Shrine of the Broken Blade

Ruvan's breaths came in ragged gasps as he pushed himself deeper into the forest. The trees seemed endless, stretching in every direction like an ancient prison. Every branch looked like a claw reaching to tear open his wounds. His blood left faint smears on moss-covered trunks as he stumbled forward.

Hours passed. Or maybe only minutes. Time felt unreal, swallowed by pain and exhaustion.

Eventually, the forest floor sloped steeply downward. Ruvan lost his footing and slid down a bank of loose soil and dead leaves, tumbling until he crashed onto a flat stone surface with a dull thud. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, staring up at the jagged silhouette of the canopy.

The world was silent here. Even the crows had stopped cawing.

Slowly, he forced himself to sit up. His leg burned from the bite wound, and his arms felt as heavy as iron ingots. But what made his heart pound wasn't the pain.

It was what lay before him.

He found himself in a small clearing hidden between towering oaks and ash trees. At its centre stood a massive black stone altar, its surface polished to a dull sheen despite being covered in fallen leaves and curling moss. Strange silver runes spiralled across its sides, glowing faintly in the dim forest light. The runes pulsed softly, like the heartbeat of something ancient sleeping beneath the earth.

On top of the altar rested a sword.

Or rather, what was left of one.

Its blade was snapped halfway down, jagged where the break occurred. The exposed steel glimmered with an iridescent sheen that seemed almost alive. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, worn with age, and an onyx gem was embedded in its pommel, flickering with faint inner light.

Ruvan crawled closer, ignoring the pain that flared in every limb. The air here felt heavy, pressing down on his chest until he could barely breathe. It smelled of damp moss, old iron, and something else – something sharp, like lightning on stone.

He reached out with trembling fingers, brushing away the leaves that had gathered on the altar's edge. As he did, the runes pulsed brighter, casting pale silver light across the clearing.

His gaze drifted over the sword again. Even broken, it radiated power. A presence. As if it was aware of him, watching him, judging him.

"What… is this place…?" he whispered.

His voice echoed oddly in the clearing, as if the trees themselves were listening.

He glanced around. At the edge of the stone platform, half-hidden under moss, stood a carved pillar. He pulled himself towards it and wiped away the grime with his sleeve.

More runes. But above them, a symbol he recognised from Marrick's tavern tales: a crown split down the middle by a sword, with flames rising behind it.

"The mark of the Silent King," Ruvan breathed. His heart raced. Marrick's stories of the old gods, the Silent King who ruled the realm of death and dreams, had always seemed distant – tales to entertain drunks by the fire. But here it was, carved in stone older than his village.

His gaze returned to the broken sword. A tremor ran through his hands. Something in his chest told him this wasn't just a weapon. It was an invitation. Or a curse.

He remembered his vow only hours earlier, whispered through blood and tears:

I will become stronger. Strong enough to never run again.

Ruvan crawled forward until he knelt before the altar. The cold stone bit into his knees, grounding him in its silent power. He reached out. His fingers hovered over the sword's hilt, the black leather warm under his touch.

Images flooded his mind the moment his skin brushed the grip.

A battlefield drenched in moonlight. Armies clashing under a sky torn by lightning. A figure clad in ragged robes, wielding this very sword, the broken blade humming with dark power as it cut down armoured knights like wheat before a scythe.

And behind that figure… a throne of shadows. Eyes watching. Endless. Silent.

Ruvan gasped and pulled back, chest heaving. The vision faded, leaving only the clearing, the altar, and the silent forest around him.

His instincts screamed at him to flee. To leave this place untouched and never speak of it again.

But his heart… his heart burned with a new, unfamiliar hunger.

He was tired of being weak. Tired of seeing people die while he could do nothing but scream and run.

Slowly, with trembling resolve, he reached out again and wrapped his fingers around the broken sword's hilt.

This time, when his skin touched the leather, the pulsing runes flared so brightly the entire clearing glowed silver. The air trembled around him, filled with a low hum that seemed to come from the stone itself.

Power surged up his arm like molten iron, burning into his veins. He screamed, but he didn't let go. The pain felt like his bones were being carved into new shapes. His vision dimmed at the edges, but he forced himself to stay conscious.

Images flashed in his mind once more – the Silent King's throne, the armies kneeling before the broken blade, the world burning under its shadow.

And then a voice. Soft. Deep. Unfathomable.

"Child of ash… Will you bear my burden?"

Tears streamed down Ruvan's face as the words seared into his soul.

"Yes," he gasped. "I will."

The glowing runes dimmed slowly until only faint silver traces remained on the altar. The forest fell silent again, but it felt… different. As if the trees themselves were watching him with ancient, unseen eyes.

He pulled the broken sword from the obsidian altar. It was heavy, far heavier than its size suggested. The broken edge shimmered with unnatural light, as if reality itself bent away from its touch.

His legs trembled as he stood. The sword pulsed in his grip, sending faint shocks of pain up his arm, but he held on tightly.

He turned and looked back the way he had come. The path back to the village was gone, swallowed by shadows and twisted roots.

Ahead of him lay only darkness.

But this time, he didn't fear it.

He sheathed the broken blade across his back using a torn strip of his apron. The hilt stuck up over his shoulder, black leather glowing faintly in the gloom.

For the first time since the raid began, a strange calm settled in his chest. He felt the silent hum of the blade vibrating against his spine, echoing through his bones.

It was as if something inside him had finally awakened.

He took a slow breath, tasting the moss-heavy air.

Then he walked forward into the Blackwood's depths, leaving behind the altar of the Silent King and stepping onto the path that would lead him to his destiny.