A sharp cold entered the room as I stood there soaking in the disclosures on the antique tablet. The stone walls seemed to be shivering, and the engravings' faint radiance became stronger. A distant, repetitive chanting that got louder until it permeated the whole room. It was the voice of the ancestors, a chorus of lost souls pushing me forward to decide.
Images flashed before me: images of triumph and tragedy, moments of treachery and atonement entwined with the history of our family. I envisioned myself standing on the brink of a great battlefield, a sea of wolves beneath my flag. But I also saw shadows—faces turned in pain, loved ones given their lives, the cost of power taken in blood. The image was overpowering, a tapestry of both beauty and tragedy that highlighted the gravity of the heritage I was intended to inherit.
