Frank left his village as the night was about to end. The dawn was breaking over the distant mountain peaks, while the road ahead stretched like a serpent of dust and stone. Behind him, the village gate remained closed, a silent witness to the beginning of a journey with no return.
Five men from the village accompanied him, their faces weary, their eyes carrying a mixture of hope and fear. There was no declared leader among them, yet all their steps followed Frank's, as if they had found in him something they could not find in themselves.
On the road, the wind howled through the barren fields, dragging behind it an ancient ash, as if the land itself had once burned and never healed. One of the men whispered:
— "No one takes this road… They say whoever walks it never comes back."
But Frank did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, where the walls of the Empire loomed faintly in the distance—far away, like a dream too hard to reach.
They passed through an abandoned village, its houses collapsed, its doors charred. They paused for a moment, the air heavy with a rusty scent—the smell of old death that had never left the stones. In the center of the square stood a well, its stones blackened as if the fire had never forsaken them. Frank approached and dropped a small pebble inside… yet no sound of impact came.
One of the companions murmured:
— "A bottomless well…"
Another replied in a trembling voice:
— "No… its bottom is simply waiting for someone to fall."
As evening fell, they lit a small fire to warm themselves. Few words were exchanged, and soon silence took over. Frank stared into the flames, wondering: had he left the village to carry salvation, or a curse? The answer was unclear, but his heart grew heavier with every step that brought him closer to the Empire.
In the middle of the night, while the others slept, Frank awoke to a strange sound—like a distant murmur. He turned toward the dark road and saw a shadow moving between the trees. It looked neither human nor beast. A long figure, its wings stretching across the ground, and its voice echoing like a far-off resonance.
Frank froze, his hand on his sword, though he did not draw it. The creature did not approach; it only watched him, then vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
Only then did Frank remember the words of the old riddle: "Beware the chosen raven…"
He swallowed hard, realizing that the journey had not truly begun—
the real path had only now opened.
With the break of dawn, the small caravan pressed onward. The land began to change; no longer just dry fields or abandoned houses, but a forgotten realm, shrouded in thick fog, where each man could see no farther than his next few steps.
They walked cautiously, turning their heads at every rustle among the twisted trees. It wasn't only the raven they had glimpsed the night before that haunted them, but a heavy presence that clung to them like an unshakable shadow. Even the silence of the forest felt unnatural, as though it were holding its breath, waiting.
Suddenly, one of the companions, a man named Jorn, stopped.
— "I don't see the path anymore… we're walking in circles."
Another, wiping sweat from his brow, snapped back:
— "Circles? We've been walking straight since dawn!"
But Frank, staring into the fog, felt that Jorn was not raving. The trees themselves looked far too familiar, as if they had passed them for the third time.
Frank stepped forward alone, taking a few cautious paces into the fog. With each step, the echo of his boots multiplied, until it sounded as though someone else was walking alongside him. Then, through the mist, he saw another shadow—standing still in the middle of the path. A shadow that looked exactly like him.
He approached slowly, his eyes widening, until he realized the figure was holding a broken sword, only half of it in its hand. When it lifted its head, Frank saw his own face staring back at him—but the eyes were black as coal. The shadow smiled coldly and whispered, clear enough for him to hear:
— "You are not the first to walk this road… and you will not be the last."
Frank stumbled back, and in an instant, the fog receded, revealing nothing there at all. When he returned to his companions, his face was pale, but he said nothing. He only muttered:
— "We must keep moving. Whatever this is… it wants to stop us."
They marched for hours until they came upon a rickety wooden bridge spanning a deep gorge. The wind howled through its ropes, threatening to snap them at any moment. The men hesitated, staring down, but Frank saw no water, no rock—only a black void that swallowed everything.
Jorn's voice trembled as he whispered:
— "This isn't a valley… it's a mouth."
One of the others laughed nervously:
— "A mouth? A mouth of what?"
But his voice cracked when a deep echo rose from below, a hollow moan reverberating through the abyss.
Frank tightened his grip on his sword and declared:
— "There is no turning back. Whoever fears to cross may return… but those who step with me must know—the road truly begins here."
He set foot on the bridge first, the rotten wood groaning under his weight. One by one, the others followed, their hearts pounding like war drums. When they reached the middle, the ropes suddenly shook with violent force, as though some unseen hand was trying to hurl them into the abyss. They clung to the sides, sweat pouring down their brows.
In that moment, battling wind and emptiness, Frank remembered the words of the riddle: "The broken sword, half in the hand of the stranger, half in the hand of the traitor…"
He still did not understand its meaning, but he knew with certainty that every step forward was more than a journey to the Empire—it was a march toward a prophecy written long before his birth.
At last, when they reached the far side, they turned back. The bridge was gone. In its place, only a black fog covered the gorge, as though something had devoured it whole.
Silence fell upon them; none dared to speak. And Frank realized then that the village he had left behind was the last familiar thing he would ever know… for what awaited them from this day forward would resemble nothing they had ever seen before.