The path out of Brindlemark twisted through the woods, the faint light of dawn filtering through the gnarled branches overhead. Eryndor walked in silence, the satchel weighing heavily on his shoulder and Calder's knife tucked securely at his side. The shard pulsed faintly in his hand, its hum a quiet companion in the stillness.
After an hour's walk, the woods thinned, and the forge's chimney came into view one last time. Eryndor paused, turning to look back. The faint plume of smoke rising from the forge was a symbol of resilience, a reminder of all that Brindlemark had endured.
For a moment, he stood there, his fingers brushing against the pouch of shards at his hip. Memories flooded his mind: Calder's stern voice teaching him to swing a hammer, the warmth of the forge fire on cold nights, the villagers' cautious respect after the battle with Varik.
He knelt, pulling Calder's knife from its sheath and driving it gently into the dirt. Around it, he placed three shards, their faint glow reflecting in the blade's polished surface.
"This isn't goodbye," he said softly, his voice carried by the breeze. "It's a promise. I'll come back stronger—strong enough to protect everyone."
The ember in his chest flared briefly, and the shards pulsed in unison, their light flickering like a quiet acknowledgment.
Eryndor stood and turned toward the path ahead. The woods were dense and shadowed, but he felt no hesitation. The shard in his hand glowed faintly, its hum aligning with the steady rhythm of his steps.
The road quickly proved to be as dangerous as it was unfamiliar. The first few hours were uneventful, but the oppressive weight of Dark Energy was ever-present. The forest was alive with subtle movement—the rustling of leaves, the faint growl of unseen creatures.
Eryndor kept his senses sharp, the shard revealing faint details about his surroundings. The density of nearby trees, the distance to a small stream he couldn't yet see—it all painted a clearer picture of the terrain.
But the shard wasn't infallible.
Near midday, as Eryndor rounded a bend, he heard it: the low, guttural snarl of a predator. He froze, his hand tightening around the shard as numbers began to flash in his mind.
Target: Abyssal Wretch. Speed: 9 meters per second. Armor resistance: 74%. Weak point: neck joint.
The wretch emerged from the underbrush, its hunched frame coated in the dark sheen of corrupted energy. Its glowing yellow eyes locked onto Eryndor, its movements slow but deliberate.
Eryndor's heart pounded, but he forced himself to breathe steadily. He drew his knife, the shard in his other hand pulsing in sync with the ember in his chest.
The wretch lunged.
Eryndor sidestepped, the shard's guidance sharpening his reflexes. He slashed upward as the creature passed, aiming for the weak point the shard had revealed. The knife bit into the wretch's neck, but its thick hide dulled the strike.
The wretch snarled, its head snapping toward Eryndor as it reared back for another lunge.
This time, Eryndor didn't wait. He surged forward, the ember flaring as he gripped the shard tightly. Numbers flashed in his mind—distance, angle, force—and he drove the blade into the creature's neck joint with precision.
The wretch let out a guttural screech before collapsing, its body twitching briefly before going still.
Eryndor stepped back, his chest heaving. He wiped the blade clean on the grass, his hands still trembling slightly.
As the adrenaline faded, Eryndor knelt beside the wretch, his gaze lingering on its darkened form. The shard pulsed faintly, its hum softer now, as if acknowledging the small victory.
He stood, sliding the knife back into its sheath. The path ahead was still long, and this was just the first of many challenges.
But as he resumed his journey, the ember in his chest burned brighter, a steady reminder of the promise he had made to Brindlemark—and to himself.