Eirik jolted awake on the cold wooden floor of the inn room, his body stiff and sore from an uneasy sleep. His mind was still foggy from the weight of fragmented memories, but instinct took over as he scanned the dimly lit room. His belongings, scattered around when he collapsed the night before, were still there. Nothing appeared to be missing.
He slowly stood, the room swaying briefly before settling. His eyes quickly darted to the bed, where Freya was curled up, fast asleep. Her chest rose and fell steadily, her small frame untouched by the chaos of the world outside. A wave of relief washed over Eirik. At least she was safe.
Quietly, he moved to the window and peered outside. The streets of Midgard seemed calm, but there was an eerie stillness to it. Something felt wrong, though he couldn't quite place what it was.
Eirik took a deep breath, bracing himself for the day ahead. Today was going to be different. He could feel it.
After checking on Freya and ensuring she was still asleep, Eirik quietly left the room and made his way downstairs to the inn's bar. The wooden stairs creaked under his weight, and the faint smell of cooking greeted him as he approached the counter.
The bar attendant from the previous night, a gruff-looking woman with a tired face, nodded in recognition as Eirik took a seat.
"Morning," the man muttered. "What'll it be?"
"Something simple. Bread and stew, if you have it," Eirik replied, his voice low as he tried to shake off the lingering unease from his dream.
Moments later, a steaming bowl of stew and a thick slice of bread appeared in front of him. Eirik dug in, the warmth of the meal momentarily calming his nerves. The inn was quiet, save for the occasional clatter of dishes or hushed conversations from other patrons.
Just as he was about to take another bite, a deafening bang echoed from outside, shaking the very walls of the inn. Eirik's heart raced. Without thinking, he shot up from his seat, nearly knocking over his bowl, and sprinted toward the door. The bar attendant shouted after him, but his words were lost in the commotion.
Outside, chaos erupted as townspeople ran toward the source of the sound, their faces filled with fear and confusion. Eirik's instincts flared as he pushed through the crowd, trying to get a glimpse of what had caused the blast.
Eirik burst out of the inn into the crisp morning air, his eyes scanning the street now swarming with people. The townsfolk, drawn by the sound of the explosion, had gathered in a thick crowd, all pushing toward the town square. Their expressions were a mix of fear and urgency, and amidst the sea of worried faces, he caught murmurs—fragments of whispered conversations.
"Prometheus... it's him."
"They've finally caught his group."
Eirik's brow furrowed as he pushed through the crowd, his heart pounding harder. *Prometheus?* The name stirred something within him, but he couldn't place why. As he pressed on, the whispers grew louder, filling the air like a rising storm.
"Do you think they'll execute him?"
"Of course, they will. Prometheus is too dangerous to live."
Eirik finally broke through to the front of the crowd, and there he saw the figure they were all murmuring about. Standing at the center of a hastily erected stage, bound in thick iron chains, was a man who commanded an imposing presence despite his restraints.
Prometheus was a mid-range adult, perhaps in his early thirties, with broad shoulders and a muscular build. His dark, matted hair hung down to his jawline, his beard scruffy and unkempt. His piercing eyes, even from a distance, held an intensity that made the townsfolk keep their distance despite their curiosity. His clothes were torn, his body battered, yet there was no sign of submission in his demeanor. He looked like a man who had faced a hundred battles and was ready for a hundred more.
Eirik couldn't tear his eyes away. Whoever this Prometheus was, he was clearly feared. The crowd kept muttering his name, like it alone carried weight—a warning of danger. But what caught Eirik's attention more was the conversation swirling around him.
"They've captured the rest of his group," someone whispered nearby. "They'll probably make an example of them all."
"They say Prometheus is the last of the Fallen who still fights back against the World Government."
Eirik's heart raced. The more he heard, the clearer it became that this was no ordinary man. Prometheus was part of something bigger, something dangerous. And the town was preparing for something dark.
As Eirik stood in the crowd, he watched Prometheus on the stage, an enigmatic figure bound but unbroken. To Eirik's surprise, a slow smile spread across Prometheus's face as he waited for the execution to commence. The laughter of his fellow captives mingled with the crowd's anxious murmurs, creating a dissonant harmony of defiance.
Prometheus raised his voice, resonating with a fierce clarity that cut through the tension. "Peace and freedom are promised but rarely given!" he shouted, his words igniting a spark in the hearts of those who listened. "We are not mere pawns in their game! Wealth and power are not bestowed upon us; we must forge our own paths! Stand tall, and show the world the true power of gods within us all!"
His laughter echoed like thunder, and the crowd's fear began to waver, replaced by a flicker of hope. Eirik felt a surge of something—courage, perhaps—as he listened to Prometheus. There was a strength in those words, a call to rise against oppression, to reclaim what was rightfully theirs.
"Let them see," Prometheus continued, his voice unwavering, "that we will not be silenced! We are the architects of our destiny, the harbingers of a new dawn. The chains they place upon us will not bind our spirit!"
Eirik's heart raced. Prometheus's fearless defiance sparked a resolve within him. This man was more than a prisoner; he was a beacon of hope in a world shrouded in darkness.
As Prometheus finished his fervent speech, the atmosphere crackled with a charged energy, hope flickering in the eyes of those gathered. But in an instant, that hope was brutally extinguished.
A loud bang echoed through the square, and chaos erupted. Eirik's heart dropped as he watched the executioner raise his weapon and fire. Time seemed to freeze as Prometheus's head snapped back, his body crumpling lifelessly to the ground. The laughter that had filled the air moments ago vanished, replaced by a collective gasp of horror from the crowd.
Screams pierced the silence, raw and visceral, reverberating against the walls of the town square. Eirik felt the world around him tilt, the ground beneath him seeming to shift as despair washed over the onlookers. Those who had gathered to witness an act of defiance were now witness to a brutal execution, a stark reminder of the darkness that ruled over them.
As the blood spilled onto the cobblestones, Eirik stood frozen, his eyes wide in disbelief. He felt a heavy weight settle in his chest, the loss of something that had just begun to bloom. Prometheus's crew, once full of hope, was now silenced, their lives snuffed out in an instant.
Eirik looked up to the skies, searching for answers among the clouds that loomed overhead. *What have I just witnessed?* The question echoed in his mind, a plea for understanding in a world that seemed increasingly cruel. He had come to Midgard seeking purpose, seeking answers to his own past, and now he was confronted with the raw brutality of reality.