4. In the Shadow of Galahad: Ashes of the Old Gods - Whispers of the Dawn

Chapter 4: Whispers of the Dawn

“Is the light of dawn a promise, or just another illusion?” — Arion

The last echoes of the Moonlit Festival faded into the night as Arion left Moonlit Valley behind, the weight of disappointment lingering like a fog over Solaris Isle. The crowds had begun to disperse, travelers packing their belongings with muttered curses and weary sighs.

What had begun as a time of wonder had ended in disillusionment for most — dungeons that teased but rarely rewarded, Noctarok’s fleeting terror yielding little for the brave, and even Vero’s triumph with the celestial beast Thunderhoof serving as a reminder of how few truly succeeded.

Arion felt the shift in the air, a collective exhale of frustration. Yet it barely touched him. His journey was inward, guided by the enigmatic mask that now felt like an extension of himself.

He walked the winding paths away from the valley, the first hints of dawn painting the horizon in soft hues. The mask at his hip pulsed gently, its warmth spreading through him like a subtle current. It no longer startled him; instead, it stirred a quiet curiosity, a whisper of possibility that challenged his skepticism.

He had always questioned the gods — the Old Ones like Zimos and Balthazar, now faded into myth, and even Galahad, the elusive creator whose name evoked both reverence and doubt. Yet the mask’s influence grew, planting visions that felt like memories not his own: images of a world shaped by unseen hands, of laws enforced by divine beings whose nature remained a mystery.

As the sun crested the cliffs, Arion entered the fringes of the Whispering Woods, the canopy alive with ethereal whispers. Magical creatures flitted in the shadows, but Arion’s thoughts were elsewhere. His path led toward Eldoria, the bustling metropolis where cultures clashed and secrets were traded like currency. Perhaps there, he might find answers — or at least better questions.

A rustle in the underbrush drew his attention. He tensed, hand on the dagger at his belt, but relaxed when a familiar figure stepped from the trees: Socio, his old friend from the Whispers of the Hollow guild. The forsaken’s cloak blended seamlessly with the foliage, his presence both calm and steady.

— “Arion,” Socio greeted, his voice warm but edged with fatigue. “I figured you’d slip away before the festival’s bitter end. Heard you were poking around the edges — find anything worth the trouble?”

Arion offered a faint smile, falling into step beside him. — “Nothing like Vero’s beast. Just… more questions. The festival was a letdown for most, wasn’t it?”

Socio nodded, eyes scanning the woods. — “Aye. Thousands came expecting miracles from those dungeons or a shot at Noctarok. Instead, it’s left folks grumbling about wasted time. Even my guild mates are heading back empty-handed. But you… you look different. Like something’s got its hooks in you.”

Arion’s fingers brushed the mask beneath his cloak. He hesitated, then drew it out, letting the dappled sunlight catch its surface. — “This. Found it in a ruin during the festival. It’s… speaking to me. Whispers, dreams. Makes me wonder about Galahad — if there’s truth to the tales.”

Socio’s eyes widened, though he didn’t recoil. As a member of Whispers of the Hollow, mysteries were no stranger to him. — “Galahad? The creator himself? That’s heavy ground, friend. The Knights speak of visions from him, prophecies of what’s to come. But artifacts like that… they’re rare. Dangerous. If it’s tied to him, it might be pulling you toward something bigger — the divine enforcers, maybe, like Codes or the others. They say Codes wanders these woods sometimes, ax in hand, playing lumberjack to clear his head.”

Arion pocketed the mask again, its warmth intensifying. — “I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I’m no prophet, Socio. Just a man trying to make sense of it all. The Banished, the Cursed, the Forsaken — they all have their place, same as anyone. Why would something like this choose me?”

Socio clapped a hand on his shoulder, thoughtful. — “Because you’re open to it, maybe. Not like those guild fools fighting over scraps. Speaking of which, heard about Ironblood? Dissolved in a mess of egos. Their loss, I suppose. But you… if that mask is what I think, it could lead you to answers. Or trouble. Want company for the road to Eldoria? WotH has eyes there — might help you dig deeper.”

Arion considered it, the mask’s hum urging him forward. A flicker of a vision crossed his mind — a bearded figure in the woods, ax swinging, eyes wise with ancient knowledge. Codes? Or only imagination, stirred by the artifact?

He shook his head. — “I’ll go alone for now. But thank you, friend. If it leads somewhere real… you’ll be the first to know.”

Socio nodded, understanding in his gaze. — “Fair enough. Stay safe, Arion. The world’s full of shadows, but sometimes they hide the light you’re seeking.”

They parted, Socio fading back into the trees like a whisper. Arion pressed on, the road to Eldoria stretching ahead. The mask’s warmth grew stronger, no longer just a sensation but a companion, weaving threads of doubt and wonder into his thoughts.

He resisted still — faith was for the faithful, not a skeptic like him. But the pull was undeniable, hinting at a greater design, perhaps even tied to the Knights’ visions or the enigmatic enforcers of Galahad’s law.

As the sun climbed higher, shadows stretched long across the path. Arion felt it then — the mask was not just an object. It was a key, unlocking doors he had never known existed. And for the first time, the hollow in his heart felt a little less empty.

The road to Eldoria beckoned — a city of ambition, secrets, and perhaps whispers of the Oakenra or even distant Arvendor. Yet deep down, Arion knew the true journey was inward — toward the truth of Galahad, and the destiny the mask held in store.

🌘 To be continued…