The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the streets of Eldergrove. Voices called out in the market square—merchants boasting of fine wares, buyers haggling for a better price, laughter spilling from tavern doors where travelers and locals shared drinks. The town pulsed with life, its people moving with a rhythm that spoke of routine, of familiarity.

Jack moved through the crowd with ease, nodding in greeting to those he knew. A passing merchant clapped him on the back, an old woman offered him a knowing smile. Life in Eldergrove was simple, predictable. And that was how Jack liked it.

Strapped to his back was his bow, the familiar weight reassuring. He had spent most of his life hunting in the dense woods beyond the town, supplying fresh game to the market stalls. Today would be no different.

As he left the bustling streets behind, stepping onto the forest path, the noise of Eldergrove faded, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. He inhaled deeply, the cool air filling his lungs. Here, in the quiet embrace of the wild, he felt most at home.

Jack moved with practiced ease, his steps light against the forest floor. The bow in his hands was steady, his breath controlled. Every movement was deliberate—silent. The thrill of the hunt was not in the kill, but in the patience, the awareness.

Then, something shifted.

A presence.

Not the kind he was used to—the keen awareness of prey nearby, the subtle tension in the air before an animal fled. No, this was different.

Jack straightened, eyes scanning the trees. The feeling was faint, just on the edge of his senses, but undeniable. And then, a voice.

"You’ve always been a fine hunter, Jack."

Jack turned sharply, fingers tightening around his bow.

An old man stood a few paces away, partially concealed by the shadows of the trees. His long robes were a muted gray, blending into the bark and stone. His beard, though well-kept, hinted at years beyond counting. And his eyes—his eyes held something ancient, something knowing.

Jack exhaled slowly, lowering his bow. "Eamon."

The sage stepped forward, his movements measured, deliberate. "I was hoping to find you here. We need to talk."

Jack furrowed his brows. "About what?"

Eamon glanced toward the cave entrance that loomed behind him, half-hidden by the trees. "Something you must see for yourself."

The cave swallowed them in silence, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and something older, something Jack couldn’t name.

Eamon led the way, moving deeper into the cavern with a quiet certainty. Then, he stopped.

Jack watched as the old sage lifted his hands, whispering something under his breath. The air stirred, faint ripples of power threading through the space.

And then it began.

A hum, low and deep, vibrated through the cave walls. The air grew thick, charged with something unseen. The temperature dropped—not sharply, but just enough for Jack to notice the fine hairs rising on his skin. A scent followed, one that hadn’t been there before—old parchment, damp earth after a storm, something distant yet familiar.

Then, the runes appeared.

One by one, they flickered into existence, glowing like embers against the darkness. They lifted from the stone, swirling, shaping into delicate, shifting letters.

Jack barely breathed as the words formed before him, suspended in the air.

Eamon’s voice, steady and unwavering, filled the space.

"In chains they bound the hearts of men,
In collars bent their wills.
With yokes they pressed, the earth to bend,
And branded flesh with steel.

Four have come, their fires burned,
Their shadows long and wide.
Beware the fifth, yet unconfirmed,
His cage where secrets hide.

From dirt shall rise a champion,
To challenge what has been,
But the outcome shrouded in the mist,
Of what was lost to sin."

The words pulsed, their glow shifting like dying embers, lingering before they faded back into nothingness. The cave fell silent once more.

Jack swallowed hard. "What… what does it mean?"

Eamon turned to him, his expression unreadable. "It means the Scourge is real. And the fifth is coming."

Jack exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "These are just old legends, aren’t they? Stories to scare children."

Eamon studied him for a moment before answering. "That’s what people want to believe. But this prophecy appeared after the fall of the fourth Scourge. No hand wrote it. No voice spoke it. It simply… was. No one knows its full meaning. But one thing is certain—its words have never been wrong."

Jack’s gaze lingered on the now-empty space where the runes had glowed. A weight settled in his chest, something cold and uncertain.

Then Eamon spoke again. "The prophecy speaks of a champion rising from the dirt. You were born a commoner, Jack. A hunter, tied to no great house, no legacy of warriors or kings."

Jack frowned. "You think it means me?"

Eamon exhaled, his expression thoughtful. "I don’t know. But the signs point to something stirring. And you are not as unremarkable as you believe."

Jack scoffed. "I’m just a hunter, Eamon. Nothing more."

The old sage gave him a long look before finally nodding. "Perhaps."

But Jack could see it in his eyes. Eamon wasn’t convinced.

And neither, deep down, was he.