Asdras Awakening (IX)

"What am I doing?"

Asdras trudged through the forest, his footsteps falling with a muffled crunch against layers of damp leaves and splintered twigs. Sunlight filtered through a dense weave of branches overhead, leaving irregular splotches of pale brightness on mossy ground. Yet for all the gentle glow of noon, an oppressive hush clung to this place, as if even the wind dared not speak.

He moved with the vacant determination of someone who had already betrayed his own conscience. Each step felt foreign, as though he followed a path dictated by the half-remembered dream of another. He had traversed this route before, recognized the subtle curve of the earth, the tangle of saplings near a mossy cluster of stones; but the sense of familiarity felt hollow, unearned. He could not say he belonged here. All he knew was that at the road's end lay a wheel, and with it, a choice he could neither reconcile nor escape.

He wondered again why he had accepted this grim task. Every time the question rose up, it returned to him emptier than before, a vessel of thought with its meaning slowly stripped away. If he asked himself too often, he feared the words might lose their shape entirely, leaving only the echo of his own doubt. Duty did not pull him, nor did fear, nor simple inertia. The truth was simpler, uglier: he had said yes because refusing would have cost him more of himself than he could bear.

Memory offered no solace. He had no tangible past, just scraps of vague impressions. These strangers had rescued him from some nameless darkness of existence, and that bond had become everything. In losing his self, he had cast about for any anchor to cling to. Now he was bound to them, tethered by gratitude and desperation in equal measure. If they suffered, he felt obliged to shoulder their pain; if they hoped, he felt compelled to carry that hope forward, even if it chafed at his soul.

"Chapters," he muttered under his breath, stumbling over a root. The word felt meaningless but lingered all the same. Second had shown him his dog-eared notepad, insisting every trial, every spark of power inside him, was simply another page in a story. Yet the notion unnerved him. What kind of story forced a man to walk toward a confounding trial without purpose or an end in sight?

He repeated, "Trials," letting the syllables bleed out in the hush of the forest. The concept of a trial was something to be reckoned with and then overcome, but the weight of that expectation felt crushing, as if all eyes were upon him — eyes he could not see but sensed all the same. There was no courage in him, no sense of gallantry or proud duty. He walked this path as one might walk to the gallows.

Yet something within him had changed. Like a splinter burrowed into flesh, the power that had awakened was alien, intrusive. It heightened his senses beyond normal human ken: in the bark of every ancient tree he discerned swirling patterns that whispered of some hidden language; the flutter of insect wings came to him as if from a great distance, weaving a tapestry of faint sighs and movements.

Even the forest floor, thick with rotting debris and tiny crawling shapes, felt unnervingly alive beneath his boots. But his own soul seemed hollow. He neither welcomed it nor felt truly grateful for it. A sense of convenience gnawed at him — how easily his body moved without rest, how rarely hunger gnawed at his belly. Comfort bred complacency, and complacency stifled clarity. That thought burrowed deeper each time he noted how little fatigue touched him.

A shape loomed ahead, a tall structure of stone and iron that crowned the forest clearing. The wheel. It jutted from the earth, half-buried in creeping vines, its rim fused to a statue that once depicted something regal — now chipped and weatherworn. In daylight, the broken edges and fissures were clearly visible, sunlight catching flecks of pale rock in an almost honeyed sheen. In the statue's eyes flickered an orange radiance that offered no warmth, only quiet menace.

Beneath the statue lay a basin filled with water. Yesterday, that water had been a thick, dark red, teeming with something he could not name. Now it glowed amber, bright and inviting as flame glass. Unbidden calm lapped at Asdras's mind, like the hush that settles before a storm. He took another step, compelled by a longing he could not articulate, toward the promise of false serenity that shimmered on the water's surface.

He paused, gooseflesh creeping up his arms. A scattering of birds had gathered around the basin, along with small forest animals — rabbits and foxes that eyed the shimmering pool with unnatural fixation. Even the forest hush seemed suspended, like a held breath.

Then a shift in the sun cast the scene into gloom, and the illusions shattered. Feathers rustled in alarm, beady eyes blinked wide, and the creatures scattered into the trees. Even as they fled, Asdras glimpsed a kind of slack-jawed yearning in their expressions, as though the water's glow had nearly enchanted them too.

He tore his gaze away and realized his sword hung half-drawn in his hand. How long had it been there? He turned the blade, glimpsing his reflection in the polished steel. The face that stared back seemed half-forged, as if it belonged to someone else entirely.

He nodded once. He did so for himself, to anchor his uncertain identity in the act of carrying on. If he could not affirm his path, it might dissolve beneath him, taking whatever sense of purpose he'd mustered.

He nodded again. This time, it was for those who had saved him — those who had pinned upon him their hopes and burdens. He had lived among them enough to see the lines of worry etched into their faces. No matter how dubious he felt, the notion of letting them down sickened him more. Finally, he tipped his head a third time to acknowledge something he had yet to name. A formless conviction that the world was larger and more complicated than the narrow corridor of choices presented to him.

He plunged his sword into the water. A shudder ran through his arm as the blade cut through the glowing surface, sending ripples across the amber sheen. The sensation that overcame him was like stepping into half-frozen water, only for a molten thread to wrap around bone and muscle, coursing with tingling warmth. He thought he felt a piece of himself peeling away with each wave, as though the basin recognized him more intimately than he recognized himself.

The sword began to mend. The incomplete edges, the hairline fractures near its tip, and the misaligned hilt — each flaw corrected itself in seconds, guided by the luminous swirl emanating from the basin. It was mesmerizing. He breathed carefully, counting the slow rise and fall of his chest to ground himself. The steel gleamed with renewed menace, but in that transformation he sensed an unsettling collaboration, as if the sword had a will of its own.

A shape flickered across the water's surface. Reflex seized him; he jerked his sword free and stumbled backward, nearly falling over a tangled root. Heart thudding, he braced his stance, scanning the clearing. Then he saw it: a crow perched on the wheel's highest arc. Its feathers, dark as spilled ink, reflected the basin's glow. Its eyes were pits of hollow intent. He recognized the voice that soon followed, though it came laced with a tension he did not remember hearing before.

"CURSES! Look who's stumbled into my domain, I say! Approach, you damned kid, and hear this twisted tale of mine. Then, let's see if your wit can muster a response!"

Asdras pressed a breath through clenched teeth. The crow's speech was unchanged, that same mocking timbre, but something felt off — like the crow itself was retreating behind the voice, leaving behind only a shell spouting old lines of a script. He felt no urge to seize it this time, no compulsion to lash out. He only watched, sword half-lowered, as the bird flared its wings with theatrical flourish.

"Listen to me, I say," rasped the crow, feathers bristling. "Listen well, for this is a tale to be pondered over, I say…"

It paused, turning its head to regard him with eerie curiosity, then began anew, wings spread in a half-dance of emphasis:

"Once there was a village, and there existed its people. They were few but enamored with life and at peace in their nature. But then, madness! A monster came, and their peace was shattered.

"This beast lived in a cave and, from time to time, emerged to claim their riches and lives. The villagers tried to fight back but quickly learned their strength was nothing against such a horror. Too far from any city, too distant from any god to heed their pleas, they devised a single plan: birth a warrior to save them.

"By the time a third of their comrades had been taken, a promising boy was born. He was blessed with great strength and wisdom, or so they believed—he was the hope they clung to when all else failed. They even held a festival to celebrate his arrival, a happiness they had not tasted in too many years.

"The boy grew beneath the oppression of that monster's shadow, forced to watch it plunder and pillage. He learned early that life could be cruel. By fourteen, he stood tall and proud, tempered by sorrow, and the villagers were half their original number. In a final act of desperation, he promised them: 'Before nightfall, I will slay the beast.' With sword in hand and hope in his heart, he set out up the mountainside, determined to break the cycle of despair.

"When the boy found the monster, he discovered it was no ordinary abomination. It was a twisted thing, its skin pulled taut over a framework of elongated limbs, each joint creaking like the hull of a dying ship. Its eyes were two pits of living dark that devoured whatever they beheld. Its claws, long as sickles, glistened with dried blood.

"Behind the creature lay a hoard of riches, treasure taken from the village—a promise of a better life, but soaked in tragedy. The bones of the dead were strewn about in a horrific display. Filled with wrath, the young warrior fought tooth and nail, quenching his fear with fervent anger, trading blow for blow. At last, he delivered a mortal cut, and the monster sank to its knees in a pool of black tar and gore.

"But curses, I say—the dying beast spoke then, voice echoing like rocks crashing in a deep well. It offered the boy three paths. The monster was bound by an ancient curse to do so, forced to present a choice before it could die.

"Option one: kill it outright, thus freeing the villagers from its torment but passing the curse to someone else. For if the hoard in that cave tempted a greedy heart, the one who claimed those spoils would become the new monster, perhaps even worse in its cruelty.

"Option two: remain to guard the wealth, lest some fool come to claim it, but thereby suffer ceaseless temptation. Sooner or later, even the noblest soul might succumb, doomed to repeat the cycle.

"Option three: abandon the treasure and the townsfolk, letting them fend for themselves. If they took the riches in desperation—or if new travelers stumbled upon them—another monster would rise. If the boy flinched from his duty, he would be cursed by guilt for every life lost under that scourge."

The crow clacked its beak, eyes narrowing. "So, tell me, kid, if you were that young man, which path would you take?" It flapped its wings hard, rustling the air with a gust that carried the stench of old decay. The question dug into Asdras, hooking beneath his ribcage, stirring every half-buried fear.

Visions filled his mind: the monster's angular limbs shifting in lamplight, the villagers' faces twisted in hope and terror, the mountainous hoard glinting with false promise. The choice was a closed trap, each door cruel in its own way. He clenched his hands in his hair, trying to calm the roar in his head, but the images persisted.

"Damn it," he hissed, the words scraping his throat. Because was this not his own predicament, mirrored in a stranger's tale? He stood on the threshold of a trial he scarcely understood, tethered by obligations that offered no mercy. Blood would be spilled; choices would brand him forever. The monster might be different, but the trap felt the same.

If he killed the beast, he damned the next hapless fool to become a new horror. If he guarded the trove, he would watch his own resolve erode day by day, never knowing the moment some inner weakness might seize him. If he fled, guilt would gnaw his soul until it turned to dust. Three vile roads, zero mercy. He pressed the heel of his palm against his temple, anger sizzling in his veins.

Yet a faint spark ignited within him, a rebellious notion that fluttered in defiance of the crow's logic. "Hidden choice…" he muttered, hardly aware he spoke aloud. If the question was a trap, there had to be a hidden key, a latch of possibility overlooked by fear.

Yes. He would not accept the monstrous premise that the world offered only three ways. Though this was a story about a cursed beast, the essence of it echoed in his own footsteps: society presenting illusions of limited freedom. He steadied his breath and felt a resolution crystallizing in his chest, a quiet vow that no stone-sculpted wheel, no manipulative crow, and no shining pool would define the boundaries of his path.

Rising straight, he looked the crow in the eye, voice low and pitched with ferocity. "I choose neither of them."

The words seemed to resonate, carried by a hush that fell over the clearing. A storm of emotion churned inside him, but he forced his voice to remain steady. "I won't kill the beast only to pass the curse. I won't stand guard and let that evil corrode me. And I damn sure won't run away."

He lifted his blade, the edge glinting with the watery sheen of the amber pool. "I'm a fighter," he said quietly, though his words rang clear. "Whatever trial you offer, I'll meet it. If I fail, let that failure be mine — but I will not let the world corner me with three broken choices."

For a moment, the wheel behind him seemed to groan in recognition, a low grated sound that might have been the wind passing through its spokes. The crow shrieked and took wing in a violent burst, fluttering so near that Asdras flinched back. He lost his footing on the moss-slick ground and tumbled hard, pain jolting through his side as he hit the roots. Faster than a breath, the crow dove toward him. He tried to raise his sword, but the bird's speed blurred the air. Its wings smacked the steel, forcing it aside.

Heat flared across his palm — the same palm where the crow's mark had once burned. The brand awakened anew, scorching as though a flame licked at his skin. He grit his teeth, trying not to cry out. The sensation spread up his arm, flames dancing from limb to chest, devouring him with a terrifying brilliance that stole his breath. He felt no physical fire, no cinders or smoke, yet it seared his nerves, as if something intangible had ignited.

The forest seemed to tremble with his agony. Tree trunks rattled, leaves rustled in a madness of motion, as if the ground itself were trying to wrench free of creation. He couldn't contain the shout that tore from his throat, a deep, resonant roar that reverberated across the clearing. The sound burst outward like a shockwave, rustling branches a hundred paces away. The birds that had returned at a distance launched skyward in frightened arcs. Then, as quickly as it surged, the blaze retreated, leaving Asdras's skin damp with sweat and taut with the memory of pain.

He lay gasping, the cool forest air rushing back in a haze. Physical flames had never touched him, and yet he felt that something had been burned away, leaving him sharper, more aware. The brand on his palm gleamed faintly, the outline of the crow still visible, though it now pulsed with a gentler glow, like molten metal cooling to a smolder.

Slowly, Asdras forced himself upright, leaning on the sword's hilt. A calm clarity took hold of his senses, a sense of steady resolve that banished the trembling in his limbs. The crow had vanished, replaced only by a swirl of startled leaves. The statue remained as motionless as ever, though its carved face seemed almost softened, as if the stone itself recognized a shift in the air. The amber pool glimmered, unperturbed, as though reflecting only the sky.

Asdras stared into the distance, his gaze wandering over the forest he had traveled. He recalled the glimpses of kindness he had known — brief embraces, hushed words around a nighttime fire, calloused hands pressing bread into his own. These were the people who had found him. They had fed him, clothed him, and shared their meager corners of life with a stranger who lacked memory or place.

Now, in a single hush of the heart, he felt all of it meld into one commanding purpose. He placed his sword before his face, the polished steel's edge aligned with the circle of his vision. He imagined those who prayed for relief, for any hint of hope. He recalled how Second had spoken of a story being written on every page of his life. And he remembered the press of time, echoing with the frantic knowledge that this path was not optional but necessary.

His voice, though still unsteady, carried strength in each syllable. "I will fight," he declared, closing his eyes for a heartbeat. Images flowed through him — hands that had always been empty, faces that had always begged, the gnaw of despair in the corners of each village he'd passed. "I will fight," he repeated, letting the vow carve itself into his mind. For all that had come before, for all that might arrive in the future.