The Witnessing

The ghostly crowd hangs in silence. Their eyes shimmer with a fragile, desperate hope, as though I am nothing more than an illusion, a trick conjured by this man from the past. They hold themselves perfectly still, waiting for me to speak, as if my voice alone might prove I am real.

I turn to the old man.

He shakes his head softly, staring at me with wide eyes full of amazement… or excitement. Perhaps both. After a moment, he clears his throat, then breaks into a deep, hearty laugh.

“Ha ha ha! I’m sorry, young sir,” he says, still grinning. “I had been planning for centuries what I would say when we finally met. Perhaps I indulged in a bit too much dramatic flair.”

He leans in, gesturing lightly toward the crowd.

“But you have to admit — it got them riled up, wouldn’t you say?”

I follow his gaze; the crowd has grown into a sea of faces. I see children climbing onto carts and stone pillars, clinging to broken statuary, desperate for a glimpse over the swelling mass.

Gloomsheer hums softly — a quiet resonance that steadies my heart. A clear signal from the blade: there is no danger here. I loosen my grip and return it to my side. The rune on my cheek crackles as the last wisps of magic bleed away. The crowd exhales as one, followed by a low murmur that rolls through the chamber like distant surf. I cannot make out their words, but the way they look at me tells me enough.

They know this power.

Or at least, they remember it.

My violet vision fades completely, but here, inside this strange pocket of time, the light from the old man’s staff still burns bright. Its coloured light spills across the faces, painting awe, disbelief, and something far more dangerous than fear.

Hope.

And in that moment, I realise with a cold certainty: whatever I am to them… I was never meant to arrive quietly.

The old man, Kelthis, leans in closer.

“Young sir… are you with me?”

He scratches his beard, muttering quietly to himself. “Perhaps I missed a step when activating the translation rune. I am getting old, no…”

His voice trails off, and the silence breaks me from my reverie. I straighten my back, trying to look confident. Kelthis notices and lifts his head expectantly.

“Hello,” I say. “Uh… nice to meet you.”

The crowd erupts into cheers. They reach out, hugging those closest to them; some dance, weaving through the rabble in breathless joy.

Kelthis gestures for me to come closer. His mouth moves, but I hear nothing — the revelry smothers his words beneath a blanket of merrymaking. Near the market stalls, I see cups of ale passed from hand to hand. Songs begin to ring out, melodies carried from a forgotten time.

The old man’s expression shifts to annoyance. I think I even catch a twitch in his eye, but it passes quickly. He straightens his back, lifts his head, and bellows with everything he has:

“FOLK OF THALRINDOR, HARKEN TO ME!”

For all his effort, it is little more than a whisper against the roar.

The twitch returns, this time lingering longer than before, then fades as his calm reasserts itself.

A strange energy curls into the air.

Something is wrong.

The crystal atop his staff begins to radiate with a familiar power — not unlike Gloomsheer’s resonance. Kelthis raises the staff barely an inch, then taps it softly against the stone, like a feather settling on water.

I feel it instantly.

The power emanates outward in calming waves; it does not crash like an unrestrained beast. His magic does not come from aggression or overwhelming force. It is precision. Control.

I fight the instinct to step backward. His experience dwarfs my own, and in that moment I understand how helpless I truly am before an opponent like this. I know it with the same certainty that I know I must keep breathing.

The air begins to hum. Not loudly, but perfectly, as if the cavern itself has found the right note. The resonance coils through me, steadying and inescapable. The world lurches, time itself seeming to ride the air like a wave.

The hush ripples through the crowd like a held breath.

Kelthis stands perfectly still, staff planted beside him, his eyes no longer amused. The crystal at its crown brightens — not violently, but with a slow, deliberate glow, as though answering a rhythm older than sound.

The crystal flares.

Not with heat, nor flame, but with clarity.

The air trembles. Not as if struck, but tuned. My skin prickles as something slides across my senses, and I realise with a sharp intake of breath that the pressure in my chest isn’t pain.

It’s alignment.

White radiance spills from the crystal, flooding outward in a widening wave. It washes over the stone, the pillars, the shattered streets — and as it passes, the ruin changes.

The crowd gasps.

I follow their gaze.

The cavern flickers.

And for a moment, the entire chamber lights up.

A hush washes over the crowd, and for a brief moment I see the chamber as it once was — in all its splendour. Broken arches knit themselves whole.

Cracked flagstones smooth and seal, ancient patterns flaring briefly as they return to life beneath my feet. Rubble lifts from the ground like dust caught in a gentle current, dissolving into nothing as intact walls rise where decay once ruled.

The cavern fills with colour.

Banners unfurl along the walls, rich blues and golds, their sigils proud and unmarred. Market stalls stand restored, their canopies vibrant, their counters laden with goods untouched by time.

But it does not last. The finery is stripped away as if time itself has quickened; cracking stone, grinding bone to dust.

I study those nearest to me. A child tightens her grip on her mother’s hand, yet she does not look away. In that moment, I know without doubt — they are seeing the ruin too.

What awaits their home at the end of their civilisation.

Their ending laid bare.

Raised cups of ale sink back into the mass of bodies. The joy that once filled the air withers, replaced by a hollow stillness that drifts up from the darkened passages below, carrying the scent of old stone and forgotten endings.

All eyes turn to me once more, but the fragile hope that dared to dream moments ago has changed.

Now it is something rawer. Pure.

As if they have seen their own deaths — and look to me to stop it.

Kelthis’ voice carries across the stilled chamber, breaking the tension.

“My friends,” he says, calm and unwavering. “Remember why we are here. Why we have held this festival since the Time of Turmoil.”

He gestures slowly, deliberately, as if anchoring the moment itself.

“The coming of this day was promised. And now it is upon us. We lucky few will be forever woven into the great stories of the world. We are its witnesses.”

His gaze shifts — not to the crowd, but to me.

“And now, we must do what we can to aid him… on his journey to find her.”

I see a shift in their faces. Not hope reborn, but something harder.

Resolve.

They straighten, shoulders squaring beneath the weight of what they have seen. No one cheers now. No one looks away.

They are ready to witness whatever comes next.

And for the first time, I understand the true cost of being seen.