The Aielind Chronicles: Journey

Chapter Nine: Pyk

Pyk’s eyes fluttered open to a quiet, unsettling emptiness. The damp earth beneath him was cool, and the air around him was thick with the scent of moss and decay. He sat up slowly, his head spinning as the remnants of the previous night’s chaos began to piece together.

The group was gone.

Edrahil, Haeyl, Dias—none of them were anywhere to be seen. Pyk’s heart quickened, but he forced himself to stay calm, his sharp eyes scanning the area. The forest stretched out before him, silent and still. The Wild Clan’s attack had left no trace of their presence, as if they had never been there at all.

His gaze shifted down to the ground, and that’s when he noticed it: his shawl, the one that had kept him hidden from the prying eyes of the elves, was torn to shreds. The once vibrant fabric now hung in tatters around him, useless.

Pyk’s fingers instinctively reached for his staff, but his hand closed around nothing. His breath caught in his chest. The Orichulum staff—his most trusted weapon—was gone. It had been there one moment, and now it was as if it had never existed.

Pyk rose to his feet, his legs stiff from the position he had been lying in. He had no time to dwell on the loss of his staff. His mind raced with the possibilities. Had the Wild Clan taken them? Or had something else happened during the chaos of the battle?

He took a deep breath, willing himself to focus. His first priority was to find the others. He had no idea where they could have been taken, but he had to find them.

His feet moved without direction, his mind lost in the haze of confusion. The forest stretched endlessly around him, an impenetrable maze of twisted trees and thick underbrush. He had no map, no guide, and no idea which way to go.

Hours seemed to pass, though time felt distorted in the dense woods. His thoughts wandered back to the moments before he lost consciousness—the sounds of battle, the overwhelming pressure of the Wild Clan’s attack. He had barely managed to hold his ground, but it hadn’t been enough.

And then, just as the silence threatened to swallow him whole, a voice broke through the stillness.

It was faint, barely a whisper at first.

“Follow me.”

Pyk froze, his pulse quickening. The voice was soft, almost ethereal, but there was no mistaking it—it was calling him. Without thinking, he began to move toward it, his instincts taking over.

The path was unclear, the trees thick and twisted, but Pyk followed the voice, step by step, until the dense forest began to thin. The air grew heavier, and the whisper became more distinct, guiding him forward.

Soon, he found himself standing before a massive structure, its towering walls crumbling with age. An ancient castle, barely standing but still formidable, loomed before him. The stone walls were cracked and covered in vines, but there was something about it that seemed… alive.

The whisper led him to the castle’s entrance, where the doors creaked open as if inviting him in. Pyk stepped inside cautiously, his senses alert, his hand instinctively moving to the place where his staff should have been.

The castle’s interior was dim, the only light coming from the faint glow of moss that clung to the walls. The air was thick with dust, and the silence was suffocating. Pyk moved deeper into the castle, the whisper growing louder, more urgent.

Finally, he reached a large chamber. In the center of the room stood a group of figures, their forms shimmering with an otherworldly glow. They were knights—tall, regal, and dressed in armor that bore the insignia of the High Clan. Their eyes glowed faintly, and their presence was both intimidating and peaceful.