The forest thins as I walk.
The trees draw back like curtains, revealing what the mist had hidden before: the faint outline of walls, pale against the horizon. The city. The one the old man spoke of before he vanished into fire.
My feet ache, but I keep walking.
[Two hours later.]
The gates rise before me, heavy stone, carved with patterns I can't recognize. A guard leans lazily against the wall, his armor dull beneath the gray light. When he notices me, he straightens and steps forward, holding out a hand.
"Papers, traveler."
I reach into my cloak and hand him the folded sheet the old man gave me. His eyes trace the lines, lips moving slightly as he reads.
·—————————·
Name: Izur Ed Loyre
Age: 22
Class: Commoner
·—————————·
He looks up at me.
"Izur, right?"
I nod. "That's right. Ed Loyre is… my family name."
He raises an eyebrow. "Pretty rare for a commoner to have a family name, huh?"
I let out a small laugh, trying to sound casual. "Yeah, I know."
He studies me for a moment longer, like he's trying to read something between the words, then hands the paper back.
"Word of warning, Izur. Don't stray too far from the walls. Monsters have been sighted near the woods lately. They move closer every night."
I take the papers and bow my head slightly. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you."
He waves me through. "Welcome to Trilheim, traveler. Don't lose yourself in it."
His words linger longer than they should.
The streets are narrow, alive with the quiet hum of early morning. Merchants call softly from wooden stalls, the scent of bread and smoke weaving together in the air.
After hours in the silence of the forest, the noise almost feels unreal.
I find an inn near the center of town,
The Silver Willow.
A quaint place with ivy crawling up its walls and a hanging sign that creaks softly with the wind. Through the open door comes warmth, candlelight, murmured conversation, and the faint melody of a lute.
The innkeeper, a broad man with kind eyes and a tired smile, greets me as soon as I step in.
"Evening, traveler. You look half-dead. Room for one?"
"Yes, please," I answer. "A week, if possible."
He nods approvingly. "One week it is. That'll be seven copper for the room and 4 for the meal, and don't worry, breakfast's warm and the beds are clean."
As he counts the coins, he glances up at me. "You look like you've been out there for a while. Adventurer?"
I shake my head. "Not really. But… maybe. I've been thinking about joining the guild."
He grins, his eyes lighting up. "Ah, the guild's always looking for new blood. You'll find their branch just down the main road, can't miss it. Looks like a tavern more than anything else."
He slides the key across the counter. "Room's on the second floor. First door on the right. And if you need a meal or a drink, just call. The cook's stew will bring you back from the dead."
I thank him and head upstairs.
The room is small but warm – a window overlooking the street, a wooden bed, a desk, and a single candle already burning. I drop my pack onto the chair and sit on the edge of the bed, letting the stillness sink in.
From my bag, I take out the old man's book.
Its cover is rough and dark, edges cracked from age. When I open it, my eyes meet symbols I can't understand letters that twist and rearrange as if alive. I try to read, but the words shift away from meaning. Sentences loop into themselves. Phrases vanish when I blink.
It's like the book doesn't want to be read.
I close it, frustrated, and let my hand rest on the cover.
The air feels heavier for a moment, as though something beneath the words stirred and then went still again.
I lean back and close my eyes.
I remember the forest.
The old man.
The beast that fled.
The flame that devoured everything.
And above all – his last words.
"You will be the last of us… You bear our story."
Who was he, really?
And who am I?
The memory of the man with golden eyes flashes before me – like a reflection too sharp to be mine.
Was he me?
Or something that waits for me to become him?
The questions circle endlessly, feeding each other, and I realize how easily silence turns into noise when it's only your own mind speaking. Eventually, exhaustion wins. I fall asleep with the book still clutched in my hands.
Dawn.
The city wakes slowly.
I leave the inn with the first light, following the directions the innkeeper gave me. The streets smell of dew and smoke. A baker hums near his stall, and the same guard from the gate nods as I pass or maybe it's just someone who looks like him. They all blend together here, faces soft, almost unreal in the fog.
The Adventurers' Guild stands at the end of the street.
From the outside, it really does look like a tavern, voices spill through the door, laughter, the clatter of mugs. Inside, it's a different world: mercenaries, hunters, scholars. The air thick with the scent of steel and ale.
I walk up to the counter. A young woman with dark hair and sharp eyes looks up from her ledger.
"Welcome. Here to register?"
"Yes," I say. "I'd like to become an adventurer."
She studies me a moment, as if weighing something unseen. Then she nods and gestures for me to follow.
"Come. You'll need to take the assessment."
We walk through a narrow corridor, the noise fading behind us, until we reach a small shrine-like chamber. The walls are lined with carved symbols similar to those in the old man's book. At the center stands a statue – tall, serene, and holding an orb in its hands.
The air feels colder here.
The woman stops beside the statue and says simply:
"Place your hand on the orb."
No further explanation.
I hesitate, then reach out.
The surface is smooth and warm to the touch – almost alive. For a heartbeat, I feel something stir inside it, like a pulse… then nothing.
No light. No glow.
Only silence.
I pull my hand back.
The woman is watching me.
Her eyes narrow, searching. Not angry, not surprised – just… curious. Almost afraid.
"It didn't react," she says quietly.
Her voice carries something I can't name – a tremor, maybe disappointment, maybe awe.
I want to ask what that means, but the words don't come.
I only stand there, staring at the lifeless orb that somehow still feels like it's watching me back.
And deep beneath that silence, faint and familiar, I hear it again –
a whisper like the ones from the empty city:
"We wait… the world waits for your doom…"
I blink.
The room is still.
The orb is still dark.
The result was there, but the meaning... would have to wait.