Thorne continued his slow, cautious trek through the dense undergrowth, the metallic tang of his blood mixing with the earth and greenery. He could feel his body weakening, the deep gashes on his arm and side from the earlier battle with the earth beast still oozing blood, but he pushed forward.
His ragged breaths came in bursts, each one a reminder of his vulnerable state. He needed to rest, to recuperate, but this forest was no place for the weak or careless. He had to keep moving.
After what felt like an eternity of limping through the undergrowth, Thorne stopped and took a deep breath. He decided it was finally safe to use the small artifact his father had given him.
He reached out with his spirituality, channeling it through the intricately carved band on his finger. Immediately, a strange sensation washed over him as his consciousness was drawn into a different space—a pocket dimension his father had crafted within the ring.
In this spatial storage, Thorne could sense the supplies carefully packed within: dried food, water skins, spare clothes, a small blanket to sleep on, herbs, tonics and various weapons. Even with his limited sight, he could feel their shapes and textures through his spiritual sense. He couldn't help but marvel at the artifact's craftsmanship.
His father, Darius, blessed by the god Ogun, the deity of iron and craftsmanship, had imbued it with such delicate precision. It was one of his father's finest works, a testament to his prowess as a forger and artisan.
Yet, despite its undeniable value, Thorne had hesitated to accept this gift. The Rite of Liberation wasn't just a matter of harvesting materials; it was a test, a trial where the gods themselves judged each initiate. Any advantage, even one given by a loved one, could be seen as weakness in the eyes of the gods. Still, his father had insisted, his eyes filled with worry as he handed over the ring.
Thorne had accepted it reluctantly, more for the peace of mind of his father and Lara, who had watched him go with eyes that held unspoken fears.
"I will come back home,"
He had vowed, and he repeated that promise now, clenching his fists in resolve.
Thorne focused his spirituality once more, carefully drawing out a fresh change of clothes and some strips of cloth. His old clothes, now torn and stained with blood and dirt, had seen enough of the forest.
As he changed, he took a moment to clean his wounds, wincing as he tied the makeshift bandages around them. It wasn't much, but it would slow the bleeding. He took a deep swig from his water skin, savoring the cool liquid as it washed down his parched throat, then forced himself to eat a little, knowing he needed the energy.
He also took one of the herbal concoctions his father had provided, Thorne could feel the liquid cool his body as it it went down his throat.
Resting his back against a rough tree trunk, Thorne let out a slow breath. The fatigue weighed heavily on his bones, a dull ache settling in his muscles. His mind wandered to his father's forging abilities, to the ring he wore, and to the many stories he'd heard of warriors who had completed their rites. Could he really become one of them? He shook off the doubt creeping in. He hadn't come this far just to be defeated by fear and needless doubt.
After resting for what seemed like a minute but was almost half an hour, Thorne stood up.
His body protested, muscles screaming in pain, but he gritted his teeth. There was no time for weakness. He needed to keep moving. With each step deeper into the forest, the air grew thicker with spirituality, a heavy, almost tangible energy that pressed against his senses.
At first, it felt oppressive, weighing him down, but slowly he began to realize that it was also enhancing his own spiritual perception.
The deeper he went, the denser the spiritual energy became, and with it, his range of sight expanded ever so slightly. Instead of the usual few meters, he could now sense just a bit further—an extension of his awareness that made navigating the tangled roots and twisted branches slightly easier.
It wasn't much, but it was enough to give him a flicker of hope. Here, in the heart of the gods' garden, he might actually stand a chance.
Thorne's determination hardened. Whatever awaited him deeper in the Forest of the Gods, he would face it head-on. Step by step, breath by breath, he would continue forward, pushing against the weight of the world and his own limits.
For his father, for Lara, for himself—he would not be broken.
Thorne had not walked far when he sensed a massive obstruction in his limited perception—a looming presence that seemed to stretch upward and outward, blocking his spiritual sight.
He came to a stop, lowering himself slightly, his body tensing as he tried to make sense of what he was sensing. At first, he had assumed it was a beast—a massive one, perhaps—lurking in the shadows.
But the absence of the dense, compressed spirituality that living creatures possessed left him puzzled. Whatever this was, it wasn't alive.
"A rock?" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible in the dense forest air. But the more he focused, the more certain he became that the structure before him was hollow. The way his spiritual bursts bounced back suggested empty spaces within.
Could it be a cave? Or perhaps a... building?
His curiosity piqued, Thorne took a deep breath, steadying himself. He crept closer to the obstruction, moving with careful, deliberate steps. His ragged clothing brushed against thick undergrowth as he made his way forward, his senses on high alert.
Each step felt like an eternity, his heart pounding in his chest, but he couldn't afford to be reckless. The forest of the gods was unforgiving, and he had already had his share of surprises today.
He carefully parted the dense thicket before him, pushing away branches that seemed to claw at his face, and stepped through. His breath caught in his throat as he beheld what lay ahead.
It was a house.
Not a simple hut or a ruin, but a relatively intact structure, nestled deep within the ancient forest. Built from dark, weathered wood and covered with creeping vines, it seemed to have been abandoned for years, if not decades.
The roof sagged slightly, and the front door was askew, hanging off its hinges. A narrow, broken path, overgrown with weeds and moss, led up to the entrance.
Thorne's sight, limited as it was, could only make out the immediate details.
The house's walls were etched with symbols—ancient markings that he didn't recognize, likely the remnants of some forgotten language or protection spell. His spiritual gaze could see where the wood had warped and split in places, creating jagged gaps that revealed the dark interior within.
A few sections of the walls had collapsed entirely, and through them, he could just barely sense the faint remnants of what might have been furniture or other artifacts.