The cold bit sharper as night cloaked the land, swallowing the ruins of the Ember Church beneath a veil of shadow and silence. Mo rode slowly, his pale face faintly illuminated by the ghostly moonlight, auburn hair damp with sweat and dust. The Azure Shamshir hung heavy at his back, its second fragment nestled deep within the blade's edge, humming with a power both foreign and ancient.
Beside him, Aylen's black stallion shifted uneasily, nostrils flaring as if sensing the weight of unseen eyes. Her eyes, sharp and alert, never strayed far from the darkened horizon.
"We're not alone," she murmured, voice low and measured. "The Seal fragments are drawing attention—more than we expected."
Mo's light brown eyes narrowed. "Then it's only a matter of time before they come for us. Let them. We're ready."
The wind carried no sound but the steady clatter of hooves and the faint, rhythmic pulse from the Shamshir. Mo's thoughts were tangled in the vision he had seen—his father, alive and commanding the blade with a ruthless grace that set fire to his memory. Not the broken man Mo had imagined but a warrior who had etched his will onto the very fabric of battle.
Could that power truly be his?
He touched the hilt absentmindedly, feeling the pulse thrumming against his palm—a heartbeat shared between blade and bearer. It was heavier now, as though awakening after a long sleep, pulling at something buried deep within him.
"You're thinking too much," Aylen said suddenly, breaking the silence. "You've carried the weight of that vision too long."
Mo's lips twitched into a bitter smile. "It's not the weight I fear. It's what comes with it."
Aylen looked at him sharply, but before she could ask more, a flicker of movement caught her eye—a shadow slipping between broken pillars far ahead.
"Trouble," she said.
Mo's hand went instinctively to the Shamshir's hilt. "Show yourself."
A figure stepped from the darkness, cloaked and cautious. The stranger's voice was calm but edged with steel. "Mo of the Azure Shamshir. Your legend precedes you."
Mo's eyes narrowed beneath his auburn hair. "Who wants to know?"
The figure laughed softly, a sound like dry leaves in wind. "Someone who knows the true cost of your quest—and the price you will pay if you fail."
Aylen shifted, ready to draw her blade. Mo held up a hand, signaling caution. This was no random foe—it was a warning.
"Speak," Mo demanded.
The cloaked stranger stepped closer, revealing a glint of something cold and bright beneath the hood—an emblem Mo did not recognize.
"The fragments you seek," the stranger said, voice low, "are not merely relics. They are keys—to power, to destruction, to destiny. You stand at the crossroads, and your next steps will shape the fate of this world."
Mo's jaw tightened. "I know what's at stake."
"Do you?" the stranger pressed. "Or are you just a boy chasing ghosts?"
The night seemed to pulse with tension. Mo's hand tightened on the Shamshir's hilt, the blade humming louder.
"I'm neither boy nor ghost," Mo said, voice steady but fierce. "I am the storm that will sweep the old world away."
The stranger's eyes gleamed briefly before they vanished into the shadows, leaving only the echo of their warning behind.
Aylen exhaled slowly. "We've just been put on the map."
Mo stared into the dark where the figure had disappeared. A spark of something unyielding ignited inside him—the fire of purpose, sharpened by danger and destiny.
Beneath the silent sky, with the Azure Shamshir alive at his side, Mo vowed one thing: to see this quest through, no matter the cost.