Confirmation

Steven’s eyes glinted with a fierce resolve as Lysandra’s words settled over him like a mantle of shadow and power. “I’ll take them,” he said, his voice cutting through the void with unwavering certainty. “Mind-Dominion, Fleshsculpting, and Soulbinding—those are mine.” The air thrummed with his decision, a faint tremor rippling through the white expanse as if Vyrthralis itself acknowledged the weight of his choice.

Lysandra inclined her head, a flicker of something—approval, perhaps, or veiled amusement—dancing in her violet gaze. “So be it,” she intoned. With a graceful sweep of her hand, the void shimmered, and Steven felt a surge within him, as though molten power poured into his veins. His mind sharpened, his senses tingled with the latent potential to bend wills, reshape forms, and bind souls. The gifts were his, etched into his being.

But the goddess did not dismiss him yet. She turned slightly, her silver hair cascading like a river of moonlight, and gestured toward the boundless white. “Your path begins now, Steven, but first—your place in Vyrthralis must be forged. Where shall you awaken in this world, and what tools shall you bear? The choices are yours, though I shall guide your vision.”

The void shifted, and faint images flickered into existence around them—glimpses of Vyrthralis’s vast tapestry. “Will you rise in the Ashen Wastes, a desolate sprawl of jagged peaks and smoldering ruins, where only the cunning survive amidst forgotten relics? Or perhaps the Verdant Hollows, a sprawling forest of towering ancients and hidden glades, teeming with secrets and feral beauty? There is the Ironspire Dominion, a realm of stone citadels and clashing steel, where lords vie for supremacy and intrigue festers. Or the Mistveil Shores, a coastal edge shrouded in fog, where the sea whispers of lost fleets and eldritch depths.”

She paused, letting the visions linger, then continued. “As for your gear—shall you wield a Runed Blade, its edge humming with latent enchantments yet to be awakened? Or a Tome of Veiled Scripts, its pages offering cryptic knowledge to fuel your dominion? Perhaps a Cloak of Whispers, woven from shadow-threads to cloak your presence and amplify your will? Or a simple Soulcatcher’s Band, a ring of obsidian and silver to mark your first contract?”

Lysandra’s gaze bore into him once more, her voice a velvet challenge. “Speak, Steven—where shall your legend take root, and what shall you carry into this world?”

Steven stood, the weight of his new powers thrumming within him, and pondered the goddess’s questions, the possibilities unfurling like a map to his destiny.