Summon

Gaia hesitated outside the towering doors of the Chamber of Truth, her heart beating faster with every passing second. The faint echoes of whispered voices seeped through the heavy wood, but the moment she stepped inside, silence fell.

The room was vast, its walls adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to shift under the flickering torchlight. At the center of the chamber stood a circular table, and seated around it were five figures cloaked in deep crimson robes—the Blood-Smiths. Each of them radiated an aura of authority that pressed against Gaia’s chest like an invisible weight.

As she stepped closer, the Blood-Smiths rose in unison, bowing low in a gesture that sent a ripple of unease through her. Why would they bow to her? She wasn’t royalty, nor did she hold any title of significance.

“The greatest prophecy,” one of them greeted, his voice deep and reverberating. “It is an honor to be in your presence.”

She opened her mouth to respond but faltered, unsure of what to say. Before she could gather her thoughts, the doors behind her opened again.

Kieran entered, carrying a polished silver tray with a ceremonial wine glass and six crystal cups. His steps were light, practiced, as he moved with ease around the room, pouring wine into each cup. When his gaze met hers, he offered a boyish smile—a gesture so disarming that it momentarily chased away the tension she felt.

After serving the Blood-Smiths, Kieran approached her. Gaia watched as he poured wine into her crystal cup with a deliberate slowness, his fingers steady. “A special vintage for our honored guest,” he said softly before retreating to a corner of the room.

A servant? The realization made her chest tighten. Why was someone like Kieran—charming, seemingly kind—reduced to serving these men?

A seat was pulled out for her at the table, and she lowered herself cautiously, her curiosity battling her apprehension. The Blood-Smiths resumed their seats, their collective attention now fixed on her.

One of them, an elder with piercing silver eyes, leaned forward. “Are you aware of why you’ve been summoned here tonight?”

Gaia shook her head. “No, not entirely.”

The elder nodded, as if he had expected her answer. “Then allow us to enlighten you.”

Another Bloodsmith, his voice lighter but no less authoritative, began to speak. “Long ago, before the rise of kingdoms and clans, the Moon Goddess bestowed upon this world a relic of immeasurable power. A heartstone, forged from the purest essence of the lunar tides. It was a gift meant to unite, to strengthen, and to protect. But humanity, as it often does, succumbed to greed. Wars were waged over its possession, and blood flowed like rivers.”

The silver-eyed elder picked up where the other left off. “The heartstone was shattered into fragments and scattered across the lands, hidden in places no mortal could reach. Over the centuries, one fragment found its way to Dreadfall, imbued with enough power to sustain this citadel and its people. But time has weakened its essence.”

Gaia frowned, her fingers tightening around the goblet. “And what does that have to do with me?”

The Bloodsmith at her left, a woman with a voice as sharp as steel, answered, “You, Lady Gaia, are a descendant of the ancient bloodlines tied to the Moon Goddess herself. Your blood carries the purity we need to restore the heartstone’s fragment to its former glory. Without it, Dreadfall—and all who live here—will crumble.”

Her breath caught. “You want... my blood?”

“Not all of it,” the silver-eyed elder assured her, though his tone carried little comfort. “A ritual. A small sacrifice to save countless lives. You would become a savior, a legend.”

Gaia’s gaze flicked toward Kieran, who stood motionless in the corner, his face unreadable. For the first time, doubt crept into her mind about his presence. Was he as innocent as he appeared, or was he complicit in this?

Gaia placed her crystal glass firmly on the table, the soft clink breaking the flow of the Bloodsmiths' intense explanations. She straightened her back, her expression hardening as she spoke.

“I understand what you’re asking,” she began, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. “But I can’t agree to this. My blood, my life—it’s not something to be traded away so easily. If this relic is so powerful, why should I trust that it won’t be used for something darker than protection?”

A brief silence followed her words, and for a moment, she thought she saw the flicker of surprise on the faces of the Bloodsmiths. The silver-eyed elder leaned forward again, his tone now colder. “Do you realize what you’re refusing? This isn’t just about Dreadfall—it’s about balance, survival. Without this, countless lives will perish. Is that a burden you’re willing to carry?”

Gaia’s hands curled into fists in her lap. “I’m not a savior. And I won’t be manipulated into becoming one.”

At her words, Kieran stepped forward from his corner. His once boyish smile was gone, replaced by something darker, sharper. “Gaia,” he said, his voice low, almost coaxing. “You don’t understand the importance of what’s being offered here. This is your destiny.”

She turned to him, her chest tightening at the change in his demeanor. “And what about you, Kieran? Why are you so eager for me to agree? What do you gain from this?”

His jaw tightened, and for a fleeting moment, his facade cracked. His eyes darkened, and his voice dropped into a tone she had never heard from him before—commanding, menacing. “You think I want this for myself? You think I care about power?”

Gaia took a shaky step back, her hand gripping the cold edge of the chair. The tension in the air had shifted—Kieran's smile no longer seemed innocent. His gaze was sharp, cold, and completely unyielding.

She could feel it—the shift. A memory tugged at her, a half-formed dream, and a whisper of doubt surfaced.

Her voice came out steadier than she expected, cutting through the heavy air.

“Who are you really?”