The next morning, the air on the cliffs was colder than usual. A thin veil of mist hung over the jagged stones, swirling around my boots as I climbed. My hands were raw, the skin on my fingers cracked and bleeding from days of gripping the unyielding rock. But I didn't stop. I couldn't.
When I reached the summit, the stranger was already there, as always, sitting on his usual boulder with his cloak wrapped tightly around his scarred frame. He didn't even glance at me this time. His sword lay across his knees, gleaming faintly in the dawn light.
"Today," he said, without preamble, "you either prove yourself… or you die trying."
I stood there, catching my breath, and nodded once.
He finally looked up then, his one good eye narrowing as he studied me.
"Good," he murmured. "At least you're not stupid enough to think this will be easy."
He rose and drew his blade in one fluid motion. The sound of steel sliding free from its sheath cut through the quiet morning air like a warning.
"Pick up your sword."
I did.
We began slowly at first, circling each other, our boots scraping against the stones. Then he struck, fast and sharp, his blade coming at me from above. I barely managed to bring my own up in time to deflect it, the force of his blow reverberating through my arms.
He didn't pause. He followed with a series of quick, brutal attacks — testing me, pushing me, forcing me to react faster than my mind could think. My shoulders screamed in protest, my breath came in short, ragged bursts, and my legs trembled as I pivoted, dodged, and countered.
"You're thinking too much," he barked, his blade knocking mine aside and grazing my shoulder. "Stop thinking. Move!"
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to listen. To let go.
And slowly, something inside me shifted.
I stopped counting his steps, stopped watching his blade for cues. Instead, I began to feel the rhythm of his movements — the faint tightening of his jaw just before a strike, the subtle shift in his weight when he feinted.
My body began to move on its own, sidestepping a thrust before I consciously realized it was coming, turning my blade just enough to deflect a cut aimed at my ribs.
A faint, grim smile tugged at the corner of his scarred mouth.
"That's it," he said, his voice low. "Now you're starting to understand."
We fought until the mist burned away under the morning sun and my body screamed for rest. When he finally lowered his sword, I stood there, swaying slightly, my breath coming in harsh gasps.
"You're ready," he said at last.
I didn't feel ready.
But something deep down — something I couldn't name — told me he was right.
He sheathed his sword, reached into his cloak, and pulled something out. A small, round medallion on a leather cord. The metal was tarnished and worn, but I could make out an insignia on its surface: a crossed sword and spear over a shield.
He tossed it to me.
I caught it clumsily and stared down at it.
"What's this?" I asked.
His expression grew distant.
"A key," he said quietly. "When the time comes, take it north. There's a guildhall in Highridge. Show them that, and they'll know who sent you."
I looked up at him, but he was already turning away.
"Why?" I called after him.
He stopped at the edge of the cliff, his cloak fluttering in the wind.
"Because," he said, without looking back, "you're not meant to rot here like the rest of them. You've got more fight in you than all of them combined. Don't waste it."
Then he stepped down the trail and vanished into the fog.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the medallion in my palm.
---
That evening, as I walked back toward the barracks, I caught sight of her again.
She was waiting near the edge of the yard, where the shadows were thickest — leaning casually against the wall, her cap pulled low over her eyes.
When I approached, she straightened, a faint smile playing on her lips.
"You've been busy," she murmured.
I stopped and crossed my arms.
"What do you want?"
She tilted her head slightly, as though considering how much to say.
"I saw you on the cliffs," she said. "Saw you with him. You're not hiding it very well."
I stiffened, but she raised a hand quickly.
"Relax," she said. "I'm not here to report you. In fact…"
She glanced around before stepping closer, lowering her voice to a near whisper.
"…I think we might be able to help each other."
I studied her warily.
"And why would you want to help me?"
Her smile faded then, and for the first time, I saw something else in her eyes — something hard and sharp, like a blade hidden beneath soft cloth.
"Because," she said softly, "we have a common enemy."
Her gaze drifted to the manor at the far end of the yard, where golden light still glowed faintly in the windows.
"Raymond Vant," she murmured.
My breath caught in my throat.
She looked back at me then, her expression calm but deadly serious.
"You're not the only one he's ruined," she said.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she stepped back, tugged her cap a little lower, and gave me the faintest nod.
"Think about it," she said quietly, before disappearing into the shadows once more.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
The stranger's words echoed in my mind. The medallion felt heavy around my neck, its metal warm against my skin.
And now, her words too.
A common enemy.
I stared at the cracked beams above me until dawn, my thoughts a tangle of steel and whispers.
When the first light of morning crept through the window, I rose, strapped the sword to my back, and stepped outside.
Because whatever lay ahead…
I was done hiding.
I was ready to fight.