The knights who led the two away from the throne room remained silent, their armor softly clinking with each step. Finally, they stopped before two adjoining chambers: Ethan's room on the left and Maya's on the right.

"These are your quarters," one said, his voice muffled by a steel helm. "You will be summoned at dawn." Without waiting for a reply, they turned and marched away, leaving the two outsiders alone.

Ethan ran a hand down his face. "Well, that was friendly."

Maya tentatively peered into her room, where the centerpiece was a magnificent canopy bed, elegantly draped in rich crimson silk that caught the light just so, casting a warm glow throughout the space. A finely carved desk, adorned with intricate woodwork, stood proudly by the window, framing a breathtaking view of the moonlit gardens beyond the palace walls. The soft flicker of candles, nestled in ornate silver holders, filled the air with a gentle warmth as their wax dripped slowly, leaving trails like delicate teardrops.

Stepping inside, Maya placed her book on the polished surface of the desk, her fingers lingering over its smooth grain. "It's beautiful," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the serene atmosphere. "Like something out of a painting."

Across the hall, Ethan leaned against the doorway of his own room, the shadows of the corridor cloaking him. His chamber mirrored hers in opulence, but to him, it felt starkly different—less inviting, more confining. The silk sheets and ornate furniture, while exquisite, seemed to him mere embellishments on a stage set, effectively transforming a beautiful prison into a gilded cage.

He exhaled and crossed into Maya's room, ignoring the heavy doorframe between them. "You're taking this… weirdly well." He made the conscious decision to confront her about this matter—an issue he believed deserved to be thoroughly explored and addressed. The weight of its significance lingered in the air, urging him to delve deeper into the conversation.

Maya perched on the edge of the bed, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her sleeve as if seeking comfort in the familiar fabric. "Do you really think so?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Because my heart has been racing ever since we arrived.”

"Could've fooled me."

She let out a humorless laugh, a sound that echoed with a mixture of disbelief and resignation. "I study myths, Ethan," she continued, her voice tinged with a profound weight. "Every culture I've immersed myself in has woven tales of heroes summoned by forces unseen, gods demanding their due in sacrifice, and mortals ensnared by the threads of fate. Part of me is gripped by fear, a cold knot tightening in my chest. Yet the other part…" She paused, her gaze drifting away, as if seeking something beyond the walls of their reality. "The other part can't shake this unsettling notion… that I'm caught in the very fabric of one of those stories."

Ethan sat beside her, his shoulders drooping. "I hate it," he said.

Maya gazed at him in disbelief, her brow furrowing as she tried to comprehend his indifference. How could anyone harbor such hatred for something so vibrant and full of possibility? Did he truly possess no imagination, no yearning to escape the confines of his own mind? She wondered if he had ever felt the enchantment that enveloped the world—the way the sunlight danced on the leaves or how the breeze carried the whispers of dreams yet to be realized. A wave of realization washed over her; their perspectives on life diverged sharply. While she saw a canvas painted with opportunities and wonder, he appeared trapped in monochrome, unable to appreciate the vividness that surrounded them.

He stared at the floor. "Back home, my life sucked, sure. But it was mine. My lousy job, my tiny apartment, my crappy coffee maker. Here? They rip us out of our lives, slap us with a magic contract, and tell us to go die fighting their bogeyman. No choice. No say. Just—'Congratulations, you're the heroes, now go bleed for us.'"

Maya sat in silence for a long moment, her mind racing as she absorbed the weight of his words. She hadn’t truly considered the implications before. In most of the myths she had diligently studied, the characters weren’t particularly… human. They bore their destinies like armor, accepting the burdens of their fates without question. Yet now, a flicker of that same resolute spirit stirred within her. After a deep breath, she looked up, her eyes reflecting a newfound resolve. "You're right. It isn't fair. But… if what they said about this Demon King is true—burned villages, massacred cities—if we don't fight, people here will die."

"Maya. People are already dying," Ethan shot back, bitterness lacing his voice. "That King, those priests—they didn't summon us out of kindness. They summoned us because we're expendable. We're not heroes to them. We're tools. Mark my words."

His words hung heavily between them.

Maya wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the candlelight flickering on the wall. "Maybe we are. But that doesn't mean we can't decide how we'll be used."

Ethan glanced at her, surprised by the steel in her voice. For all her timid posture, her eyes burned with quiet determination.

He rubbed the back of his neck. He had clearly said things that bothered her. "…Guess we'll see."

Silence stretched again, softer this time. Through the window, the moon hung enormous and strange, casting silver light across the garden hedges below. Crickets—though not quite like the ones from their world—sang faintly in the night.

Maya broke the quiet. "Do you think… we'll ever see home again?"

Ethan didn't answer right away. He looked out at the alien moon, the alien stars, and felt the weight of the runes still etched into his skin. His chest tightened.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “But if we’re stuck here, at least we’re stuck together.” The truth was, he was grateful they had been taken together. Despite their differences, Ethan and Maya shared a common background. They came from the same Earth, sat under the same stars, and spoke the same language. There was a comforting solace in that fact.

Maya blinked at him, startled. She hadn’t expected that from him. For all his bitterness, Ethan was going to make an effort. He really had no other choice, if she was honest. Denying it after dipping his hand in that basin would have been absurd.

For someone like Maya, that was enough. Slowly, a small, fragile smile began to form on her lips. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Together.”

They sat like that for a while, side by side on the bed, two strangers bound by fate in a world not their own, staring at a night sky that promised both wonder and dread.

Ethan pushed himself up from the worn couch, an air of finality settling over him like a heavy blanket. He glanced over at Maya, searching her eyes for something unspoken. "That's it then," he said, his voice steady but edged with an emotion he couldn't quite place. "Good night, Maya."

Maya swallowed hard, the awkwardness washing over her like a sudden gust of wind. She felt her heart quicken, the weight of the moment hanging heavily between them. "Y-yeah," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, cheeks warming with a mix of embarrassment and anticipation. "Night, Ethan."

Tomorrow, their training would begin, and neither of them would be the same again.

The throne room lay hollow now, emptied of the jubilation that had thundered through its marble halls only hours before. Where once banners had swayed above a sea of nobles chanting praise, now they drooped like wilted leaves, colors dulled in the dim torchlight. The vaulted ceiling swallowed sound; the silence felt as heavy as the crown upon the king’s brow.

Only the king remained seated upon the throne. Around him, in a crescent of velvet-robed figures, stood the high circle of mages and advisors, their presence as oppressive as the chamber itself.

High Magus Veylan leaned upon his staff of black ironwood, the runes etched along its length smoldering faintly in the gloom. His silver brows knotted with exhaustion, yet his voice carried the weight of ritual finality.

“It is done. The Binding Oath holds fast. The chosen cannot flee their destiny, no matter their will.”

The king’s jaw tensed, his lips pressed to a thin, bloodless line. His voice was slow, deliberate. “Two fragile souls, dragged from another realm. They seemed… soft. Weak.”

Veylan’s eyes glimmered, a fire sparking beneath the veil of his fatigue. “They will grow. They always do. The Blessing awakens in its own time. Even now, the marks burn upon their skin—signs of power long denied to us. In weeks, perhaps days, they will wield strength to eclipse our finest knights.”

From the shadows at the chamber’s edge stepped Sir Aldric. The torchlight caught on the scar that ran from his temple to his jaw, a brutal reminder of past battles. His voice was calm, edged like steel drawn in silence. “Or they will shatter. They are not forged of iron, but clay. I saw it in their eyes: one reeked of fear, the other of bitterness. We speak of saviors, yet what stands before us are children trembling in chains. Are these truly the weapons we would gamble the kingdom upon?”

Veylan’s staff struck the marble, the sound echoing sharply and defiantly. “The Oath does not err, Aldric. They are bound by fate itself.” Yet even as he spoke, unease flickered across his weathered face.

Another voice slithered into the silence, smoother, more dangerous. Lord Varic, draped in emerald robes that shimmered like serpent scales, inclined his head with calculated humility. “Your Majesty, if I may.” His words were slow, deliberate, as though each had been weighed before leaving his tongue. “Bound they may be, yet they remain outsiders. They know nothing of Arathen, nor of loyalty to crown or country. What assurance have we that they will not turn their blades upon us, once their strength awakens fully?”

The king’s gaze darkened, his knuckles whitening against the armrest of his throne. When he spoke, his words carried the sharpness of command. “The Binding Oath ensures obedience. Should they stray, the seal will crush them. Their very lives hang in my hands.”

Aldric’s mouth curled, his voice low, like a blade drawn across silk. “And yet… what if they rise higher than the leash permits? What if the power they bear eclipses even yours, my king? Would we not have cast aside one Demon King, only to crown another?”

The air thickened, the chamber stilled. No one dared voice agreement, but unease spread like smoke beneath a closed door.

“Enough.” Veylan’s voice cracked like a whip as he slammed his staff once more against the marble. Sparks of pale fire danced at its tip. “The prophecy is clear. Only heroes drawn from beyond the veil may defeat the Dark One. Without them, Arathen is lost, as is the rest of Aeloria. Should they turn dangerous… we will do what must be done. Until that day, they are our salvation.”

The king’s gaze drifted upward to the vast stained-glass window behind his throne, where the kingdom’s crest glowed faintly in the moonlight beyond. His fingers tightened around the throne’s gilded armrest, the weight of choice pressing into his shoulders.

At last, he spoke. “See them awakened underneath you, Veylan. Once they have understood their powers, they will be trained to wield a sword and conjure their magic. Let them taste both luxury and burden, so they do not forget the hand that holds their chain. Spread the word to every province: the Heroes have come. Hope itself shall be our sharpest blade.”

A ripple of murmured assent followed. The council bowed, their silks rustling like the wings of uneasy birds, and began to disperse.

But Varic lingered at the chamber’s edge, his slender form half-swallowed by shadow. His lips curved into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Heroes,” he whispered, the word laced with amusement and quiet menace. “Yes… But a blade cuts whichever hand dares wield it.”

That night, neither Ethan nor Maya slept easily. The palace beds were too soft, the silence too heavy, and the Binding Oath thrummed faintly beneath their skin like a heartbeat not their own.

When sleep finally claimed them, it came with visions.

Ethan stood in a wasteland of blackened stone, the sky burning with fire that never died. Chains, broken and rusted, lay scattered across the ground like the remains of fallen titans.

In his hand, a sword burned—not with flame, but with something more profound, hotter, rawer. Soulfire. Its light guttered with each breath he took, as though tied to his will.

Shadows moved in the distance. They weren’t demons—at least not in form. They were memories of men, soldiers, and kings, all faceless, all watching him with silent judgment.

A voice rumbled from nowhere and everywhere, deeper than thunder:

Power is hunger. Will is fire. Feed me your rage, and I will make you strong.

Ethan staggered, the sword in his hand flaring brighter as anger welled inside him—anger at the kingdom, at his stolen life, at the invisible chains around his soul. The shadows retreated from the heat, but he felt his humanity slipping with every heartbeat.

When he looked into the molten glow of the blade, he saw his reflection: his eyes blazing like twin furnaces, his skin cracked as though fire smoldered beneath it.

He dropped the sword. The ground split, flame pouring from the fissures, and the world collapsed into ash.

Maya, on the other hand… drifted in a vast library. Shelves soared endlessly into the sky, filled with books that hummed with light instead of ink. Pages fluttered as though stirred by an invisible breeze, though the air was perfectly still.

When she reached for a volume, the letters shifted before her eyes—becoming runes, numbers, entire histories folding and unfolding in her mind. The sensation was overwhelming: a thousand years of knowledge pressing into her thoughts at once.

Then, the air bent. Time itself rippled, and the books began to rearrange, reversing their fall, stacking themselves neatly again.

She gasped and stepped back, only to see her reflection in a mirror that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Her own eyes stared back, but fractured, as though she were seeing herself across a dozen timelines—some older, some younger, some bloodied, some regal.

A whisper tickled her ear, soft and cold:

Moments are clay. Shape them. Break them. Rewrite them.

The mirror cracked. One version of herself—the one with a crown and sorrowful eyes—reached out from the glass, fingers brushing hers.

Then the entire library shattered like glass, and she woke in darkness, heart pounding.

Both Ethan and Maya bolted upright in their respective beds at nearly the exact moment, breath ragged, sweat cooling on their skin. The runes of the Oath glowed faintly on their arms, pulsing once before fading again.

Neither returned to restful sleep.

Dawn was coming.

And with it, their first step toward power.