The Shattered Prophecy

The sun had barely risen when Eryk stepped into the courtyard, already feeling the weight of the day pressing down on him. His body ached with every movement—his arms felt like lead, his legs stiff and sore from the endless hours of training. Every muscle screamed for rest, for release from the pain that had become his constant companion. But there was no rest for him, not now, not until he could prove himself.

Day after day, it was the same.

Eryk had fought against Lyra six times already, and every time, it was a brutal reminder of how far he had to go. She was faster, stronger, more skilled than he could have ever imagined. Every strike she made was precise and effortless, while every swing of his sword felt awkward and weak. He was beginning to doubt himself, beginning to wonder if he was truly cut out for this. How could he, a mere boy from a humble village, ever hope to be a match for someone like her? How could he ever be strong enough to protect anyone, to fulfill the prophecy that seemed to loom over him?

Each defeat was a blow to his pride, but it wasn’t just pride that hurt—it was something deeper, something he couldn’t name. The weight of expectation, the weight of the prophecy, pressed on his shoulders like a boulder. It suffocated him, made every moment feel heavier, every breath harder to take.

He hadn’t told anyone, but every night, when he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, he wondered if he was just chasing a dream that would always be out of reach.

But today was different.

Today, something in Eryk had shifted. Maybe it was the fatigue that had finally taken root in his bones, or the frustration that had been simmering inside him for so long. Whatever it was, as he stood in front of Lyra once more, he could feel it bubbling to the surface, a burning desire to prove himself, to show that he was more than just a boy.