The sky had not been this dark before.
Alaric had walked under the sun many times, but this was different. The horizon seemed to stretch endlessly, the light dimming as if swallowed by something unseen. There were no stars, no moon—only a sickly, grey mist curling at the edges of the path. The world felt smaller now, as though it were closing in around him.
Ahead stood a single structure: a small, ancient hut, its roof sagging beneath the weight of time. The walls were cracked, blackened as if they had once been burnt, yet the fire had never consumed them completely. It was a wound in the earth, something that had refused to die.
Alaric's breath came in shallow gasps. He knew what lay inside. He had always known.
This was where he would meet the man who had been waiting for him.
This was where he would learn the first lesson.
And the first lesson was fear.
A Door That Should Never Be Opened
The wooden door before him was not locked, but it might as well have been. The weight of something unseen pressed against it, as if daring him to step inside. He hesitated.
"You should not be here."
The voice was not his own.
It came from inside the house.
He had heard of the Mentor before, whispered in rumours, spoken about in the same breath as curses. Some claimed he had lived for centuries, untouched by time. Others said he had died long ago, but his shadow remained, waiting for those foolish enough to seek him out.
Alaric's hand hovered over the handle.
Then—a sound.
Not a voice, not a whisper, but something far worse.
The sound of breathing.
Something on the other side of the door was breathing.
Slow. Ragged. Waiting.
Alaric clenched his jaw and pushed forward. The door groaned as it swung open. The moment he crossed the threshold, he felt it—a presence, thick and suffocating, like the air itself was watching him.
The inside was worse than he had imagined.
The room was filled with books. Stacks upon stacks, piled high against the walls, their pages yellowed and curling at the edges. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and something else—something rotting.
And there, in the centre of the room, he sat.
The Man Who Knew Too Much
The mentor did not look up.
His face was hidden beneath a heavy hood, his fingers tracing the pages of a book that had no title. His nails were blackened and cracked, as though they had been burnt long ago. The air around him seemed wrong, bending slightly, warping like heat rising from the ground.
"You came looking for answers," the mentor said.
His voice was not deep, nor was it weak. It was simply… empty.
Alaric swallowed hard. The room was too small now. The walls seemed closer than they had been moments ago.
"You want to understand the path you are on," the Mentor continued, turning a page with fingers that did not seem entirely human. "But the first lesson is not knowledge. It is pain."
Alaric's stomach twisted.
"Sit."
The word carried weight, slamming into him like a command from something far older than the man before him. He obeyed without thinking.
The chair beneath him was cold, its wood damp with something he could not name.
The Mentor lifted his head slightly, and though his face was still hidden in shadow, Alaric felt his gaze—felt it like needles pressing into his skin.
"Tell me, boy... What do you fear most?"
Alaric opened his mouth to speak, but the moment he did, something changed.
The Lesson Begins
The room vanished.
In its place was a corridor of mirrors.
But these were not ordinary reflections.
The Alaric staring back at him was not him.
The first reflection was weak and broken, his body gaunt, his ribs pressing against pale skin. His eyes were hollow, lifeless. He was forgotten, unloved. The world had moved on without him.
The second reflection was drowned in gold. A crown sat upon his head, but his face was twisted in rage. His eyes burnt with greed, his hands clutching at wealth that was slipping through his fingers, no matter how hard he grasped.
The third reflection was the worst.
This Alaric stood still, unmoving, his face locked in an expression of sheer terror. Behind him, in the glass, something loomed.
A shadow without a face.
A hand without a body.
It reached for him.
And then—it turned.
Not the reflection.
The thing inside the mirror turned to face Alaric himself.
A single word formed in its mouth, though no sound came.
"RUN."
Alaric stumbled backward, his body colliding with something solid. The room returned—the mirrors gone, the bookshelves standing once more. But the air was thick now, heavier than before.
The mentor was smiling.
The Price of Knowledge
"Now you understand," he said.
Alaric's breathing was ragged, his body drenched in sweat.
"Fear is not an enemy, boy. It is the only thing that tells you the truth."
The Mentor leaned forward, and for the first time, Alaric saw his eyes beneath the hood—empty sockets, black as the void, yet seeing everything.
"You are walking a path that cannot be undone. And now, it has seen you, too."
"You think you chose to seek me? No. The moment you stepped onto the path, your fate was sealed. The things beyond this world—they know your name now. And they do not forget."
Alaric's heart pounded.
"Leave," the mentor said.
Alaric did not move.
"LEAVE."
The word struck him like a physical force. The air ripped apart, and Alaric was thrown backward—out of the hut, through the doorway, landing hard on the dirt outside.
The door slammed shut.
The hut collapsed into itself.
And just like that—it was gone.
Only the path remained.
Next: "The Village of Flames"
Alaric has taken his first step into the unknown, but what he does not realise is that he is already being followed.
His home will not be as he left it.
Something has changed.
And by the time he realises the truth, it may already b
e too late.
Do not skip the next chapter.
Because the flames have already been lit.