Flames of the Crossroads

You adjust your rucksack and take one last look at the trail left behind. The black voids between the trees close up behind you, severing the path back. Besides, there is nowhere else to go—the Altar Stone before you will not let you leave.

Ancient and moss-covered, it rests at the very heart of the ruined sanctuary. The runes on its edges are barely discernible beneath layers of dust and centuries of moss, but the moment you kneel beside it and stack a small pile of dry kindling, the stone responds with a low, guttural hum. You strike your flint—and the flame erupts.

It does not burn. It carries no scent of smoke, nor does it demand more wood. A golden light spills outward as if it were alive, and the air thickens, swelling with warmth and a faint, otherworldly melody. You feel a wave of goosebumps race down your arms, and a strange, aching emptiness begins to stir in your chest. The magic of the ancient artifact has awakened, and it has recognized you.

A translucent dome begins to shimmer around the camp, softly severing you from the rest of the world. You are the Keeper of the Flame. And you cannot leave as long as it burns.

The first few minutes pass in absolute silence. Only the crackle of invisible sparks and the sound of your own breathing. But then, a sound drifts from the forest—a cautious, creeping step. A branch snaps under someone's weight.

You lift your gaze from the fire and peer into the darkness. Someone has come to the call. Someone stands at the very edge of the light, hesitating to enter, with only a pair of eyes glinting from the gloom.