The wasteland opened before him like an endless grave. Yet Cyrus walked with new resolve, his steps heavy but steady.
He had seen Wrath's fire. He had nearly broken beneath sorrow's burden. And yet, he remained.
Standing atop a ridge, he raised the shard of Sorrow high. Its light flickered weakly, but it was light nonetheless. His voice, hoarse but unyielding, carried into the empty air.
"I am Cyrus, the wanderer. I will bear sorrow, not as a chain, but as a blade. I will carry the voices of the fallen, not for vengeance, not for glory — but so they will not fade into silence."
The shard pulsed, as if acknowledging his vow. For the first time, the weight on his chest felt not only like a burden, but also a purpose.
He looked out over the wasteland, where storms of ash brewed and shadows stirred. Somewhere out there, Wrath walked, and other Sentiments stirred.
Cyrus tightened his grip on the shard. His journey was no longer just survival.
It was an oath.
The oath of the wanderer who would carry sorrow into war.