Page 122 of Rage

He will be the savior of Wyndhallow.

Exhaustion blurs his vision as he stops and rests on the trunk of a large tree, unhooking his canteen from his belt and taking two large swigs. He had filled the canteen up this morning by the babbling brook he’d made camp by, boiling the water before funneling it into his container.

The few berries he’d found weren’t much to quell the ache in his gut from the hunger pangs but he knew, more than anything else, that he was close to uncovering something.

He can feel it.

Capping the canteen, he wipes his beard with his gloved hand, removing the sweat, rain, and spittle before continuing.

Chop, chop, swing. Chop, chop, swing.

The rhythm of his blade bites through the thick vines as the last remnants of daylight fade, swallowed by the encroaching darkness. His vision diminishes in the dimming light, and the cold rain soaks him to the bone. Just as he considers giving up for the night, a sound stops him mid-swing.

Music.

“No,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head. It can’t be. I must be imagining things.

He cocks his head, straining to hear beyond the drumming rain. The faint notes of a lute weaves through the wind—or so he thinks. But then, just as quickly, the melody shifts into the harsh caw of a distant bird echoing beyond the craggy woods.

He exhales sharply, gripping his sword tighter. Then it comes again—the unmistakable melody, light, and teasing, pulling at something deep inside him.

This time, he knows he isn’t imagining it.

Adrenaline surges through his veins. He swings faster, slashing at the tangled brambles with newfound desperation. Each vine feels like a prison, keeping him from salvation—or maybe insanity. He isn’t sure which. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he hacks away, driven by something he can’t explain.

Then, through the choking mass of vines, a faint, shimmering red light pulses in the darkness.

He throws his head back and laughs at the rain, a wild, unhinged sound that echoes through the air. Whether it’s relief, madness, or some cruel joke of exhaustion, he doesn’t know. But he keeps going.

Six more layers.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Finally, the last of the vines fall away, and the sight before him steals his breath.

Lightning cracks the sky, and Steele narrows his eyes ahead of him against the sting of the rainfall.

A magnificent rose garden yawns in the hallow, glowing faintly in the stormy night. It’s like a labyrinth of life and fire, with intricately shaped hedges depicting fantastical creatures, their forms illuminated by the soft, pulsing light of thousands of roses, lilies, lotus, and daffodils—all made of fire.

In the heart of the garden, atop a grand fountain, stands the largest lotus, glowing a brilliant red and crackling with flames. As he steps closer, he swears he hears it whisper.

“Pluck me,” it beckons. “Pluck me, and you’ll never go hungry again. Cut me down, and I’ll turn to gold. Sell me, and you’ll be richer than kings.”

“No, pick me!” another flower screams, its voice seductive and honeyed. “I bring eternal youth and boundless love to anyone who keeps me.”

The whispers grow louder, an intoxicating symphony that clouds his thoughts.

Drawn in, his hand trembles as he reaches for the largest flower. The whispers swell, promising salvation, wealth, and love. His blade lifts, ready to sever the stem and claim his prize.

But just as the blade begins to descend?—

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