Nyra's dream began in the blistering heat of the desert, her feet digging into the dry, cracked earth beneath her. She was younger no more than ten years old running through the narrow streets of her village. The village was small but alive, bustling with the sounds of laughter, trade, and the rhythmic clanging of smiths shaping weapons. Above it all loomed the black obelisk in the distance, its surface glistening faintly under the sun's harsh glare.
Despite its menacing presence, the obelisk was a source of life for the village. It cooled the air, casting a long shadow that provided much needed relief from the desert's unrelenting heat. For Nyra, it had always been there a constant, mysterious monument that no one questioned.
Her parents were nearby, her father sharpening a blade and her mother weaving a basket. Her older brother, tall and strong, was practicing with his bone crafted weapons: a spear and shield he had forged from his own blood and marrow. They were berserks, a proud people with a rare gift to manipulate their bodies, turning their very bones and blood into tools of survival and destruction.
Her father looked over at her and ruffled her hair. "One day, you'll make a weapon even finer than your brother's, Nyra. I can see it in you."
Her brother laughed. "She'll have to grow a little taller first."
Nyra stuck her tongue out at him, her small hands clutching a wooden training axe. "I'm already strong enough to beat you!"
Their laughter echoed through the village, a rare moment of peace in a harsh and unforgiving land.
But then the dream shifted. The sky darkened as if the sun had been swallowed whole, and the ground began to shake. The obelisk, once still and silent, began to hum with an ominous energy, a faint crimson glow pulsing from its core.
The attack came swiftly. Figures clad in dark armour emerged from the shadows, their weapons gleaming with cruel intent. Their approach was almost silent no shouts, no war cries only the eerie rasp of metal brushing against metal, and the soft clink of tools hanging from their belts. The sound was cold and surgical, like knives being laid out for a ritual. It froze her blood in a way screams never could. She did not recognize them. They descended upon the village like a swarm, cutting down anyone who dared to stand in their way.
Nyra's father roared, his arms transforming as bone spikes erupted from his forearms, slashing through the invaders. Her mother fought beside him, a whip of blood in her hands lashing out at their attackers. Her brother stood in front of Nyra, his spear poised and ready.
"Stay behind me, Nyra!" he shouted, his voice firm but tinged with fear.
But it wasn't enough. The attackers overwhelmed them, their numbers too great. Nyra watched in horror as her father fell first, a blade piercing his chest. Her mother screamed, her whip snapping furiously, but she was struck down moments later.
Her brother fought valiantly, his spear finding its mark again and again. But even he couldn't hold them back forever. Nyra saw him fall, blood pooling around him as he reached out toward her with his final breath.
"No!" she screamed, tears streaming down her face as she clutched her wooden axe.
The dream shifted again, a blur of terror and confusion. She was taken, along with other children from the village, dragged away by the invaders. They called her "valuable," a child with the gift of the berserk, someone they could mold and control.
They brought her to a dark fortress, its walls cold and unyielding. They tried to break her, to force her into submission. But they underestimated her.
In the dead of night, she escaped, sneaking into the room where they had piled the bodies of her family and villagers. Her hands trembled as she reached out to her brother's lifeless form. His bones were still strong, unbroken.
She closed her eyes, her heart heavy with grief and rage, and her gift awakened. She used his bones his ribcage, his femur to forge a weapon. A massive axe, sharp and unrelenting, a symbol of her determination and her pain.
When the guards found her, she was waiting. Her eyes glowed with fury, her body shaking as her berserk blood took over. She lost herself in it, her mind consumed by the need to destroy.
The fortress was bathed in blood by the time she was done. She emerged into the desert, clutching her new weapon, her clothes torn and soaked with the blood of her enemies. She was alone, her family gone, her village reduced to ash.
The dream lingered on this image, young Nyra standing in the wasteland, the obelisk still visible in the distance, pulsing faintly as if mocking her loss.
And then, the shadow appeared. It loomed behind her, tall and silent, its form taking shape. Like in the other dreams, the shadow bore the faint resemblance of a figure she would recognize later Thal. But it didn't speak, only watched as she clutched her axe and stared into the endless desert, her tears mixing with the sand.
The shadow loomed over her, its presence pressing down like the weight of the desert sun. It moved closer, and with each step, it tried to nudge her, to force her to see the truth buried beneath her rage. It wasn't violent it was almost... patient.
But Nyra refused. She couldn't no, she wouldn't let go of the fire burning inside her. Her grief had turned to anger, and her anger had become her shield. She clutched the blood stained axe tighter, her knuckles white, her teeth bared in a snarl.
The shadow extended a hand toward her, as if pleading. It pulsed faintly, a rune glowing on its chest. "Look," it seemed to say without words, urging her to see the truth she was burying in her rage.
But she wouldn't. She couldn't. Her vision blurred as the memory of her family's faces flickered in her mind, each one replaced by the sight of their lifeless bodies. Her rage was all she had left, and she held onto it as if it were her lifeline. The shadow didn't retreat. It stepped beside her, not blocking the desert, but walking with her along its edge. Its presence was no longer heavy it was patient. The rune on its chest flickered, and in it, she saw the faint reflection of herself older, alone, still clutching the axe, her face hollowed by years of silence. The shadow did not speak, but in its stillness, it asked her if this was truly who she wanted to become.
The dream shifted again, and for the first time, she noticed another figure emerging from the sandstorm. A towering silhouette moved toward her. Nyra turned, ready to fight, her axe raised. But when the figure stepped into the light, she froze.
It was Thal.
He looked different then his hair was shorter, his beard trimmed, but his eyes carried the same weight, the same sorrow. He approached her slowly, his enormous frame somehow gentle in its movements. His hands were empty, and his expression was broken.
She didn't understand why but seeing him made her rage falter. Her legs weakened, knees buckling slightly as if her body no longer had the strength to hold everything in. The heat of the desert pressed harder against her skin, the weight of the axe digging into her hands like it wanted to root her to the past. Something inside her cracked. She took a step back, the axe trembling in her hands. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she felt like she might shatter. It didn't disappear it never would but it softened, just enough for the tears to flow freely.
Thal knelt before her, making himself small despite his massive size. He didn't say a word he didn't need to. He simply held out his hand.
Nyra hesitated, her body trembling. Her axe felt heavy now, the blood on it no longer a badge of vengeance but a weight she couldn't bear. Slowly, she let it drop to the ground, the sound of it hitting the sand echoing in her ears.
And then she took his hand.
In that moment, the shadow seemed to shrink, its edges softening. It didn't leave, but it stepped back, retreating into the corners of her mind as the memory of Thal leading her out of the wasteland took over.
He carried her for miles, her small frame cradled in his massive arms. She remembered clutching his shirt, her tears soaking into the fabric as he walked without rest. He didn't ask her anything, didn't try to make her talk. He just carried her, his steps steady and sure. She remembered the way his shadow fell across her as the sun rose, casting long lines of warmth and silence over the sand. His arms were strong, but they never felt confining only safe. His silence didn't demand anything from her. It made space for her grief, and for the first time, that was enough.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Nyra felt safe.
The dream ended with that image burned into her mind: Thal walking through the endless desert, her axe slung over his shoulder, and the obelisk growing smaller and smaller in the distance.