A Clash of Fates

born.
Sarkas’s eyes flittered between the two scenes, each more thousands of years apart than he could count, for the egg resided in the time of the great Leviathans, before man roamed the world.
Alijah moved, snatching at Sarkas’s attention. “Things will be different now,” he promised, his voice reverberating throughout Sarkas’s mind. “Balance is the reason you and I have been brought together. But first, we must find harmony.”
Who was he talking to? Displaying a will of its own again, the spell kept the answer from Sarkas.
Instead, he looked back at the egg, his focus stolen by the cracks that began to appear up and down the shell.
“I will take on your suffering as my own,” Alijah continued, his hand outstretched as if he could see the egg. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”
Unknown to Alijah, so far removed from events of ancient history, the egg was disintegrated by a furnace from within. A small dragon head emerged from the smoke and revealed its purple eyes and black scales.
Sarkas couldn’t believe what was happening, and happening because of him. Whether he had meant to or not, his spell had bridged the timelines. Phenomenal as it was, a single tear escaped each eye and ran back across his temples under the pressure of the spell.
These two beings were bonding across the ages, born into the world with only half of who they were meant to be. Sarkas felt a profound sadness for Malliath, who would be forced to endure eons without the one who coaxed him from his egg as the Dragon Riders did. The wizard already knew that the dragon would never speak to another soul until he met Alijah in Paldora’s Fall.
Just thinking of that event collapsed the two worlds into nothingness. The blinding colours were brief, propelling Sarkas into yet another time and place beyond his control.
All was quiet now, but for the sound of licking flames.
The young wizard was suddenly spared the buffeting winds and the constant pain. He looked around, confused. This moment of clarity was unexpected with no mention of it in the Jainus’s spell book. It had spoken of the repercussions, the sacrifices that came with pushing against time, but not this.
Turning on his heel, he was encircled by the sandy rock of The Undying Mountains, deep into Illian’s south. It was dark except for the torches that illuminated the elevated dais that had been carved out of the rock. A new sound reached his ears and Sarkas looked up to see the shattered remains of Paldora’s Star.
The magic that radiated from the heavenly rocks kept the pieces afloat, there to collide for evermore.
A sharp squawk turned the young wizard to the dais. There, perched on the edge, was a crow, its feathers a deep black. Again, the knowledge of what was happening escaped him, as if the spell was refusing to reveal the truth of the event.
Sarkas cautiously approached the dais, his sight drawn to the crow’s dark eyes. The bird watched him intently, never flinching. A few steps from the dais, his feet rooted him to the spot. Slowly, but surely, the world around him faded from his vision, leaving only those bottomless orbs.
A horrible feeling crept over Sarkas, opening a pit in his stomach. The crow pulled him in until the darkness swallowed him whole.
The winds of time returned with a blasting vengeance. Sarkas screamed but the sound of it was lost, drowned out by the wind in his ears. Nameless colours imprinted on his mind, keeping his eyelids from closing.
The future assaulted him like the crack of a whip, the power of it threatening to undo him.
He saw himself standing in the middle of The Wild Moores, surrounded by his brothers of The Black Hand, a cult of his own making. He could feel that this particular place, hidden deep in the heart of the woods, was drenched in old and powerful magic. Sarkas winced when the older version of himself plunged a dagger into his own heart, dropping him dead into the snow.
Time swept in and ravaged the landscape. The young wizard saw people flit in and out of the site where he had been buried but they were naught but blurs, specks in the canvas of time. Sarkas could only watch, sure that his skin was soon to be stripped from his body by the savage winds.
The same landscape returned to him with clarity and he knew he had just watched the world move on ten thousand years. Now, his long dead corpse was surrounded by men in black robes - The Black Hand. Following the instructions he would leave, they used the magic of the Jainus to resurrect him so that he might continue his work.
The winds of time increased and he could no longer hold on to the moment. Dragged away, he gritted his teeth and let the currents take him where they would. What bombarded him was difficult to comprehend. Images, sounds, and even smells washed over him as he was thrown from one moment in time to another.
He saw pale monsters, crowned with horns, rising from The Under-Realm to greet him: orcs, beasts still unknown in Sarkas’s time. They were cruel and barbaric but they served their purpose he saw. Illian would fall to their wrath, only to rise up, stronger than before. The kingdoms, long fractured, would be brought together under one banner, though Sarkas saw two competing for the throne.
The Fated War. The house of Galfrey pitted against the house of Draqaro. The dragon and the flaming sword.
The outcome of this war would reshape the realm forever, changing not only the way people lived but also the way they thought. It was true peace. Reaching this point would be arduous, leaving a trail of death and blood in history’s wake. But the peace he observed was shatteringly beautiful and worth all the sacrifices.
It all hinged on one single event in the Third Age: the birth of a boy and a girl, twins.