The days had started to blur together—stone, wind, firelight, hunger. Brannor’s heavy footsteps. Yvanna’s laughter where it didn’t belong. Saezu felt stronger now than he had in the beginning, but not better. The Farlands were shaping him, and he could feel it—burning away pieces of who he was.

  They followed an old path, broken by time and reclaimed by weeds. Yvanna had stopped at a fork in the trail, sniffed the wind, and pointed east without explaining why.

  “This way,” she’d said. “Something old lives there.”

  Brannor rolled his eyes but followed. Saezu said nothing. He was learning to trust the unpredictable.

  By sundown, they came upon what looked like a broken shrine at the foot of a rock cliff. Not a grand ruin—just a half-fallen arch and a set of worn stone steps descending into the dark. Moss grew thick between the cracks. Carvings long faded decorated the pillars: birds with many wings, a tree with a bleeding trunk.

  They entered without speaking.

  Inside, the air was thick. Dry. Old.

  The stairway led to a chamber dimly lit by natural light filtering through slits in the stone ceiling. Saezu felt the temperature shift before he saw anyone. Warm, like standing too close to a forge.

  A figure sat cross-legged on a flat stone slab in the center of the room, facing a small fire that didn’t smoke. The man wore a long, tattered robe. His head was bowed, silver hair falling like tangled wire around his face.

  Yvanna stopped walking.

  “He’s not dead,” she said softly.

  The man raised his head.

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  Eyes like burning embers opened slowly. He looked at Saezu and spoke in a cracked, whispery voice.

  “I was waiting for someone. Didn’t expect you.”

  Brannor shifted. “Who are you?”

  The man ignored him. His gaze never left Saezu.

  “You carry fire beneath your skin. Anger, loss, maybe worse. You’re not from here. You came to the Farlands because the world threw you out.”

  Saezu nodded once. “That’s true.”

  “You seek strength,” the old man said. “But you don’t know what that means yet.”

  “I know I’m not strong enough now.”

  “No,” the man said. “But something sleeps, waiting for someone bold—or broken—enough to wake it.”

  He turned slowly, his hand reaching into a small stone recess in the altar.

  Saezu’s hand went to his blade.

  “No need,” the old man muttered. “I offer knowledge, not chains.”

  He pulled out a thin roll of parchment, tied with a strip of black leather. He held it out toward Saezu.

  “This is the only map I’ve kept.”

  Saezu stepped forward and took it carefully. The leather was dry and cracked, the parchment inside older still. He unrolled it by the firelight.

  It was rough—just symbols, a spire carved into rock, flame curling around the base. At the center, a sword drawn upright. One word written beneath in fading ink:

  Heartbreaker.

  Saezu stared at it, heart beating harder.

  “What is this?”

  “A sword,” the man said, “but not just a sword. A memory bound in steel. It was made for a king, wielded by a traitor, buried in fire.”

  “Where is it?”

  “The Hollow Spire,” the man replied. “Far to the east. The earth remembers the steps to reach it, but not many survive the journey.”

  Saezu looked at him. “Why give this to me?”

  “Because you don’t know what it will cost yet,” the hermit said. “But you’ll take the risk anyway. All the dangerous ones do.”

  Brannor looked over Saezu’s shoulder at the map. “You sure this is worth chasing?”

  Yvanna crouched nearby, staring at the fire. “If the stories are true, it’s more than a blade. It’s a mirror. It doesn’t just cut others—it cuts into you.”

  Saezu closed the map, tucking it into his cloak.

  “Then I’ll find it,” he said. “Whatever it is. Whatever it wants.”

  The hermit nodded.

  “Then I hope you survive yourself.”

  That night, they camped just outside the shrine. The wind howled above them, but the fire burned steady. Saezu sat alone, staring out at the valley, fingers brushing the edge of the map through the cloth.

  Brannor sat sharpening his axe nearby. “A sword with a name like Heartbreaker,” he muttered. “Can’t imagine that ends well.”

  Saezu didn’t answer.

  Because something inside him already knew—this wasn’t just a weapon.

  It was a beginning.