Decision

Steven’s mind reeled as Lysandra’s voice surged into a torrent of incomprehensible splendor, the litany of skills blurring into a whirlwind of divine gibberish—like a bard’s tale spun at impossible speed, a cartoonish cacophony of power and possibility. His thoughts drifted, drowning in the flood of options, until a primal clarity cut through the haze. He knew what he craved: a fantasy saga brimming with peril, glory, and unbridled passion—a world where adventure and desire reigned supreme.

He snapped back to the moment, fixing Lysandra with a bold, almost defiant stare, his voice steady despite the fire igniting within him. “Enough of the endless scroll, Goddess,” he declared, his words ringing with newfound purpose. “I seek powers darker, wilder—gifts to bend this realm to my will. What of Mind Dominion, a **** to seize the thoughts of others, to make a woman’s heart and soul burn for me with unshakable yearning? Or Fleshsculpting, the might to reshape a body as I see fit—curving flesh and bone to my design, a living masterpiece of my whims? And perhaps Soulbinding, the dread art of claiming a soul through sacred pacts, chaining their essence to my command, their will forged into mine own. Tell me, Lysandra—are such powers within my grasp? And how many of my three choices would these consume?”

Lysandra’s violet eyes gleamed with a mix of intrigue and caution, her silver hair flaring briefly as if caught in a storm of unseen power. The void pulsed, the air thickening with the weight of his audacious request. “Boldly spoken, mortal,” she intoned, her voice a velvet blade. “Such gifts exist within Vyrthralis’s vast tapestry, though they tread the edges of light and shadow. Mind-Dominion is one—a single skill, granting you sway over thoughts and desires, a whisper that turns longing into obsession. Fleshsculpting is another, a solitary art to mold the living form as a sculptor shapes clay, limited only by your vision and their vitality. Soulbinding, too, stands alone—a third skill, weaving contracts of eternal servitude, bartering for souls with words as binding as iron.”

She stepped closer, her gaze piercing into his core. “Each is a distinct thread, claiming one of your three boons. Choose all, and your triad is complete—powers of domination, creation, and possession to mark your legend. But beware, Steven: such gifts wielded recklessly invite chaos, and Vyrthralis does not suffer imbalance lightly.”

Steven’s pulse thundered, his imagination ablaze with the prospects of wielding such dominion. The goddess’s warning lingered, but the allure of these epic, untamed forces drowned out caution with a siren’s call.