Hook-Line-Sinker

Steven felt the pull of Lysandra’s words, a lure cast with divine precision, and he bit down hard—hook, line, and sinker. His gaze lingered on the flickering visions of gear, and his hand twitched as if already reaching for one. “The Soulcatcher’s Band,” he declared, voice firm with conviction. The obsidian-and-silver ring gleamed in his mind’s eye, its promise of binding souls too potent to resist. But a flicker of curiosity—or perhaps suspicion—stirred within him. He tilted his head, locking eyes with the goddess. “Why would I need something like that? What’s the catch?”

Lysandra’s lips curled into a knowing smile, her violet eyes glinting with the weight of eons. “A astute question, mortal,” she began, her voice weaving a tapestry of persuasion. “The Soulcatcher’s Band is no mere trinket—it is a keystone to your power, a vessel forged in the crucible of Vyrthralis’s deepest mysteries. Your gift of Soulbinding demands a focus, a conduit to anchor the pacts you weave. Without it, your contracts would fray like threads in a storm, souls slipping from your grasp. This ring binds them to you irrevocably—its obsidian drinks their essence, its silver seals their oaths. In a world where trust is a blade turned inward and treachery lurks in every shadow, it ensures your dominion remains unbroken. You seek to command, do you not? Then this is your scepter, your crown, your unshakable will made manifest.”

Her words sank into him, heavy with truth and laced with allure. Steven nodded, convinced, the logic as unyielding as the ring itself. “Alright, I’m sold,” he said, then turned his thoughts to the visions of Vyrthralis. The Mistveil Shores called to him—a land of fog and whispers, where the sea’s secrets danced with the unknown. “I’ll start there,” he announced. “The Mistveil Shores—sounds like a place where I can make my mark.”

Lysandra inclined her head, her silver hair shimmering as the void pulsed once more. “Very well,” she said. “The Shores shall greet you, their mists veiling both peril and promise. The Soulcatcher’s Band is yours—wear it well, for it will be your first companion in this realm. One final truth: Vyrthralis tests all who tread its paths. Survive, and you may yet reshape it.” Her voice softened, almost a whisper. “Now, prepare yourself—your journey begins.”

Before Steven could respond, a wave of dizziness crashed over him. The white void spun, Lysandra’s form blurred, and darkness swallowed him whole. He passed out, the goddess’s words echoing in his fading consciousness.

When his eyes fluttered open, a cold, damp breeze kissed his skin. He lay sprawled on a pebbled beach, the rhythmic crash of waves filling his ears. Naked as the day he was born, the chill of the Mistveil Shores seeped into his bones. Fog hung thick around him, curling like spectral tendrils, and the scent of salt and decay stung his nose. On his finger, the Soulcatcher’s Band gleamed, its weight a quiet reassurance.

A harsh shout shattered the haze. “Oi! You there! On your feet, filth!” Steven blinked, squinting through the mist as three figures emerged—castle guards clad in salt-crusted armor, their spears leveled at him. Their tabards bore a crest of a coiled serpent, and their faces were hard, weathered by the sea. The tallest, a grizzled man with a scar bisecting his brow, stepped forward, his spearpoint hovering inches from Steven’s chest. “Who are you, and what madness brings you to wash up on the King’s shore like some drowned rat?”

Steven’s heart pounded, his mind racing as he scrambled to his feet, the Soulcatcher’s Band glinting faintly in the dim light. The guards loomed, expectant and hostile, and the reality of Vyrthralis crashed down upon him.