The Shattered Prophecy

The base of the mountain became Eryk's world for seven days. Every morning, he woke before dawn, the air crisp and biting as he grabbed his training sword and set out for the steep climb. There was no time for weakness, no time for doubts. His mind was consumed by the task ahead—he had to prove to Darius that he was worthy of his teachings, that he could master the sword, that he could show him ten percent of what his master had done.

Each step up the mountain was grueling. Every rock seemed to mock him, every gust of wind felt like a reminder of how far he still had to go. The weight of the pressure—the killing intent—was as palpable as the sweat that ran down his back, his muscles aching with each movement. But it didn’t matter. Eryk was determined. The fire that had burned within him since the fight with Lyra flickered brighter, even in the darkness of his doubts.

Every day, he climbed.

He didn’t make it to the top. Not once.

But that didn’t matter either.

The goal wasn’t to reach the peak. The goal was to never give up, to always keep climbing. To push through the exhaustion, the frustration, the fear. Each step was a small victory, each breath a reminder that he was still alive, still fighting. And each time he returned to the base, his legs felt heavier, his body weaker, but his resolve grew stronger.