The forest grew quieter the deeper Eryn walked.

  Not the peaceful kind of quiet—no birds, no insects, not even the rustle of leaves. It felt as if the world itself was holding its breath. Eryn tightened his grip around the hilt of his blade, the metal cold against his palm.

  Vaelion had gone ahead.

  “Wait here,” the high elf had said, his voice calm, almost reassuring. “I’ll scout the path.”

  That had been nearly an hour ago.

  Eryn leaned against a broken stone pillar half-swallowed by moss. His body ached—not from battle, but from exhaustion. Since leaving the cave, Vaelion had pushed him relentlessly. Running until his lungs burned. Swinging his blade until his arms trembled. Standing still for hours, eyes closed, listening to the world.

  “You lack focus,” Vaelion had said. “A blade without intent is nothing but scrap.”

  Eryn exhaled slowly.

  He didn’t disagree.

  Still, something felt… off.

  Vaelion spoke often about unity. About ending hatred between races. About a world where elves, humans, and all others would stand beneath a single banner. The words sounded noble. Inspiring, even.

  Yet when Vaelion spoke of it, his eyes never softened.

  They sharpened.

  Eryn pushed himself upright. Sitting still only made his thoughts louder. He stepped away from the ruins, following a narrow path that dipped downward between ancient trees. The air grew colder with each step.

  Then he felt it.

  A presence.

  Not hostile. Not friendly. Just… watching.

  Eryn stopped.

  “I know you’re there,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

  Silence answered him.

  For a moment, he wondered if exhaustion was finally breaking his mind. Then a voice spoke—old, dry, and amused.

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  “You say that like certainty,” the voice said. “But your hand is shaking.”

  Eryn spun around, blade half-drawn.

  An old man sat atop a fallen tree, as if he had always been there.

  His clothes were simple and worn, stitched together more by habit than care. Long silver hair fell freely down his back, unbound. His face was lined with age, yet his eyes were sharp—too sharp. They carried a weight Eryn couldn’t place.

  “How long have you been following me?” Eryn asked.

  The old man chuckled. “Longer than you’ve known your blade was empty.”

  That made Eryn flinch.

  “What did you say?”

  The old man slid off the log with ease that didn’t suit his age. He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving the sword at Eryn’s side.

  “You swing it well,” he continued. “Strong grip. Good posture. But there’s no story in your strikes.”

  Eryn frowned. “A story?”

  “A blade without history cuts shallow,” the old man said. “Even if it draws blood.”

  Eryn didn’t know why, but he found himself lowering his guard.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  The old man considered the question, then smiled faintly. “Once, I was many things. Now? I’m just someone who watches boys mistake direction for purpose.”

  Eryn’s jaw tightened. “I have a purpose.”

  “Do you?” the old man asked gently. “Or are you borrowing one?”

  The words struck deeper than Eryn expected.

  “I chose this path,” Eryn said.

  The old man nodded. “Yes. And so did the blade. But neither of you knows why.”

  Before Eryn could respond, the old man turned away, gazing toward the distant treeline.

  “The elf you travel with,” he said. “He speaks beautifully.”

  Eryn stiffened. “You know Vaelion?”

  “I know of him,” the old man replied. “And I know this—those who dream of uniting the world often begin by wanting to own it.”

  “That’s not true,” Eryn said quickly. “He wants peace.”

  The old man smiled again, but this time there was no warmth in it. “Peace is a word rulers love. It sounds cleaner than obedience.”

  Eryn’s heart began to pound.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because,” the old man said, turning back, “you’re standing at the beginning of a road that does not forgive hesitation.”

  He stepped closer, placing two fingers lightly against Eryn’s chest.

  “Tell me, boy. When you swing your blade… who are you swinging it for?”

  Eryn opened his mouth.

  No answer came.

  The old man stepped back, satisfied.

  “Good,” he said. “That silence means you haven’t lied to yourself yet.”

  From somewhere deep in the forest, a sharp whistle echoed.

  Vaelion’s signal.

  Eryn looked toward the sound, then back again.

  The old man was already walking away.

  “Wait!” Eryn called out. “What should I call you?”

  The old man paused without turning.

  “Names carry weight,” he said. “Earn yours first.”

  Then he added, almost as an afterthought:

  “And remember this, Lether—”

  Eryn froze.

  “That name,” the old man continued, “was never meant to bind you. It was meant to remind you.”

  “Of what?” Eryn asked urgently.

  The old man smiled, disappearing into the trees.

  “That even blades without history… can choose how they are remembered.”

  The forest fell silent once more.

  When Vaelion returned moments later, his eyes scanned the area sharply.

  “Did you speak to anyone?” the high elf asked.

  Eryn hesitated.

  “No,” he said.

  Vaelion studied him for a long moment, then nodded.

  “Good,” he replied. “Then our training truly begins.”

  But as they walked away, Eryn’s hand tightened around his blade.

  For the first time, he wondered—

  Whose path am I really walking?