The forest was quiet behind him, its shadows fading as the open plains stretched out before Eryndor. The distant mountains, jagged and cloaked in mist, rose like sentinels guarding the unknown. Somewhere beyond them, more shards pulsed with untapped power, secrets buried in the dark corners of the world.
Eryndor adjusted the strap of his satchel, his fingers brushing the smooth handle of Calder's knife. The shard in his pouch hummed faintly, its resonance a subtle rhythm that matched the ember's steady warmth in his chest.
He paused at the edge of the plains, taking a moment to look back. The lights of Brindlemark glimmered faintly in the distance, small and fragile against the encroaching shadows of the world.
For a brief moment, doubt crept in. The weight of what lay ahead pressed heavily on his shoulders, and the ember in his chest flickered as if sensing his hesitation.
Eryndor knelt, pulling the largest shard from his pouch. Its glow was soft, almost comforting, and the hum grew stronger as he focused.
The shard responded quickly, numbers flashing in his mind: Path ahead: terrain uneven. Energy signatures detected: minimal. Current energy reserve: 62%.
"Not much left," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The shard pulsed, almost as if in reply.
Eryndor closed his eyes, letting the ember guide his thoughts. He thought of Calder, of the forge, of the villagers who had looked to him with cautious hope after Varik's attack. He thought of his mother, the lessons she'd left behind in the stories Calder shared.
He thought of the fractured shard in the ravine and the vision it had shown him—the golden cities, the consuming darkness, and the fleeting image of himself standing tall amidst the chaos.
"I can't turn back," he said, his voice firm despite the lingering doubt. "Not now."
He stood, gripping the shard tightly as he turned to face the plains. The mountains loomed far ahead, their peaks lost in swirling clouds. The path was uncertain, filled with dangers he couldn't yet see, but Eryndor felt the ember burn brighter in his chest.
He placed the shard back in his pouch, its hum settling into a steady rhythm. The knife at his side felt light, but its weight was a reminder of the journey's purpose—a tool to carve a path forward, no matter how steep.
The first steps across the plains were slow and deliberate. The ground was uneven, the air cooler as the wind swept through the tall grass. Eryndor's senses remained sharp, the shard feeding him subtle data about the terrain and the faint energy signatures in the distance.
Hours passed, the horizon shifting as the mountains drew closer. The faint light of dusk painted the sky in hues of red and orange, the day slipping into night.
Eryndor paused to rest, kneeling beside a large rock that provided some shelter from the wind. He pulled a small bundle of dried food from his satchel, eating in silence as the shard's hum filled the stillness.
As the stars began to emerge, Eryndor looked up at the sky. The constellations were faint, obscured by the ever-present haze of Dark Energy that lingered in the atmosphere.
Yet even in the haze, the stars shone through.
Eryndor clenched his fists, the ember in his chest flaring with renewed warmth. "I'll find a way," he said quietly. "No matter what it takes."
The shard pulsed faintly, its glow aligning with his resolve.
The night stretched on, the path ahead obscured by shadows, but Eryndor didn't stop. Each step was driven by the promise he had made to himself and to Brindlemark.
He wasn't just walking toward answers—he was walking toward the strength to shape his own destiny.
And as the plains gave way to the foothills of the mountains, Eryndor's resolve burned brighter than ever.