The Boundless Prophecy

Prologue

The morning sun painted shimmering golden rays upon the solitary eye of the creature, illuminating it in a soft and dazzling glow.

The eye seemed to hold secrets within its inky void, like a portal to another world.

Its jet-black feathers were laced with iridescent hues of purple and blue, giving it an otherworldly aura. The secrets whispered within its eye were ancient prophecies that had been passed down through generations, waiting to be unraveled.

The one-eyed bird perched on a nearby tree, its head swivelling to watch the usual morning ritual. In front of a quaint house, three werewolves stood connected, their hands clasped together as they lowered their heads in unison. A faint orange glow emanated from their nostrils, hidden from any curious eyes.

The youngest werewolf, dressed in worn, tattered clothes, bit his lip before speaking. His parents, both covered in thick fur and sporting sharp claws, stood protectively beside him. "I don't think the treatment is working," he murmured.

The mother's deep growl silenced her son as they reached a hamlet without any signs to declare its name.

Suddenly, an old and scrawny man appeared from the shadows, leaning on a gnarled cane.

"Good morning, Eoin," the werewolves greeted, their deep voices resonating through the quiet hamlet.

Eoin's bent and twisted body leaned forward, his squinted eyes studying the flames in their nostrils. With a nod, he gestured for them to follow him into one of the huts.

A one-eyed bird swooped down and perched on the roof beam as they entered. Inside, shelves lined the walls, overflowing with jars and vials containing mysterious specimens. The air was heavy with the scents of dried herbs and fragrant flowers.

Eoin gestured for the werewolves to take a seat at a large wooden table in the center of the room.

A man in his late twenties stood at a table pounding dried herbs with a mortar and pestle. As the door opened, he carefully lifted his head and greeted the newcomers with a warm smile. "Good morning, Redwoods," he said.

But then, his attention was drawn to the two werewolves as they entered, their flames-filled nostrils flickering and expanding like a living thing. The man rounded the corner of the table, studying the flames with a furrowed brow.

"Torin, perhaps you should ask Mage Wyrm about this," the father of the Redwood family spoke up, concern etched onto his forehead. "The flame did not get better with the potion you made."

Before Torin could respond, another voice filled the room. It resonated with power and experience, startling everyone inside. "Well, well, well," it spoke. "It is just simple breath fever that nothing that Torin can't manage."

The Redwood werewolf who had been speaking stopped mid-sentence and blushed at the sound of this new arrival. "Mage Wyrm..." he muttered.

An old man entered the hut, his eyes shining with wisdom and experience. His disheveled grey mane framed a face weathered by time, lined with deep wrinkles that told tales of a life well-lived. His pointed nose gave him a distinctive and almost hawk-like appearance, while his long and slender arms hung by his sides like branches of an ancient tree.