit foolish for pointing out something no one else seemed to notice. "It's... a smell. Like sulfur or something rotten."

Zayne's brow creased, and he inhaled deeply through his nose, only to exhale in frustration. "I don't smell anything."

"I—I don't know, maybe I'm imagining it," Tamir admitted, glancing at the guards and prisoners around them. None reacted, save for Zayne, whose sharp eyes scrutinized him with renewed interest.

That was until the lead female guard suddenly halted in her tracks.

Her shoulders stiffened, her head turning from side to side as if scanning the terrain. The subtle shift in her expression wasn't lost on Zayne—her nose was wrinkled in disgust.

Then, almost as if on cue, the scent exploded across the convoy like an invisible tide rolling through the valley.

It was overwhelming now, thick and sulfuric, biting at the back of their throats. First, the guards reacted, fidgeting in place and exchanging wary glances. Then the prisoners—one by one, they started coughing and gagging, eyes watering from the putrid air.

Zayne's stomach clenched.

What the hell is this?

Before he could voice his thoughts, the subtle warmth he'd been feeling for the past hour suddenly surged, flaring into an unbearable heatwave. The shift was so rapid that it was unnatural.

Beads of sweat formed on every forehead. The prisoners stumbled, some gasping and wiping at their brows in vain. The guards, covered in armor, gritted their teeth as the metal plating absorbed the heat, turning them into walking furnaces. Even Tamir, who had been oddly unaffected before, was now visibly perspiring.

Zayne wiped his brow.

Odd.

Despite the suffocating heat swallowing the valley, he wasn't nearly as drenched as the others. A single bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, but compared to the lead female guard, who had a full sheen of moisture glistening on her skin, his reaction was almost muted.

The intensity only grew worse.

Weak prisoners started collapsing, their bodies giving out under the oppressive temperature. The guards moved erratically, barking at them to stay on their feet, but even their movements were sluggish, lethargic.

Something was deeply, deeply wrong.

Zayne's instincts screamed at him to look beyond the immediate panic. His gaze flickered to the towering valley walls surrounding them. At first, nothing seemed out of place. But then—

The mountains shifted.

Glowing orange fissures split across the rock face, spreading like cracks in shattered glass. But that wasn't the most disturbing part.

Chunks of the mountains—entire sections of jagged stone—simply ceased to exist. One moment, they were there, firm and unyielding, and the next, gone. Not crumbled, not eroded, just... erased.

Reality itself was fraying at the seams.

The heat continued its merciless ascent, bringing with it a new horror: the prisoners' metal chains began to glow a dull red. The weakest among them screamed as the scorching iron bit into their flesh, branding their wrists with sizzling welts. Guards cursed, hastily tearing off their helmets as they became unbearable to wear.

Zayne's heartbeat thundered in his ears as he gritted his teeth from the searing pains of the chains binding him. His arms, legs, stomach, and even neck were being seared by the chains.

His mind raced, the nagging sensation that had been plaguing him finally snapping into place like a puzzle piece. The warnings in his memory, the shifting landscape, the nauseating scent—

His breath hitched.

His gaze darted to the lead female guard. She was already looking at him, her own eyes wide with the exact same realization. But neither of them was staring at each other.

They were staring at something behind them.

Floating in the air, shimmering and untouchable, was a glowing rainbow letter. It flickered with an eerie radiance, twisting and bending as though reality itself struggled to contain it.

The sight of it yanked a long-buried memory from the depths of Zayne's mind, and before he could even process why, the words erupted from his throat.

"Never forget this, Zayne. It will save your life one day..."

His voice joined the female guard's in an unplanned, simultaneous cry—

"It's an Unraveling!"