THE CURSED KINGDOM OF AMMON

Chapter Four : The Chosen One

The road north was cold and endless. Lysander had been walking for two days, living on rainwater and what little bread he could find in abandoned carts. The sky stayed gray, heavy with clouds that never broke. It felt as if the sun had forgotten Ammon.

He didn’t know where he was going. Only that the voice inside him – the one that had started whispering after Shiloh fell – kept telling him to move.

Sometimes it spoke in words. Other times, it was only a pull in his chest, like the feeling before tears.

By the third night, he found shelter in the ruins of an old temple half-buried in vines. The air inside was damp, filled with the smell of stone and moss. Statues of forgotten gods lined the walls, their faces broken and weeping with rain.

He lit a small fire with what wood he could gather. The warmth felt strange on his skin – almost wrong – but he didn’t care. For the first time in days, he was not running.

Then he heard it.

A soft hum. Low, steady, almost like a heartbeat.

He turned. In the center of the temple stood a pool of still water, black as glass. The sound came from there. When he stepped closer, the reflection that met his eyes wasn’t his own.

It was a man’s face – older, wild-eyed, with marks of light running down his skin like veins of fire.

Lysander stumbled back, but the reflection spoke. Its voice wasn’t loud; it was everywhere.

“Blood of the fallen. Breath of the dawn. The curse has returned, and so have you.”

“I don’t understand,” Lysander whispered. “Who are you?”

The voice grew softer. “You are the heir of what was sealed. The fire that sleeps within you will either save this land… or destroy it again.”

Before he could move, the ground shuddered. The fire he had lit rose suddenly, burning white instead of red. For a moment, it circled him – wrapping around his body like wind. His hands glowed, and the pain was sharp, deep, like something being carved into him.

When the light faded, the pool was still. The reflection was gone. Only his own face stared back – pale, frightened, but changed. His eyes, once brown, now held a faint trace of silver in them.

Outside, the wind howled through the trees. And far away, in the capital, a mage named “Theseus” woke from a dream with the same fire burning behind his eyes.

The curse had chosen its answer.

And its answer was Lysander.