The whisper of pure magic from the mountains became Ren's compass. It was a siren song of hope, pulling him forward, lending strength to his weary legs. He left the relative shelter of the river valley and began his ascent into the Stone-Fang Mountains. The air grew thin and sharp, and the easy slope quickly gave way to treacherous, winding paths littered with loose rock.
This was a different kind of challenge. It was a primal battle against the elements. Icy winds whipped through the passes, threatening to tear him from the narrow ledges. He used his water magic in new, desperate ways—melting snow for drinking water, or creating thin sheets of ice to bind loose scree and grant him a moment of stable footing. His corrupted scar ached constantly in the biting cold, a dull, throbbing counterpoint to the vibrant, clean magic that drew him ever upward. Shiro, a creature of warmer climes, spent most of the time huddled for warmth inside Ren's tunic, its head peeking out to watch their path with alert, intelligent eyes.
After three days of grueling climbing, he saw them. Rising from the chaotic jumble of lesser peaks were two colossal, perfectly matched spires of black granite, their tips sharpened by millennia of wind and ice. They pierced the clouds like the fangs of some world-devouring serpent. There was no mistaking them. He had reached his destination.
Now, the final puzzle remained: to find the path hidden from the morning sun.
He spent a full day circling the base of the western fang, his heart sinking with every step. There was no path. There was nothing but sheer, unscalable cliffs of obsidian-smooth rock. He found no caves, no tunnels, no ledges wide enough for more than a bird to perch on. Frustration began to gnaw at him. Had he come all this way, endured the gorge and the poison, only to be stopped by a wall of dumb stone?
Exhausted and disheartened, he slumped down at the base of the western cliff as the afternoon sun began its descent, casting the entire rock face in deep shadow. This was the place, hidden from the morning sun. But where was the path?
He leaned his head back against the cold stone, closing his eyes. The mark on your hand will guide you when your eyes cannot. The spirits' words drifted back to him. He had been looking for a path for his feet, a physical trail. But the spirits' guidance was rarely so literal.
He opened his eyes and looked at the Serpent's Mark on his hand. It seemed to pulse with a faint warmth, resonating with the pure magic that saturated the air here. An idea, fragile as a snowflake, took root in his mind. He pushed himself to his feet, faced the sheer, blank wall of rock, and took a deep breath. Trust the magic.
He reached out and pressed his marked palm flat against the cold stone.
The effect was instantaneous and breathtaking. A brilliant silver light erupted from his hand, not the harsh light of a weapon, but the soft, radiant glow of the glade. The light did not illuminate the rock; it flowed into it. From the point of contact, shimmering silver lines spread across the cliff face like veins of liquid moonlight, tracing intricate, ancient runes that had been utterly invisible moments before. The runes connected, forming a glowing, ethereal staircase that spiraled upwards along the sheer cliff, a path woven from pure magic and starlight.
Ren stared in open-mouthed awe. It was a sight of impossible beauty, a secret shared between the mountain and his own bloodline.
He took a step towards the first glowing stair, a sense of triumphant reverence washing over him. But before his foot could touch it, a shadow fell over him, vast and sudden, blocking out the sky. A powerful gust of wind, smelling of ozone and high-altitude air, threw him back.
With a sound like the grinding of continents, a creature landed before him, blocking the entrance to the magical path. It was magnificent and terrifying. It had the body, tail, and hind legs of a great mountain lion, corded with muscle, and the head and forelegs of a colossal eagle, with a beak of sharpened flint and eyes like molten gold. Its feathers were the colour of granite, and its gaze held an ancient, piercing intelligence. A Griffin, a beast of myth and legend.
It was not a creature of blight. The power rolling off it was the same wild, pure magic of the Sanctuary. It lowered its beaked head, its golden eyes fixing on Ren, and a voice spoke directly into his mind, a voice that sounded like stones shifting deep within the earth.
"The path is revealed. The covenant holds. But entry is not a right; it is a privilege to be earned. Who are you, son of man, to awaken the gate of the First Scale?"
Ren stood frozen, his awe replaced by a new, profound wave of fear and respect. He had found the way in. But standing before him was the Sanctuary's first and greatest guardian, and he now had to prove he was worthy of taking another step.