The Shattered Prophecy

The red moon loomed heavy above the treetops, casting the forest in hues of rust and shadow. The air in the hidden village was still, every breath held by the half-horse beings as they gathered in a wide circle around the Grove. At its heart stood an ancient tree, bark gnarled with age, roots spiraling outward like veins of the earth. Before it, Eryk stood barefoot, stripped of his weapons and worldly belongings. Red paint streaked down his arms in three lines: the Lines of Becoming.

The chief approached, bearing a solemn expression. "You wish to claim the blade," he said. "But the Grove does not yield to ambition. It sees the soul beneath the skin. Enter with nothing, or leave with less."

Eryk nodded, his jaw set. He stepped forward, and the trees parted, as if exhaling a breath held for centuries. When he crossed the threshold, the forest swallowed him whole.

Within, the Grove pulsed with an eerie sentience. The trees towered high into blackness, their branches woven so tightly they blotted out even the red moonlight. No stars, no breeze, only silence that pressed in like a second skin.

He walked. There was no path, only instinct. The forest seemed to twist and bend behind him, erasing his trail, warping direction. It wasn’t long before the whispers began.