The Shattered Prophecy

The air was thick with the smell of fresh earth and dew when Darius called for Eryk to follow him. The swordmaster didn’t say much; he simply turned and started walking, his long strides echoing with purpose. Eryk, still adjusting to the weight of his new responsibilities, hurried to keep up.

It had been a day since Darius had officially accepted him as his disciple, and while the weight of that acceptance had settled in his bones, Eryk still wasn’t sure what to expect. Training, yes—but what kind of training? What would it take to truly become strong? What was the right path?

As they walked through the slums, Eryk couldn’t shake the question lingering in his mind. He had thought Darius was merely a swordmaster who lived in a forgotten corner of the city, but he hadn’t realized just how little he knew about his new mentor. The slums were just the surface—there was far more beneath it, and he hadn’t even scratched the surface yet.

The walk was long and quiet. Darius said little, his sharp gaze fixed ahead, though Eryk could feel the undercurrent of his presence like a storm on the horizon.

Soon, the slums faded behind them as they entered a sparse, rocky terrain. The air grew cooler, and the ground became uneven and jagged beneath their feet. A trail of weathered stone led up into the mountains ahead—a mountain Eryk had seen from the city, but never thought much of.

As they neared the base of the mountain, Darius finally stopped and turned to face Eryk. His expression was unreadable, his hands resting calmly at his sides.

"Up there," Darius pointed to the steep incline that rose sharply in front of them, “is where your first trial begins."