The Prophecy Foretold…

The words you read now are not mere ink on parchment, they are a warning, whispered through time, carried by those who came before and those who shall follow. The stars have aligned once more, as they did when the first path was chosen, as they will when the last steps are taken. I write to you not as a guide, but as a voice calling from the shadows of what is to come.

You have read the words of the explorer. You have seen the signs, the symbols left for those with the sight to understand. The path where the stars align is known to you now, but do you yet grasp its meaning? The road ahead is not what it seems, for choice itself is the illusion, and truth is buried beneath the weight of those who seek it.

Three paths stand before you, though in truth, only one is real. The golden path gleams with promise, but its light blinds those who walk it. Many have stepped upon it, lured by its brilliance, believing it to be the way forward. But the golden path is not what it appears to be. It is a deception, a veil cast by those who would keep the truth hidden. Those who walk it do not return, for they are swallowed by the illusion, lost to time, their voices drowned beneath the echoes of false promises.

The shadowed path is worn with the steps of the forgotten. It is a road walked by few, for it is cold, lonely, and without comfort. And yet, within its depths, the stars align. It is the path of seekers, of those who do not follow light for the sake of its brightness, but who instead search for what lies beyond the veil. The one who carved the words in the cave knew this truth, that only those who walk through darkness with eyes open shall see what others cannot.

The final path is silent, carved from stone, its whispers barely heard above the stillness. It calls to those who hesitate, those who stand at the crossroads but do not move. It is a path of waiting, of watching, of choosing nothing at all. And yet, in that stillness, truth can be heard, if one dares to listen.

I have seen what happens to those who choose poorly. The golden path, though tempting, swallows men whole. Their voices are lost to the wind, their names forgotten. The shadowed path, though treacherous, leads to revelation. But there is a price to knowing the truth. Those who have walked it before have never returned the same. They speak in whispers, their eyes holding the weight of things unseen.

Long ago, before the first kingdom rose, before the first stone was laid, there were those who knew the secret of the stars. They built no temples, carved no tablets, wrote no books. Their knowledge passed through whispers, carried on the wind, entrusted only to those who could hear. It is said that their voices still echo, hidden beneath the hum of the earth, waiting for those who will listen.

The golden path was the greatest lie ever told. It was built to dazzle, to draw those with ambition and greed, those who sought power without understanding. It is a path of falsehoods, of illusions spun so intricately that even the wise can be deceived. Those who walk it vanish, their names struck from history, their existence rewritten as though they had never been.

The path where the stars align is a different road entirely. It is not paved in gold or carved in stone, but instead lies hidden between moments, glimpsed only by those who are willing to see. It does not call to the faint-hearted, nor does it promise comfort. It is the path of those who question, those who search beyond what is given, those who are willing to be lost in order to be found.

And then, there is the door.

The explorer saw it. Others before him have found it, though few have dared to enter. It is not locked, nor is it hidden, yet it remains closed to those who do not know how to look. It is said that the door is not a door at all, but a passage between what is and what was meant to be. Beyond it lies something ancient, something waiting.

It is written that those who have stood before the door have felt it breathe, have heard it whisper. Some say it is alive, that it watches, that it judges. Those who are not meant to enter feel the weight of its gaze upon them, the air thick with unseen eyes. The wise turn back, their hearts heavy with unspoken truths. The foolish press forward, thinking they have unraveled the mystery, only to find themselves lost.

The Guardian who once walked this path before me left behind a warning: Not all who seek the truth are meant to find it.

Many have stood where you stand now. Some turned away, choosing ignorance over knowing. Some walked the golden path, vanishing into the light. But the few who chose the path where the stars align, they are the ones whose names are whispered by the wind, whose choices are etched into time itself. And now you stand where they once stood.

And yet, even as I write this, I do not know if you will heed my words. Perhaps you have already made your choice. Perhaps the path was never yours to choose.

If you are reading this, then the time has come. The stars have aligned. The door has been opened. And once the door opens, it cannot be closed.

If you still believe the choice is yours, then you have not been listening.

For in the end, Seeker, it was never a choice at all.

An Explorer’s Discovery…

I have uncovered something that defies explanation. Hidden deep within the caves along the northern shore, I have stumbled upon an inscription older than the histories we know. The stone is worn, yet the markings remain, a warning? A map? I cannot say. But I feel as though I was meant to find it, as though the earth itself whispered the way.

The journey here was not an easy one. The path twisted through dense forest, the roots rising like the grasping hands of the forgotten. Each step felt heavier as if unseen eyes watched my every move. The air grew thick with an unnatural stillness the deeper I ventured. It was as if the land itself knew I was drawing closer to something long left undisturbed.

I had first heard whispers of this place from an old fisherman who spoke in hushed tones, fearful of what might awaken if one listened too closely. He told of travelers who had come before me, those who sought the same hidden truths but never returned. They spoke of a cave where the light of the stars revealed what the sun could not. It was said that only those who walked the path of the ancients would see the way forward, while others would be lost to the dark.

The entrance was nearly impossible to find, shrouded in mist and shadowed by jagged cliffs. I might have passed it by entirely had it not been for the sudden break in the silence, a whisper, or perhaps a trick of the wind, that led my gaze to a narrow passage, barely wide enough for one to squeeze through. My torch flickered as I pressed inside, the damp air carrying the scent of salt and earth.

Deeper in, the walls were carved with symbols, the meanings of which escape me. But one marking stood out among the rest, a series of interwoven lines, forming a shape I cannot fully describe, as though it shifts each time I look at it. When I traced my fingers along the grooves, the stone beneath me trembled. A deep hum resonated through the chamber, and for a fleeting moment, I swore I saw the walls ripple like the surface of water disturbed.

Something is here. Something waiting.

I should have turned back, but curiosity is a cruel master. I pressed onward, each step taking me closer to the heart of the cavern. There, beneath an archway that seemed impossibly ancient, I found the inscription. The words, though weathered, were still legible: “The truth lies in the path where the stars align.”

A riddle, a warning, or perhaps an invitation? I cannot say. But I fear I am not alone in this place. Shadows move where no light reaches, and the whispers are growing louder. The deeper I venture, the more I sense that I am being followed. Not by another traveler, but by something else, something unseen, lingering in the periphery of my vision, slipping just beyond my reach whenever I turn to face it.

I have discovered more markings, scattered along the tunnel walls, some depicting strange constellations, others portraying figures bowing before what appears to be a gateway of some kind. I recognize none of these formations in our charts, yet they seem eerily familiar. Could it be that these were once visible in the skies above? Have the heavens shifted so much since their time that they are now unrecognizable?

My supplies are dwindling, but I cannot leave yet. Not now. I have the distinct feeling that I am close to something greater than I ever imagined. If this is a map, then it leads to something beyond my understanding, beyond what I dared to believe possible. The air hums with an energy I cannot define, and though fear gnaws at the edges of my mind, I cannot turn back.

The deeper I travel, the more erratic my surroundings become. The walls, once solid and steady, now seem to shift, and the ground beneath me feels unsteady, as though I walk upon something that does not wish to be disturbed. There is an unnatural pull in this place, a force that tugs at the very core of me, urging me forward while warning me to flee. It is a paradox, a trap of my own making, I know that I should turn back, yet I cannot bring myself to do so.

I have begun to hear whispers, not from the wind, nor from my own mind, but from the walls themselves. The language is foreign, yet I feel as if I should understand it, as if some buried part of me recognizes the voices. They speak of choices made and paths walked, of destinies interwoven like the constellations above. I do not know whether to listen or to cover my ears and run.

Then, in the farthest reaches of the cave, I find it. A door, or what I believe to be a door, though it does not open in the way doors should. It is not of stone or wood, but of something else, something that hums with power and shifts when I try to focus on it. I do not know how to open it, nor whether I should. But the markings surrounding it confirm my suspicions. This is what the ancients sought to protect.

I leave this letter behind in case I do not return. If you find it, know that I followed the signs. If you dare seek what I have sought, look for the path where the stars align, where the whispers of the past still echo in the wind.

And one last thing,

Do not trust the golden path. It is not what it seems.

A love letter from the past…

Letter 1: A Love Confession from the 1700s

I write these words with trembling hands, knowing that they may never reach you, or worse—that they may, and yet still, you will choose him.

The ink stains my fingers as surely as longing stains my soul. It has been too long since I last laid eyes upon you, and still, your presence haunts me. I close my eyes, and you are there, the scent of lavender and ink clinging to you as the firelight flickers against your hair. It should be me standing beside you, not him. It should be my name you whisper when the night grows quiet, my arms you seek when the world is too cruel.

Yet here I am, writing words that cannot touch you, bound by duty, distance, and the wretched hand of fate. I had no choice but to leave, though I curse the very path that took me from you. War looms over these lands like a storm cloud, and I have been sent to the frontlines, where steel meets flesh and men fall like autumn leaves. I have seen the glint of swords under the moonlight, smelled the acrid scent of gunpowder that clings to the air long after the battle has ended. I have fought beside men whose faces I barely know, all while your face lingers in my mind with cruel clarity.

 I have written you before, but I fear my words were lost to fate, or worse, intercepted. If you have received nothing, know that it was not for lack of trying. I have bled into these pages, Natalee, my heart poured out in ink, desperate for some whisper of your voice to reach me across the miles. And still, I wonder, do you think of me? Or has he already claimed the space I left behind?

 He is all broad smiles and effortless charm, a man of presence, but not of depth. He may call you 'lass' with his silvered tongue, but does he know the weight of your name when spoken in reverence? Does he understand the fire within you, the longing for something greater than a man who looks good in a kilt?

I do.

And still, I am trapped in this cursed game of restraint. You know what I want. You know where my thoughts wander in the quiet hours. I would give up my name, my land, my claim to any future if it meant I could stand at your side without fear of losing you to him.

The days stretch long here, the nights longer still. Each morning, I rise with the sun and ride alongside men who fight for a cause greater than themselves. We march through valleys and rivers, past ruined villages and empty homes, places where love was once whispered, where laughter once danced upon the air. It is a cruel reminder of what war takes, of what distance does to those left behind. I know you are safe, and yet, I cannot silence the fear that one day I will return only to find you in his arms.

I have not yet told you of the dream that haunts me. I see you standing at the threshold of an unfamiliar home, dressed in silk and pearls, your hands folded over your stomach. There is no longing in your gaze, no hesitation, only the acceptance of a life chosen. And yet, in the flicker of the candlelight, I see it. A shadow of what could have been, a ghost of me lingering in the air between us. I wake with my heart hammering, my hands clenched into fists, and the bitter taste of regret resting on my tongue. I cannot bear the thought of that dream becoming truth.

And yet, here in the cold of battle, I am met with another dream, one that grips me just as fiercely. In it, you are standing beneath a great oak, the sun painting your hair with gold, the wind teasing the hem of your dress. You are waiting, watching the horizon, searching for something… for me. And I am coming to you, pushing through the crowds, past every obstacle that would keep us apart. It is a dream that ends too soon, but it is one I refuse to let slip from my grasp.

But fate is a cruel mistress, and this letter is my only solace. I do not send it in the hopes of swaying you, I know you are too stubborn, too proud to admit the truth aloud. But if you read these words and feel even a fraction of what I feel, if your pulse quickens, if your breath catches, if some forbidden part of you whispers my name instead of his, then I will wait, Natalee. I will wait as long as it takes, until you see that what I offer is not fleeting admiration, but devotion. Until you see that it was always meant to be me.

Yet I am no fool, and I have seen how the world turns. If you choose him, if you walk that path and leave me in shadow, then I will do what honor demands, I will say nothing. I will bear it in silence, a wound that no blade could match. But if ever you find yourself doubting, if ever you wake in the night and feel the weight of my absence like a ghost in the room, then seek me. A single word, a single glance, and I will know. I will come for you. No ocean, no border, no name in a marriage book could keep me from you.

Do not mistake my silence for surrender, Natalee. My love is not the sort that fades with time or distance. It is carved into the marrow of me, as permanent as the earth beneath our feet. If I must love you from afar, then so be it. But should the day come when you call my name, I will answer. Always.