The trail to Embercliff was a cruel and unforgiving path. It wound through jagged canyons, where the sun never lingered long enough to warm the stone. Overhead, vultures circled like shadows cast by an unseen predator. This was no place for travelers, and yet Eryndor pressed on, his boots crunching against the frost-dusted ground.

He had been summoned—though by whom, he did not know. The letter had borne no seal, only the words, “Come to Embercliff. The Warden waits.” It was enough to stir his curiosity, though not his trust. There was a heaviness in the air as he approached the cliffs, an oppressive weight that made each breath feel labored.

As the path opened to a plateau, the fortress of Embercliff rose before him. It was less a fortress and more a wound carved into the stone, its jagged walls darkened by age and fire. The banners of long-forgotten lords hung in tatters, swaying in the cold wind like ghosts of the past. Eryndor had seen many strongholds in his time, but this one felt different—alive in a way that made his skin crawl.

At the gate, a figure stood waiting. She was clad in black armor, dulled and battered, her face hidden beneath a helm adorned with twisted horns. She carried no weapon, but her presence was a challenge in itself, radiating an aura of quiet menace.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice echoing hollowly from within the helm.

Eryndor grunted, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his blade. “Wasn’t aware I was on a schedule.”

The Warden tilted her head slightly, as though studying him. “You were summoned. That alone should have hastened your steps.”

“Summoned by who?” Eryndor demanded. “And for what purpose?”

The Warden turned without answering, gesturing for him to follow. Reluctantly, he did, his eyes darting to the shadows that seemed to stretch and twist unnaturally as they moved deeper into the fortress. The air inside was colder than the mountain pass, carrying the scent of ash and iron.

They descended into the heart of Embercliff, the walls narrowing until they reached a chamber lit by the dull glow of embers. At its center stood an anvil, ancient and scarred, surrounded by runes that pulsed faintly with red light. Around it were figures cloaked in black, their faces obscured, their chants low and rhythmic.

“What is this?” Eryndor asked, his voice tight.

The Warden turned to him, removing her helm to reveal a face lined with scars, her eyes burning like coals. “This is the Forge of the Fallen. And you, Eryndor, have been chosen.”

“Chosen for what?” he snapped, though his hand remained steady on his blade.

She stepped closer, the embers casting flickering shadows across her face. “To wield a weapon forged in vengeance and tempered in blood. The blade will bind itself to you, and through it, you will carry out the will of the Forgotten Lords. It is a gift, though one that comes with a cost.”

Eryndor narrowed his eyes, his instincts screaming that this was no gift at all. “And what if I refuse?”

The Warden smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it. “Then the blade will choose another. But it will not leave this place without a master. Its thirst for vengeance must be sated.”

As she spoke, one of the cloaked figures stepped forward, carrying a blade unlike any Eryndor had seen. It shimmered with a dark light, its edges jagged and uneven, as though forged from the shards of broken steel. Runes etched along its length glowed faintly, their meaning lost to time but heavy with power.

The figure placed the blade on the anvil, stepping back as the chanting grew louder. The Warden nodded to Eryndor, her eyes locking onto his. “The choice is yours.”

Eryndor hesitated, his thoughts a storm of doubt and curiosity. He had lived a life of bloodshed, his blade serving countless masters but none of his own choosing. This… this felt different. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was a purpose. A burden, perhaps, but one that might give his wandering life meaning.

He stepped forward, his hand hovering over the hilt of the blade. The air around it seemed to vibrate, pulling at him like a current. As his fingers closed around the grip, a searing pain shot through his arm, and the runes along the blade flared to life. The chanting ceased, replaced by a silence so heavy it pressed against his chest.

The Warden watched, her expression unreadable. “It is done.”

Eryndor staggered back, the blade now bound to him in a way he couldn’t fully comprehend. The weight of it wasn’t physical—it was something deeper, something that pulled at his very soul. He looked to the Warden, his voice trembling with both anger and awe. “What have you done to me?”

She placed her helm back on, her voice calm but unyielding. “I have given you what you were always meant to have. Now go. The Forgotten Lords will guide you.”

Without another word, she turned and walked into the shadows, leaving Eryndor alone in the chamber. He looked down at the blade, its runes still glowing faintly, and felt a grim determination settle over him. Whatever this burden was, he would bear it. Not for the Forgotten Lords, nor for the Warden, but for himself.

As he stepped out into the cold night, the wind howled like a mournful dirge, carrying with it the weight of the journey to come.