A vast, echoing hall stretched endlessly around him. Twelve colossal thrones lined its curved perimeter, each carved from celestial stone and pulsing faintly with power. Seated upon them were twelve figures cloaked in divine light, their faces shrouded in shadow, their eyes unseen. But Heracles felt them watching him.
In the center, towering above all others, stood the grandest throne of all. Crafted of gold-veined marble and adorned with radiant gems, it pulsed with a warm, awe-inspiring light. Upon this throne sat a figure draped in majestic robes, a crown of light above his brow. Though his face remained obscured, his presence demanded reverence.
When he spoke, the hall trembled.
"Heracles, my son."
The voice rang like thunder across the mountains, like wind echoing through time. Heracles stood frozen, unable to speak.
"Darkness stirs. The world you know will soon fall into chaos. The ancient balance teeters, and a great war is coming—one that shall shake the heavens and the underworld alike."
The cloaked figures shifted slightly, as though reacting to the prophecy.
"You and others like you are destined to stand against the coming storm," the voice continued. "Your path has been chosen, not by fate, but by the strength of your soul. At Hippocoon, your training will begin. You must grow, awaken, and rise. For the battle will not wait."
The voice lowered but deepened.
"You will find allies. You will face betrayal. But never forget—within you flows the blood of gods and kings. You were not made to kneel. You were born to stand."
The divine figure lifted a hand, and a beam of light erupted from his palm, washing over Heracles. For a moment, everything was light.
Then, darkness.
Somewhere far from the waking world, hidden beyond mountains cloaked in mist and oceans lost to time, there stood a towered castle of ivory stone. The skies above it shimmered with an aurora that danced like silk, and the land below was untouched by mortal footsteps.
Upon a high balcony of this ancient stronghold, an old man stood tall. His hair was silver, but his bearing was regal. His robes fluttered in the breeze like banners of old, and his eyes—bright, ageless—gazed over the endless horizon.
Beside him lay a bundle of scrolls sealed in golden wax. With a graceful flick of his wrist, the man summoned a glowing sigil in the air.
He raised his voice, rich and resonant:
"Go now. Find those to whom you belong. Let destiny stir."
With that command, dozens of doves—white as snow and radiant with enchantment—took flight from the stone railing. Each clutched a sealed scroll in its talons. They soared upward, then split in all directions—north, south, east, and west—vanishing into the clouds like arrows of fate.
The man watched them disappear, his expression unreadable.
"The time has come," he whispered.
Heracles woke with a gasp, his body drenched in sweat. The sun filtered gently through his window. The dream—no, the vision—faded faster than he could hold onto it. He sat upright, trying to remember what he had seen. A hall. Thrones. A voice.
But the details slipped through his fingers like mist. Within moments, it was gone—buried beneath the waking world.
A knock at the door.
"Heracles! Breakfast is ready!" Amelinda called.
He blinked. Whatever that dream had been, it had left a mark.
And though he couldn't remember why, he felt as though something had just begun.
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