The morning in Brindlemark was unusually still, the quiet broken only by the occasional crackle of the forge's fire. Eryndor stood at the doorway, staring out at the village square. The repairs were nearly complete—barricades reinforced, tools sharpened, and new weapons distributed among the hunters. Yet, the air was thick with an unspoken tension, as if the villagers were waiting for something to happen.

Behind him, Calder was packing supplies into a sturdy leather satchel. "You've been quiet this morning," he said without looking up.

Eryndor didn't turn. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

Eryndor hesitated, his fingers brushing the largest shard in his pouch. "About what's out there. Varik wasn't the first, and he won't be the last. If someone like him comes again... I need to be ready."

Calder paused, his hands stilling for a moment before he resumed packing. "You've come far in a short time, Eryn. But readiness isn't just about skill or power. It's about knowing what you're fighting for—and what you're willing to lose."

"I know," Eryndor said quietly. "That's why I need to leave."

The words hung in the air like an iron weight. Calder straightened, turning to face him. "Leave?"

Eryndor nodded, finally turning to meet Calder's gaze. "The shard's showing me things, guiding me, but I feel like it's holding back. There's more to learn, more to understand, but I can't do it here. The village is safe for now, and you're here to protect it. But I need to figure out what this power means—what I can do with it."

Calder's expression was unreadable, his jaw tight. "You're just a boy, Eryn. There's a whole world out there, and most of it doesn't care if you live or die. You think you're ready for that?"

"No," Eryndor admitted. "But if I stay, I'll never be ready. I'll always wonder if I could've done more."

Calder exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing. "You sound like your mother," he said after a moment, his voice softer. "Always looking beyond the horizon, always chasing something bigger."

Eryndor's chest tightened at the mention of his mother, but he didn't waver. "She wouldn't want me to hide, would she?"

"No," Calder said with a faint smile. "She wouldn't."

By midday, the forge was bustling as villagers came to collect their tools and weapons. Word of Eryndor's decision spread quickly, and while some were supportive, others were less certain.

"You're leaving us?" Bram asked, his grizzled face creased with worry. "After everything you've done to help rebuild?"

"I'm not abandoning the village," Eryndor said firmly. "I'm trying to make sure it stays safe. If I can get stronger, if I can learn more about the shard, I can protect us better than I ever could by staying here."

Bram grumbled but eventually nodded. "Just make sure you come back in one piece, boy."

By evening, Eryndor stood at the edge of the village, the satchel slung over his shoulder and the largest shard pulsing faintly in his hand. Calder stood beside him, his hammer resting against his shoulder.

"You're sure about this?" Calder asked one last time.

Eryndor nodded. "I have to be."

Calder reached into his own satchel, pulling out a small, well-worn knife. "This was your mother's," he said, handing it to Eryndor. "She carried it everywhere, said it reminded her that even the smallest tools could make the biggest difference."

Eryndor took the knife, his throat tight. "I'll keep it safe."

Calder nodded, his expression unreadable. "I know you will."

As the last light of day faded, Eryndor took his first steps beyond Brindlemark. The woods loomed ahead, dark and unfamiliar, but the ember in his chest burned steadily, a guide through the shadows.

Behind him, the village grew smaller with each step. Ahead, the path was uncertain, but Eryndor's resolve was unwavering. Whatever lay beyond the horizon, he was ready to face it.