The night was heavy with a thick, suffocating stillness. In the darkened forest, the chirping of crickets had ceased, as though nature itself held its breath. Jack found himself standing alone amidst the looming trees, the scent of damp earth filling his nostrils. It wasn’t like any forest he had hunted in before. The shadows were deeper, stretching unnaturally, and a chill hung in the air. He could see flickers of light in the distance, dancing like ghostly flames, and they beckoned him forward.

Jack moved cautiously, the ground crunching softly beneath his boots. As he drew closer, the flickering lights revealed themselves to be faint images—visions from another time. He could see them, almost as if they were right there before him. Warriors clad in rusted armor clashed, the sound of metal striking metal echoing in the silence. A massive, jagged chain coiled around their limbs, dragging them down as they fought desperately to free themselves. He could hear the distant clanging, the echoes of chains pulling taut, straining against invisible forces. It was as if the very earth was trying to swallow them whole.

A wave of nausea hit Jack, and he staggered back. The vision shifted. He was no longer in the forest but standing in a barren, scorched wasteland. Clouds churned in the sky above, dark and foreboding. He could see it—burning brands seared into the ground, marking the earth like a terrible scar. The stench of burnt flesh filled the air, and Jack’s heart pounded as he realized that the brands were still glowing, radiating heat. Figures moved among them, their faces twisted in agony, shackles dragging behind them.

Jack tried to move, but his legs felt heavy, as if weighed down by unseen chains. A dark fog began to swirl around him, engulfing the scene. The visions were pulling him deeper, showing him glimpses of something he couldn’t fully comprehend. He saw a yoke, massive and rusted, burdening the shoulders of faceless figures who strained against its weight. Then, he saw the collar—a symbol of control, locking down on the necks of the oppressed, forcing them to bow. The images shifted quickly, one after the other, leaving him dazed and disoriented. He tried to call out, but no sound came. The visions overwhelmed him, blending together in a whirl of chaos.

Jack jolted awake, gasping for breath, his body slick with sweat. His room was dark, the faint glow of the moon filtering through the small window. For a moment, he lay there, trying to make sense of what he had seen. The images felt real, as if he had been dragged into the past, forced to witness something he was not meant to see. He sat up slowly, rubbing his temples, his mind still reeling from the intensity of the dreams. He didn’t know why, but they felt important—like a warning.

---

The morning sun had barely risen when Jack made his way to Eamon’s cottage. The old sage greeted him with a warm, albeit curious, smile, “Jack, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Eamon remarked, pouring a steaming cup of tea. “Sit. Tell me what troubles you.”

Jack hesitated, trying to find the right words. “I’ve been having dreams… strange ones. They feel… wrong, like they’re not just dreams.” He paused, glancing at Eamon’s calm, attentive face. “I see things. Chains, yokes, collars… and something that looks like a brand. I see people suffering, fighting, but it’s like they’re being pulled down, controlled.”

Eamon’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly as he listened. He sipped his tea, remaining silent for a moment before speaking. “Dreams can be powerful things, Jack. They can show us what our waking mind is too afraid to see. But these visions… they are not merely the workings of an overactive imagination.” He set down his cup, folding his hands thoughtfully. “The symbols you describe—they are not unfamiliar.”

Jack’s heart quickened. “What do you mean?”

Eamon’s gaze drifted to the window, where the light of the rising sun cast long shadows across the room. “The chains, the yoke, the collar, the brand… they are relics of the past, echoes of the Scourges that once rose and brought suffering to this land. Each of them represented a Scourge—chains, from the one called the Scourge of the Chains, who enslaved entire cities; the yoke, from the Scourge of the Yoke, who broke the wills of kingdoms; the collar, from the Scourge of the Collar, who forced obedience; and the brand, from the Scourge of the Brand, who burned their mark upon those they conquered.”

Jack listened intently, feeling a chill creep up his spine. “Why am I seeing them? What do they mean?”

Eamon sighed, his face thoughtful but concerned. “I do not know, Jack. But it is rare for visions such as these to appear without reason. It is as if the past is trying to speak to you, to warn you of something.” He stood, moving to a shelf lined with old, weathered books. “The Scourges have always been harbingers of great change, but never have their symbols manifested like this, in dreams.”

Jack frowned, his mind struggling to make sense of it all. “Do you think it has to do with the prophecy? The one about the Scourge of the Cage?”

Eamon’s eyes flickered, but he said nothing for a moment. “It is possible. The Scourge of the Cage is foretold to rise, but how and when, no one can say. The prophecy speaks of a champion who will rise from the dirt to challenge it, but the outcome is unclear.” He looked back at Jack, his expression grave. “Your dreams may be connected to this, or they may be something else entirely. But they are not to be ignored.”

Jack felt a weight settle on his shoulders. “I don’t understand, Eamon. Why me? I’m just a hunter. I’m not a mage, or a sage. I don’t have power.”

Eamon placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “Sometimes, power lies in those who least expect it. The prophecy spoke of a champion who would rise from the dirt, from humble beginnings. Perhaps it was speaking of someone like you.” He offered a small, knowing smile. “Or perhaps it is just a reminder that even the smallest voice can carry great weight when the time comes.”

Jack wanted to protest, to insist that he was no hero, but the words caught in his throat. Deep down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was truth in Eamon’s words, even if he didn’t fully understand it. The dreams, the visions—they felt like a call, a summons he couldn’t ignore.

Eamon turned back to his books, leafing through the pages as he spoke. “We must be vigilant, Jack. The signs are appearing, even if we do not yet understand their meaning. Keep your eyes open, and your senses sharp. We may be on the brink of something… significant.”

Jack nodded, though doubt still lingered. The visions had shown him a glimpse of the past, but they had left him with more questions than answers. As he left Eamon’s cottage, the sun climbing higher in the sky, he couldn’t help but feel that he was walking into something far greater than he could imagine—something that would change everything he thought he knew.

---

The rest of the day passed in a blur for Jack, his thoughts consumed by the strange dreams and Eamon’s words. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the village of Eldergrove in a warm, orange glow, he felt a sense of foreboding settle over him. The night would come again, and with it, the visions.

And this time, he wasn’t sure he was ready to face them.