Inner Struggle
My thoughts are the only things that keep me from collapsing under the weight of fatigue as I climb the great mountain of Uruk'herald—the silent monolith spoken of in the old prophecies, where stone meets sky and the spirits of judgment stir.
The mountain does not permit weakness. It strips away illusion. The cold air claws at my lungs with every breath, turning each inhale into a punishment. My fingers, raw and bloodied, drag along stone that offers no mercy—jagged, ancient, and uncaring. Every muscle in my body screams, but I ignore them. I must.
There is no comfort here. No warmth. Only the wind's howling voice and the ache of my own mortality.
This is no test of the body alone. The mountain does not ask if I am strong—it demands why I continue. And it is only in my thoughts, in the burning core of my will, that I find my answer.
I climb because I must. Because something greater watches. And because failure means more than death.
It means surrender.
The Harpies Appear
A shriek tears the silence like a blade.
I jerk my head upward. Two harpies spiral through the moonlit air above, wings stretched wide like banners of war. Their feathers shimmer with unnatural grace —golds, whites, and hints of crimson that gleam in the pale light. Their cries echo down the cliffs, cruel and sharp, like laughter from something ancient and hungry.
Their shadows sweep over me, elongated and shifting across the stone. They circle, closer now, silent in some moments, then screaming in others—not random, I realize, but deliberate. Like sentinels. Like spirits summoned to watch.
No, not just watch.
I feel it in my bones, in the strange weight of their gaze. These are not idle beasts nor wild scavengers. They have come because of me—called by something older than the mountain itself.
The prophecy spoke of watchers at the threshold. Guardians of the old way.
And now, they are here.
Strain of the Climb
The path thins to little more than a crack in the stone, a cruel joke carved into the cliff face. I press my chest against the rock, fingers fumbling for holds barely the width of a coin. My boot slips, skidding on loose gravel, and for one breathless moment I dangle—held by three fingers and a prayer.
Below me yawns the abyss, endless and hungry. The wind roars up from its depths like a beast waiting to devour.
Pain blooms through my limbs. My arms twitch with exhaustion; my legs tremble with each motion. Sweat and blood sting my eyes, and still I climb—not because I can, but because I must.
Vulghere waits below. Always watching, always ready to step into the gap if I fail. His smirk is carved into my memory like a scar. He would take my command with cold hands and speak of my death as if it were destiny—as if I had never been worthy.
But I will not give him that satisfaction. Not while I can still draw breath.
Not while I can still bleed.
I grit my teeth and claw upward, inch by brutal inch.
First Contact
The wind shifts. A sudden rush—a force not born of nature, but of wings.
She dives without warning. The harpy descends like a falling star, her form a blur of moonlight and feathers. She veers close—too close—and as she passes, the edge of her wing brushes against my shoulder.
The contact is electric. Her feathers are warm, almost soft, but alive with power. Gold, tipped in white—colors I'd only seen painted on the tapestries of temples. She wheels upward in a smooth, graceful arc, and her eyes lock with mine.
Predatory. Intelligent. Ancient.
There's hunger there, but not for flesh. It's something more: evaluation. Recognition. A flicker of emotion I cannot name. I see myself reflected in those eyes, small and uncertain—a soul laid bare.
She trills—a low, throaty sound that resonates in my chest like a forgotten melody. It is neither kind nor cruel. Simply… real.
Above us, the second harpy screams, her cry sharp and urgent, as if asserting her claim, or perhaps warning me that the trial is shifting.
They are no longer distant observers.
They are part of the mountain now.
And they are choosing.
The Plateau
I stumble onto the plateau, half-falling, hands scraped and bleeding. The flat rock beneath my feet feels like a blessing, though no warmth greets me here. I stand, legs shaking, breath ragged, vision swimming.
The sky opens before me. And with it—revelation.
Across the endless dark horizon, pinpricks of fire dot the world like stars fallen to earth. Hundreds of them. Gnoll war camps, flickering with life and menace. Their numbers stretch to the forests and beyond, a tide preparing to break across the land.
Each fire is a heartbeat of war. Each light, a promise of violence.
The Prophet was right. The darkness is no longer rising—it is here.
And then the harpies descend.
They dive together, wings folded tight, talons gleaming like blades. Their voices rise as one, not screaming—singing. A harsh, beautiful chorus that shakes the very stones beneath me.
I don't move. I do not flee. I stand still, arms outstretched, unsure if I offer myself or defy them.
Their eyes burn into mine. Not as hunters. Not as judges.
But as initiators.
This trial is no longer a climb. No longer a test of pain and stone.
It is a covenant.
And I am no longer merely a climber.
I am becoming.