The silence of the caravan after the disappearance of the woman with the stone mask was not a fleeting fear, but a weight pressing on their chests. Every breath they drew came out short and cut, as if the air around them had become too heavy to inhale. The fog thickened and receded, as though it were breathing with them, mocking their hesitant steps.
They walked in a winding line through the black forest, their eyes alert to every movement. Frank led the way, gripping the hilt of his sword as if that hold were the only thing keeping him alive. Behind him, Yorn stared into every shadow, as if expecting it to lunge at him. Ivan, meanwhile, tried to keep a façade of calm, throwing sarcastic remarks now and then to break the tension, though his trembling voice betrayed him.
Helena walked clutching her child tightly to her chest, covering his head with her shawl as though trying to shield him from a world crumbling around them. She said little, but her eyes sought Frank constantly, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline in a raging sea.
---
The Breathing Ground
As time passed, they began to notice the ground itself was not natural. It was not entirely solid; beneath their feet it quivered like living flesh, at times raising them up a step, and at others sinking suddenly as if dropping them into an unseen abyss.
Ivan muttered, trying to mask his fear:
— "I swear, if I make it back alive to the village, I'll plant myself a field of wheat, and I'll never set foot in another forest for as long as I live."
Yorn snapped back, scanning their surroundings:
— "You won't make it back if this goes on. We're walking on something alive… can't you feel it?!"
Frank said nothing. His mind was still occupied with that line he had read in the book upon the altar: "And when the two halves meet, the sword shall be broken once more."
Who were the two halves? And did it mean that the shadow he had seen—so much like himself—was no mere illusion?
---
The Stream of Black Water
After hours of trudging forward, they came upon a narrow stream. But it was not clear water; it was as black as oil, reflecting neither light nor sky. They stood hesitantly at its bank.
Helena, clutching her child, whispered:
— "We cannot cross this… this is no water."
Frank bent down, picked up a stick, and tossed it into the stream. The stick did not sink; instead, it slowly dissolved, as salt vanishes in water. In moments, it was gone—without a trace.
Everyone recoiled in shock. Yorn muttered under his breath:
— "This is no stream… this is a grave."
Before anyone could answer, large bubbles rose from the middle of the stream. Then, a black, gelatinous hand-like form emerged, stretching toward them as though searching for something to seize.
Helena screamed, and the child wailed in terror. Frank swiftly raised his sword, but it did not cut the hand; it passed through it as though through dense smoke. Yet the hand recoiled into the depths, and the stream sank back into its terrifying silence.
They all breathed a sigh of relief, but the silence was no sign of peace. It was more like a voiceless threat: "You will not escape next time."
Prophecy of Shadows
As evening fell, they found a massive hollow tree standing alone in the middle of a rocky clearing. They decided to set their tents beside it. But Frank, who had not tasted sleep for days, drew closer to the tree.
Its hollow was wide enough to fit a full-grown man. As he touched the trunk, a faint whisper seeped from within—not a single voice, but dozens overlapping:
— "You who have crossed the Black Bridge… your heart is divided, half here and half there. Beware the Hour of Shadows, for it chooses only those who have sworn in blood."
Frank shuddered and stepped back. But when he turned, he found Yorn standing behind him, having heard the words as well. His eyes were wide, as though he had stumbled upon a truth he had never wished to know.
Yorn whispered:
— "It's speaking of you… of you."
Frank did not reply. He simply walked away from the tree in quick steps, unable to bear any more poisoned words.
---
A Sleepless Night
They sat around a small fire kindled by Ivan. The flames were weak, swaying in the cold wind, barely giving them warmth. Yet their eyes all scanned the darkness around them.
Ivan tried to jest:
— "Perhaps we're in a nightmare. When we wake, we'll find ourselves back in the village, drinking barley ale and laughing at this madness."
But no one laughed. Even he seemed as though he were laughing at his own corpse rather than at a joke.
Helena dozed briefly while clutching her child, but soon she jolted awake, screaming:
— "Don't come near him! Don't take him!"
Frank hurried to her side, sitting beside her, trying to reassure her. But she kept trembling, as if she had seen something dreadful in her dream.
Yorn looked at him and said:
— "These aren't dreams. They're messages."
---
Dawn and the Decision
At the first light of dawn, the forest seemed to withdraw a little, as if making way for them. But exhaustion had reached its peak.
Frank stood before them, looking into each of their faces in turn, and said firmly:
— "We have two choices. Either we turn back, and die without meaning. Or we go on, and face what awaits us. But whoever wishes to return, speak now."
Silence fell. No one moved. Even Yorn, who seemed closest to breaking, remained in his place.
Frank allowed himself a faint smile:
— "Then let us go on."
---
The Path to the Black Arena
They continued until they reached a vast plain, black as though scorched centuries ago. At its center rose a circular stone structure, like an ancient arena. Its walls were covered in strange symbols, glowing with a faint light.
As they approached, they all began to hear whispers—not from outside, but inside their own heads. Scattered words:
"Betrayal… salvation… blood… the gate… the broken sword…"
Yorn clutched his ears and shouted:
— "Stop! Stop it!"
But the whispers would not cease. They burrowed into their minds, echoing their deepest fears.
Frank stood in the center of the arena, feeling his eyes grow heavy. Suddenly, he saw a fleeting vision: a great throne cracking apart, a raven perched upon it, and a broken sword driven into his own heart.
He jolted awake in terror, but said nothing of what he had seen.
The caravan stood in silence before the stone arena, shadows swirling around them like specters waiting for the right moment to strike.
Helena whispered with a trembling voice:
— "I feel it's not us walking the path… but the path itself walking us."
Frank raised his sword, looked at his companions, and said:
— "Then let's see where it intends to take us."
He stepped forward into the arena… and thus began a new stage—one with no return.