Heir of the Shadow

The small village of Emond's Field, nestled within the rolling hills and thick forests of the Two Rivers, seemed like an unremarkable dot on the map. Yet, as Moiraine Sedai rode into its borders on her silver mare, Aldieb, she knew this was no ordinary place. Beside her, Lan Mandragoran, ever the stoic guardian, guided Mandarb with the same precision as he guided his vigilance.

The Pattern thrummed here, the threads pulling tighter as if the Wheel itself had woven this village into its design. Moiraine observed everything: the simple houses, the bustling people preparing for Bel Tine, and the faint undercurrent of something powerful, something hidden.

"This is it," she said softly to Lan, her ageless face impassive but her voice filled with purpose.

Lan's sharp eyes scanned the horizon. "It doesn't look like much."

"That's the point," she replied. "The Dragon Reborn would not emerge from a city where his presence would be obvious. The Wheel hides its champions well."

Their purpose here was clear. Among the people of the Two Rivers, they would find the one who could wield the destiny of the world—or doom it. With the Shadow growing bolder and whispers of Forsaken moving in the world, there was no time to waste.

The villagers greeted Moiraine and Lan with polite suspicion. Aes Sedai were not common here, and her arrival stirred whispers that spread like wildfire. Most dismissed her as a noblewoman traveling with her guard, but others, particularly those with sharper instincts like Tam al'Thor and Haral Luhhan, watched her with quiet caution.

Moiraine began her work subtly, observing and asking questions that seemed innocent but were anything but. She sensed the faint resonance of potential in several young men, though none as strongly as Rand al'Thor, Mat Cauthon, and Perrin Aybara.

Rand, the tall farmer's son with striking red hair, intrigued her most. His presence seemed to hum with a hidden power, a thread woven tightly into the Pattern. Matrim Cauthon, on the other hand, was like a flame—wild and unpredictable. Perrin Aybara, though quieter, carried a sense of deep strength beneath his calm exterior.

"Three ta'veren in one place," she whispered to herself one evening as she watched the village from a distance. "The Wheel has spun tightly here."

Lan, standing nearby, crossed his arms. "Do you think one of them is the one?"

"They must be," Moiraine said. "The signs are unmistakable. But which one... we will need time to see."

While Moiraine combed the threads of destiny in the Two Rivers, Duke Naravoss Mantear, far removed from her search, oversaw the fruits of his investments in Caemlyn. The military academy he had established was a grand structure, its walls reinforced with stone imported from Cairhien and its banners bearing the colors of Andor. It was more than a place of training—it was a crucible for shaping loyalty and ambition, tools the Shadow required to bend Andor to its will.

Today, the Queen's two princes, Gawyn and Galad, were present for an inspection of the academy. Naravoss walked beside them, his regal demeanor making even these royal scions defer to him—though not without tension.

"This academy is a marvel," Gawyn said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "The training regimens, the organization... I can see why my mother trusts you with this endeavor, Duke Mantear."

Naravoss inclined his head slightly. "I do only what is best for Andor, my prince. A strong Andor is the foundation of the realm."

Galad, however, was less inclined to praise. "Strength without honor is meaningless," he said, his tone pointed. "I trust this academy teaches more than just the art of war."

Naravoss turned to Galad, his expression unreadable but his black eyes gleaming faintly. "Honor is the excuse of the weak to avoid using strength to its fullest, young prince. But rest assured, we teach both—each to its proper degree."

Gawyn, sensing the tension, stepped in to smooth the moment. "I think we can all agree that Andor benefits from this academy," he said, smiling diplomatically. "Duke Mantear, your keen mind and dedication are appreciated."

Naravoss allowed a faint smile to cross his lips. "It is the duty of every loyal subject to serve the crown."

Unbeknownst to Moiraine and Naravoss, the Forsaken who had been freed from the Dark One's prison were already moving. Aginor and Balthamel, recently loosed from their millennia-long imprisonment, roamed the world in search of power and influence. Their schemes wove through the Pattern like dark threads, unseen but potent.

Naravoss had not encountered them directly, but he knew their presence in the world meant that events were accelerating. His rise to power and the artifacts he had collected were only the beginning. The Shadow's forces would converge soon, and he intended to be at the center of it all.

After his inspection of the academy, Naravoss returned to his estate, retreating to his sanctum. The room was lined with shelves of ancient tomes, texts bound in faded leather, and scrolls so old they threatened to crumble at a touch. At the center of the room stood a table piled high with prophecies, parchments, and intricate diagrams.

One phrase had lingered in his mind for weeks: the Hearth of the Stone. It appeared repeatedly in his readings, though its meaning eluded him. It was maddening, like a riddle with no answer.

Naravoss sat, his fingers tracing the worn edges of an ancient text. The words swirled in his mind, half-understood fragments teasing at a greater truth. The Hearth of the Stone burns with the fire of the betrayed. Where stone stands eternal, the key is found.

"What is the hearth?" he murmured aloud. "What fire? What betrayal?"

The Stone of Tear loomed large in his thoughts. He knew its importance in prophecy, but this phrase seemed more specific. The Stone was not merely a fortress—it was a symbol, a nexus of power that could tip the balance of the world.

"Is this where it begins?" he wondered, his black eyes narrowing. "Or where it ends?"

With a sigh, he leaned back, gazing at the flickering light of the room's solitary lamp. The table before him was a chaos of knowledge, but the path forward was clear. If the Hearth of the Stone held answers, then he would claim them.

Naravoss did not act impulsively. He began weaving his spy network into the very fabric of Tear. Merchants, dockworkers, servants in the High Lords' palaces—all became part of his web. Each thread was carefully placed, each agent compelled with subtle weaves of Saidin.

From the lowest levels of society to the gilded halls of power, his influence grew. Tear would become an extension of his will, its secrets laid bare before him.

As he finished writing the last of his orders, Naravoss set the pen aside and gazed at the city map spread across his desk. "The Stone will fall," he whispered, a dark promise in his voice. "And the Shadow will rise."