They had barely caught their breath after crossing the bridge when they felt the ground beneath them was different; no longer solid soil or dry grass, but something that pulsed with hidden beats. Every step they took echoed faintly, as if the earth itself was listening to them.
Ivan whispered in a trembling voice:
— "It feels like we're walking on the chest of a giant… alive."
Helena shot him a sharp glance, trying to silence him, though her eyes betrayed the fear seeping into her heart. Frank, however, remained silent, gazing at the fog that slowly thinned with every step, revealing trees unlike any they had seen before. Twisted trunks, their leaves black yet glowing faintly with a blue shimmer, as though they fed on a light not of this world.
Suddenly, Joren stopped again, his eyes wide in shock:
— "Look… over there."
Between the trees stood a small stone structure, resembling an ancient altar. Its stones were cloaked in gray moss, and at its center lay a flat slab with an open book resting upon it. Though no wind blew, the pages stirred, as if touched by an invisible hand.
Frank approached cautiously, his heart pounding heavily. He stretched out his hand toward the cover, but before his fingers touched it, a deep voice rose from the altar itself, as though speaking from within the stones:
— "Whoever crosses this path… must read their name."
The group shuddered, their eyes fixed on Frank, as if he alone had been chosen. He hesitated for a moment, then pressed his palm against the cover. Instantly, the next page turned of its own accord, revealing words written in cracked, black script that resembled wounds:
"He who crosses the Black Bridge…
his heart shall be split between light and shadow.
One half will guide him toward salvation,
the other will be driven into betrayal.
And when the two halves meet,
the sword shall be broken once more."
Frank staggered back, his breath quickening.
The company fell silent, the weight of the prophecy stabbing deeper than any blade.
Helena's voice cracked as she whispered:
— "What does it mean? Who will betray? And who will be broken?"
But Frank gave no answer. His eyes lingered on the final line, a line he felt had been written not with ink, but with blood.
---
The Moment of Division
They pressed on reluctantly, yet the fear was no longer in the shadows alone… it had crept into their midst. Each man now eyed the others with suspicion, as though the words had awakened the ghost of treachery in their minds.
When night came, they camped near a narrow stream, though none tasted sleep. In the darkness, the phrase echoed in their skulls: "The other half will be driven into betrayal…"
Joren sat beside Frank, his voice low, nearly breaking:
— "Tell me… did you see something in the fog? More than just a shadow? You looked as if you were staring at yourself."
Frank hesitated for a long while before whispering back:
— "I saw… I saw a version of me. Holding a broken sword. His eyes were black as coal."
Joren swallowed hard:
— "Do you think… that is the other half?"
Frank gave no answer, but he lifted his gaze to the sky. No stars shone above. Only pure darkness, as though the heavens themselves had been erased.
---
The Unknown Call
Just before dawn, as they prepared to set off, a woman's voice rang through the forest—deep, resonant, inhuman:
— "Travelers… your time has not yet come."
Their blood froze. They spun around, but saw no one. Only the fog shifting like waves. Then, from between the twisted trees, a figure emerged—a woman draped in a black cloak, her face hidden by a stone mask, half of it shattered.
Her voice was not spoken but echoed inside their minds:
— "The road to the Empire is not meant for you all. Only half of you shall arrive… the other half will perish here."
Helena cried out:
— "Why?! We came seeking deliverance!"
The woman laughed, a sound colder than steel:
— "There is no deliverance without sacrifice. Blood alone opens the gates."
And with that, she vanished as swiftly as she had appeared, leaving behind a silence so suffocating it pressed against their chests.
---
The Choice
Frank stood among them, his fists clenched tight:
— "Listen to me. These words, these shadows—they are tests. If we believe them, we will fall apart before we even reach our goal. We must hold fast to each other, or we will fulfill the prophecy with our own hands."
Yet even as he spoke with firm resolve, deep within he knew this was no mere threat. The road itself was alive, testing them—perhaps even choosing who would remain, and who would be erased.
He looked around at their faces: Joren trembling, Ivan hiding fear behind hollow laughter, Helena clutching her child with growing dread… and he realized that every step ahead would weigh heavier than the last.
As the first ray of dawn split the fog, he made his decision:
— "We march on. But remember this… after today, nothing will ever be the same."
And he stepped forward, the others following, each one silently asking the same question:
Will I be among the half who reaches the Empire? Or the half who is erased here, forever?
{{When the wind rises from a place never called,
and shadows drift like a necklace of night without dawn,
those who dwell within the heart shall hear the whisper of the ancient gate—
a gate with no key, no guards to bind it.
Hear, O wanderers among desolation,
the road is measured by a grip upon the edge of silence;
and whoever walks without a pure intent, their steps are returned to where they began.
But those who carry in their chest a vow of blood and an oath of old—let them open their ears.
When the twelve moons gather in a single chain,
and the sky dons a dress of blood,
the pillars of the crown shall fracture as a mirror shatters under stone;
what was once whole shall be divided, and what was fixed shall be overturned.
The broken sword is not merely a weapon,
but the title of a covenant carved upon the back of time.
Half lies with the stranger who does not demand,
and half with the traitor who smiles upon the one dying for him.
And whoever unites the halves shall not be master… but a cause judged by many hands.
Beware the chosen raven, for he does not merely echo tidings,
he bears within his wings the mirror of trial;
his voice thunders through the night of civilizations, yet he does not divide good from evil.
Oft he comes as a savior, and oft as a merciless judge.
There is a man born in the north, with no title and no wealth,
a woodcutter among a people who forget his name, yet he carries in his chest the call of the gates.
There is a woman from the west, whose eye sees beyond faces and touches what is hidden from the present.
There is a child in the south, heir to a vanished bloodline, who may break the covenant—or forge it anew.
Three roads cross in the square of shadows,
each road promising a different end: salvation, betrayal, or disappearance.
Yet the roads do not merge; they are mirrors that end one another, birthing circles without exit.
And here lies the greatest question, never spoken in a single voice:
Does unity spring from blood, or is the thought of unity buried in its stream?
Is choice in the hands of men, or inscribed in the lines of time?
Does the crown perish that the people may live, or do the people perish that the crown may endure?
Whoever reads these words, let them know:
Answers are not given to those who hasten to seek them, nor to hearts broken before their hour.
If you would know, then ask the gate—
but remember: the gate may answer in your name, or in another that belonged to you before your birth.
When you open the gate, do not rush to look beyond it,
for you may see yourself first—or what remains of you.
And when the raven hovers above the throne, do not say you were not warned;
for every phrase here is a mirror, and every mirror births a path… and either you walk it, or it walks you}}