Chapter 17: Echoes of the Farthalin's Call
Ashen Vale's dust settled as Jason stood in Koran's camp, the Farthalin's crimson glow heavy, whispering: Farthalin. The colossus's fall left his scar throbbing, its vision—colossi rising—lingering like ash. They're coming. The system's ping—[Resolve Points: 4650%]—felt alive. 4650% Resolve Points—I'm becoming something else. The camp buzzed with quiet preparation, the stone table scarred from years of use, glyphs etched into its surface glowing faintly under Lynn's touch. She spread the third manuscript across it, her rune stone casting a soft green light, her green eyes sharp and focused. "Mistveil's statue is next," she said, tracing sigils with a steady hand. She's relentless. Celia leaned against a spire, her dagger twirling in a rhythmic dance, violet eyes scanning the misty horizon. Ren's warhammer rested against his knee, red hair tied back, his sister's dream a steady flame in his gaze. Toren and Koran flanked the table, their blades ready, their presence a wall of resolve.
Lynn's voice softened, her robe shifting to reveal faint scars along her arms—marks of her past. "I was exiled for questioning the lords' glyphs," she said, eyes distant, lost in memory. "Kaldor's grid can heal—or destroy. We choose its fate." Her vow. Jason's Farthalin pulsed, its warmth a magnetic pull, a living force in his grip. It's alive. Koran studied the manuscript, his spear leaning against the table, its glyph-etched tip glinting. "Mistveil's fog hides rogues and worse," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "My runners know its paths—every trap, every shadow." He's committed. Toren nodded, his glyph-etched armor creaking slightly as he shifted. "The grid's waking guardians. We need every cell to hold the line." Unity.
The Farthalin flared, a vision striking Jason's mind: Kaldor's core glowing with an eerie light, the Farthalin blazing in his hand, a voice roaring: You're mine.The Farthalin's power—it's inside me, its whispers growing louder. He gripped his blade tighter, senses taut, the stone's power surging through him—strength flooding his limbs, glyphs flashing like memories in his mind. It's teaching me. The system pinged: [System Insight: Farthalin sync increased. Reward: 250 Resolve Points. Resolve Points: 4900%.] Celia's eyes narrowed, her twirling dagger pausing as she stepped closer, her voice a low warning: "That stone's changing you, Jason. I see it in your eyes." She sees it. Ren's grip tightened on his warhammer, his jaw set; Toren's blade gleamed with readiness; and Koran's spear tensed in his hand, his gaze unreadable.
Lynn's rune stone pulsed brighter, her resolve iron as she rolled the manuscript with care. "We move to Mistveil at dawn," she said, her voice cutting through the camp's hum. She's leading. The camp's glyphs flickered, a tremor shaking the stone table, sending a ripple of tension through the group. Trouble. Koran's runners returned, their faces grim, reporting rogue tracks weaving through the mist and glyph-beasts stirring in the shadows. They're closing in. A roar echoed, deep and guttural, a glyph-beast charging from the mist, its sigils red and pulsing with menace. Now—a glyph-beast, charging from the mist. Koran's spear flashed, piercing a sigil on its flank, his voice steady: "Flank it—now!" Toren's blade slashed another glyph, his glyphs flaring blue as he moved with precision. Jason lunged, the Farthalin guiding his strike, cutting deep into the beast's side, sparks flying. Celia darted, her dagger slicing a ward with lethal grace, violet eyes fierce. "Keep it off, Lynn!" she shouted. Ren's warhammer cracked against stone, his roar defiant: "For Kaldor!" Lynn's rune flared, green light weaving through the air, sealing the beast's glyphs, and with a final shudder, it collapsed, dust rising like a shroud.
Jason stood, breathing hard, the Farthalin's warmth a weight in his chest, its whispers echoing in his mind—visions of Kaldor's fall, colossi marching, and a power he couldn't fully grasp. This call—it's leading me, but to what end? He turned to Lynn, her green eyes meeting his with quiet determination. "Mistveil's our last chance to stabilize the grid," she said, voice firm. A final stand. Koran cleaned his spear with a cloth, his gaze steady as he spoke. "My cell will scout the fog—rogues won't catch us off guard this time. We've lost too many already." Toren sheathed his blade, his voice low and resolute: "We'll need a ward-stone to seal the rift. Mistveil's ruins might hold one." The team nodded, their resolve a quiet fire, the camp's hum steadying as they prepared for dawn. Ren adjusted his warhammer, Celia resumed her watch, and Lynn packed the manuscript, her fingers lingering on its edges. The Farthalin's whisper grew, a vision flashing: a colossus shrouded in fog, Kaldor's grid unstable, a voice hissing: You're mine. Jason's scar seared, his blade ready, the path to Mistveil clear—and perilous.