Ten or so summers had passed.

  Not quickly, nor kindly. But as surely as Callum followed the path, time too followed its course.

  Callum walked as the Bearer, with the Ark upon his back, and he was known throughout the land for this task. He was older now, his bulky muscle faded and replaced with a lean, incredibly toned physique. His hair was longer, just past his shoulders and long overdue for a cut. But his eyes remained focused on the path, still a true believer in the purpose.

  He crossed what remained of the Four Nations, though the borders no longer held meaning. He saw cities reduced to tangled vine and crumbling stone, temples torn down and looted for anything worth trading. He passed through broken lands where less birds sang each summer and the sun faded more and more, slightly colder with each day, where ash still drifted from battles long since forgotten by all but the earth.

  Yet still, he walked the path.

  He met good people - though fewer each year.

  A half-mad woman in a ruined orchard who had forgotten her name but knew her job was to tend the trees. A faithless priest who traded sermons to the needy for warm soup. Children who had never known the gods but still prayed to someone, something, for salvation.

  He never stayed long. The Ark never let him. When he stayed too long at a spot, the weight of his purpose set in both physically and mentally. So he followed the path, always.

  He was robbed once. Starved in the wastes between civilization. Hunted once by fools who thought the Ark a treasure. Once by something that was not a man at all, it was so corrupted by the death of magic.

  But then - he was taken. Suddenly and without warning, in the middle of the night, Callum found himself dragged to the hall of a local warlord.

  Taranis the Stormborn. They said he was once divine, part-man and part-god, born for the aspect of war with the power of storm. In the last age, his blade had been a force for his nation, a legend on the battlefield. Now, he ruled a bandit horde from the bones of an ancient citadel, his veins lit with faint silver energy that pulsed when he was angry. He was rarely calm.

  Callum awoke in a stone chamber, a small brazier lighting the room. He was chained, but the Ark still hung on his back.

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  Taranis sat nearby on an ancient throne, studying Callum with the eyes of a predator stalking new prey. He eyes Callum, searching for weakness. He found none.

  “You’ve come a long way with that thing on your back,” he said at last, voice graveled by age and drinking. “I tried to lift it while you slept, yet I couldn’t move it an inch.”

  Callum stirred slightly, testing the weight of the chains, but his voice remained calm. “You couldn’t lift it because it wasn’t meant for you.”

  Taranis gave a short, dry laugh. “Is that what they told you? That you’re chosen? That you're special?”

  Callum met his gaze. “No. Just that I was to bear.”

  The warlord scoffed, stood and began pacing slowly. His boots echoed against the stone. “I should kill you. Cut that pack off your corpse, pry it open, and see what’s inside. Gods know it is worth something to someone.”

  "Yet you haven't." Callum didn’t flinch as he replied sternly. A moment passed before Callum ask, “Is it redemption you seek?”

  Taranis paused mid-step. His expression darkened at first, then softened into something closer to exhaustion. He waved the question away. “Redemption is for heroes and fables. I am neither.”

  They stood in silence, the low hum of the Ark casting a subtle vibration through the air. Finally, Taranis spoke again, after staring out a nearby slender window at the night sky.

  “How long did your people know? That this was what waited us after that endless war.”

  Callum glanced toward the floor. “My father’s father was the first chosen to carry it. Then my father after him. I inherited the title at sixteen summers.”

  “So you were born for this task,” Taranis muttered. “Raised in the shadow of the endtimes.”

  Callum nodded. “And you? When did you know your god was gone?”

  Taranis didn’t answer right away. He turned back toward the dark slit of a window in this crumbling throne room. “There was a night,” he said finally, “when the air turned thin and the world felt… hollow. Like something enormous had just stepped out of the room. After that, my power began to fade. Not all at once, just a little at a time.” He raised his hand, letting the dim silver veins catch the torchlight. “This is all that’s left. These days, it’s not strength that keeps them following me. It’s fear. Fear and my legacy."

  Callum’s voice was quiet. “It’s not too late to do something good with that name.”

  Taranis turned to him, eyes flickering. He said nothing in stunned silence again.

  Then, with a sigh, he motioned to the open door and undid Callum's chains. “Go. I won’t stop you. I.. I just wanted to meet this infamous Bearer.”

  Callum stood, the Ark settling back into place like it had never left him. “I know. The path brought me here,” he said. "I was already on my way."

  Taranis chuckled under his breath. “Of course you were.”

  He stepped aside, but before Callum could leave, he offered, “I can have men escort you through the hills. Keep the jackals off you for a while, give you some respite after... all of this.”

  Callum shook his head. “The Ark is mine to carry. No one else can walk this path.”

  Taranis watched him go, silent until the sound of footsteps faded.

  And then, in the stillness of the fortress hall, the young man’s words returned to him on how to spend rest of his of days. On how Taranis might be remembered by those who remained.