LIGHTNOVELONLINE Chapter 9: What If The Prophecy Is Wrong About Me?
The royal training ground was a vast expanse of perfectly leveled terrain, surrounded by towering stone walls adorned with intricate carvings of Orinthian history. The ground itself was a mixture of compacted earth and sand, ideal for intense physical training. Lush greenery framed the area, and a series of ornate weapon racks lined the far wall, holding swords, spears, and bows of the finest craftsmanship. The sun shone brightly, casting a golden hue over the scene.
At the center of the training ground, a young boy wielded a sword with remarkable precision for his age. His golden attire shimmered in the sunlight, complementing his striking white hair that flowed with every swift movement he made. His silver-gray eyes shone with determination as he executed practiced slashes, parries, and footwork. Though his technique still bore the mark of youth and inexperience, his skill surpassed that of any ten-year-old, leaving his instructors both impressed and contemplative.
Two instructors stood nearby, watching the boy's training with crossed arms. "I wonder," one murmured, his tone a mixture of awe and concern, "just how powerful the young prince would be if his powers hadn't been sealed."
The other instructor frowned and replied in a low voice, "I don't even want to think about it. Such divine power not controlled... it could change everything. For better or worse."
They shared a look of understanding before falling silent, each lost in thought about the boy's potential. After a moment, they returned to supervising the other trainees.
The boy, Eryndor, wore a necklace around his neck, a delicate chain holding a small pendant inscribed with glowing runes. Unknown to most, the necklace was enchanted to conceal his divine powers, preventing them from manifesting and keeping him safe from those who might seek to exploit or harm him.
When the sword training session ended, the instructors announced the transition to meditation. The group of twenty trainees moved to a shaded pavilion nearby, each taking a seat on the polished stone floor. They crossed their legs and formed a hand sign designed to channel their inner energy, focusing intently as they worked to refine and expand their energy cores.
The serene atmosphere was occasionally interrupted by the faint hum of energy being channeled. Most of the young trainees performed the exercise with ease, their energy cores responding naturally to their guidance. However, one boy sat still, his face etched with frustration. Eryndor struggled to locate his energy core, let alone channel it. Despite three years of effort, he had shown no improvement, and his inability had not gone unnoticed.
Two hours later, the meditation session ended. The trainees opened their eyes, stretching slightly before their attention shifted to Eryndor, who still sat with his head bowed, his hands trembling faintly. Murmurs of amusement rippled through the group before they erupted into laughter.
One boy, tall and imposing, approached Eryndor with a smirk. His name was Alaric, a prodigious talent known as the fastest-growing Orinthian Kin. At just fifteen years old, Alaric had already achieved the third step of the Sigma rank and was on the verge of advancing to the fourth step. Each rank has five steps before you can be able to move to the other step.
"You're pathetic," Alaric sneered, striking Eryndor lightly on the head with the back of his hand. "Trash. At your age, I was already a Lirael-ranked warrior. And here you are, struggling to even sense your energy core. Useless."
Another boy joined in, his tone dripping with mockery. "My mother was right. There's no way someone like you could be the child of prophecy. You're a fake."
Eryndor looked up briefly, his silver-gray eyes meeting Alaric's piercing gaze. Then he smiled faintly, lowering his head again. He said nothing, the quiet acceptance of their taunts speaking volumes.
"That's right," Alaric said, his smirk widening. "When I talk to you, you bow, trash." With a harsh shove, Alaric pushed Eryndor, causing him to fall back onto the ground in a sitting position.
The group laughed as they walked away, leaving Eryndor alone. Despite the humiliation, the young boy remained silent, his small hands curling slightly into fists. The faint smile on his face remained, masking emotions that ran far deeper than anyone could see.
Eryndor sighed softly, his small shoulders sagging as he stood up from the training ground. The words of Alaric and the others echoed in his mind, but he didn't let them weigh too heavily on him. Slowly, he began to walk towards the palace, his steps quiet but steady. The path was long, but his heart was set on finding peace with his mother. The palace grounds were lush, with high stone walls adorned with intricate carvings of the royal lineage. The scent of blooming flowers drifted through the air, but it did little to lighten Eryndor's thoughts.
As he neared the entrance to the palace, a large and ornate door greeted him. It was a stark contrast to the small, simple corridor that led to Elyria's chambers. Her new quarters, though far from the extravagance of the other Queens and concubines, had been improved significantly since his birth.
The room was warm and inviting, with rich tapestries of gold and deep blue hanging from the walls. Soft, golden lighting illuminated the room, casting a peaceful glow across the stone floors. It was far better than the cold, bare chambers she had once been given. A bed of soft silks and pillows adorned the far side of the room, while a few maids and guards stood near the doorway, as if on silent watch.
Eryndor pushed open the door, entering the room quietly. Elyria was seated on the bed, a warm, inviting presence. Her eyes softened as she saw him, and she immediately opened her arms, inviting him in. He walked to her and sat down beside her, leaning into her embrace as she wrapped her arms around him.
She gently rocked him back and forth, her fingers running through his white hair. "My little star," she murmured softly. "How was your day, my love?"
Eryndor let out a small, exaggerated laugh. "Mom, I'm not a baby anymore!" He leaned back and gave her a mock pout, though his eyes gleamed with warmth. "Stop treating me like one! I'm a big boy now."
Elyria chuckled, her laughter light and comforting. "Indeed, my big man," she teased, a smile tugging at her lips. "How old are you now, hmm? Still my baby."
He smiled warmly at her, a rare and pure happiness spreading through his chest. "I'm ten now, Mom," he replied proudly.
Elyria smiled lovingly as she continued to pat his head, her fingers gently brushing over the scar just above his right eyebrow. "And you're still my little star," she murmured. "How did your day go? Was the training hard?"
Eryndor's smile faltered for a moment as he thought about the sword training and the constant struggle with his energy core. He sighed, resting his head on her chest. "It was okay," he replied quietly. "I'm getting better with the sword, but..." He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "I still can't find my energy core, Mom. What if the prophecy is wrong about me?"
Elyria's face softened, and she gently cupped his face in her hands, her touch tender and full of affection. She could feel the uncertainty in his voice, and it stirred a protective instinct within her. "The prophecy isn't wrong, Eryndor," she said firmly, her voice gentle but unwavering. "You are special. There's so much you haven't discovered about yourself yet. You have time. Don't rush it."
Her fingers trailed lightly over the scar on his brow, a silent reminder of the past. Eryndor looked up at her, his silver-gray eyes steady as she caressed the scar with a soft, loving touch. "Remember how you got this?" she asked quietly.
Eryndor nodded slowly, his hand instinctively reaching up to touch the scar as well. He recalled the day it had been given to him.
**********
It had been when he was just six years old. The night was unusually quiet, with no sound but the occasional rustle of the trees outside. Eryndor was asleep in his room, the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the windows. But something felt wrong. The air grew heavy, and a strange, suffocating sensation woke him from his slumber.
His eyes snapped open, and before he could make sense of what was happening, the lights in the room flickered and went out. The darkness was immediate, thick, and almost tangible, like it had a life of its own. He sat up quickly, his heart pounding as he tried to make sense of what was happening.
But before he could move, a dark mist enveloped him. It was cold and thick, choking the air out of his lungs. He reached out in desperation, but the mist seemed to swallow him whole, dragging him into a deep void. The darkness pressed in on all sides, and for a moment, it felt as though there was no escape.
When the mist finally cleared, Eryndor found himself no longer in his room. He stood in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by five hooded figures. The air was thick with dark energy, the oppressive weight of black magic seeping into his very bones. He felt his head throb with the intensity of it all, a dull ache building behind his eyes as the figures began to chant. Their voices rang in the air, a deep, reverberating sound that seemed to shake the very ground beneath him.
The chants were ancient, words that Eryndor couldn't fully understand. But their meaning was clear, and the power behind them was undeniable.
"Dystharosh, laphora! Dreth'alkora, sothnith!"
The words twisted in the air, sinking into his skin, causing his vision to blur as he struggled to maintain control.
He looked down at his feet, his eyes widening in shock as he saw that he was standing in the center of a large, circular formation made of black ash. The ground beneath him felt cold, as though the earth itself was cursed. The chanting of the figures grew louder, more intense, and the darkness around him deepened. Eryndor could feel his energy core pulsing, but it was as if it were trapped within him, unable to break free.
His head throbbed harder now, and he stumbled, reaching out for something, anything, to steady himself. But the dark magic held him firmly in place, and the figures' chanting only grew louder, their power closing in around him like a vice.