The forest thinned as Eryndor ventured further from Brindlemark, the gnarled trees giving way to sparse clearings dotted with jagged rock formations. The faint hum of Dark Energy grew stronger here, threading through the air like an unseen current.
Eryndor tightened his grip on the shard in his hand, its pulse steady but insistent. He had studied enough maps in Calder's forge to know where he was headed: the Abyssal Shard outpost in the Gray Ravine. It was a place Calder had warned him about—a fractured shard site teeming with creatures twisted by Dark Energy.
"You'll find answers there," Calder had said, his voice grim. "But you'll find danger, too."
Eryndor pressed on, his steps sure but cautious.
The Gray Ravine revealed itself with startling suddenness. One moment, Eryndor was traversing uneven forest trails; the next, he stood at the edge of a jagged canyon that cut through the land like a wound. The steep walls were etched with deep fissures, each one glowing faintly with the telltale light of Dark Energy.
Far below, the fractured Abyssal Shard pulsed faintly at the ravine's heart, its jagged surface radiating an oppressive hum. The shard's energy was raw and unstable, its power leaking into the surrounding area and warping the land.
Eryndor swallowed hard. Even from this distance, the shard's pull was undeniable. The ember in his chest flared, resonating faintly with the shard's chaotic energy.
He descended carefully, picking his way along the narrow trails that zigzagged down the ravine's walls. The closer he got, the heavier the air became, thick with an almost tangible tension.
Creatures stirred in the shadows—small, twisted things with too many limbs or glowing, unblinking eyes. Most of them scattered at his approach, but their presence was a constant reminder of the shard's corrupting influence.
Eryndor kept his knife drawn, the shard in his other hand revealing details about his surroundings: Rock density: brittle. Distance to shard: 340 meters. Creatures nearby: 3.
He paused, scanning the area. The shard was right—movement flickered at the edge of his vision, low to the ground and fast.
A trio of skitterlings burst from the shadows, their twisted, insect-like forms darting toward him with unnerving speed.
Eryndor shifted into a defensive stance, his knife raised. The shard flared in his hand, and the numbers came quickly: Speed: 12 meters per second. Weak point: upper thorax. Coordination level: high.
The first skitterling lunged, its mandibles snapping. Eryndor sidestepped, slashing at its thorax as it passed. The blade struck true, and the creature crumpled in a heap, its legs twitching.
The second and third skitterlings attacked in unison, their movements erratic but coordinated. Eryndor ducked under one's swipe, driving his knife into its exposed underbelly.
The third circled behind him, its mandibles clicking menacingly. Eryndor turned just in time, the shard pulsing a warning in his mind. He lashed out with a quick, upward strike, catching the creature under its jaw.
All three lay still, their darkened forms blending into the shadowy ground.
Eryndor knelt, catching his breath. His heart pounded, but the ember in his chest burned steadily, its warmth grounding him. The shard in his hand felt heavier now, its hum quieter after the battle.
He looked toward the ravine's center, where the fractured shard pulsed faintly in the gloom. The fight had drained him, but he was close now—close enough to feel the shard's chaotic energy pulling at him like a siren's call.
Eryndor wiped his blade clean and stood, his resolve hardening. The answers he sought were within reach. All he had to do was take the next step.
With the ember guiding him and the shard in his grasp, he moved deeper into the ravine, the fractured Abyssal Shard looming ever closer.