A Prophecy Awakens

The next morning, the camp buzzed with quiet energy as the group huddled around the dying embers of their fire. Torak stood at the center, his gaze sweeping over the assembled exiles. Nakarro leaned against a rock, arms crossed, while Alaena watched with a calm but watchful expression. The others sat scattered, their faces etched with skepticism.

"We're wasting time," Nakarro said bluntly. "If we don't secure more food and materials, we'll be dead before the week is out."

Torak raised a hand, silencing him. "We need to think long-term. Scavenging will only keep us alive for so long. We need tools, armor, weapons. Resources that can sustain us."

The others exchanged uneasy glances, but Torak pressed on. "Back in my—" He stopped himself, correcting. "I've seen what survival can demand. We need to use what this land provides. Its creatures. Its bones. Its skin."

Nakarro's eyes narrowed. "And how do you suggest we do that?"

"There's a creature I spotted near the ridgeline yesterday," Torak said, crouching to sketch a crude outline in the dirt. "Large, four-legged, armored hide, with tusks that could tear through steel. Its bones and teeth can be fashioned into weapons. Its hide can make armor."

One of the exiles, a wiry man named Korrin, scoffed. "You want us to hunt a sandbeast? Are you mad? Those things can tear a man in half."

Torak's eyes gleamed with determination. "Then we'll hunt it smart. Set traps, use bait, wear it down. It's not invincible."

Nakarro studied the crude drawing, his skepticism giving way to reluctant approval. "It's risky," he admitted. "But the rewards could be worth it."

The group murmured in agreement, and plans were quickly laid. Torak directed them to gather supplies—ropes, sharpened sticks, and the remnants of their weapons. By midday, they set out, the wasteland stretching endlessly before them.

The hunt began at dusk. Using scraps of meat as bait, they lured the sandbeast to a narrow canyon where they had prepared their ambush. The creature was a monstrous sight—its hide a cracked mosaic of hardened plates, its tusks curved and gleaming in the fading light. It roared, a guttural sound that echoed across the rocks, shaking even the most stalwart of hearts.

Torak barked orders, his mind calculating every move. Traps sprang into action—ropes ensnared the beast's legs, and spears jabbed at its vulnerable joints. Nakarro led a charge, driving the creature toward the canyon wall.

The battle was brutal. The sandbeast thrashed, snapping ropes and shattering spears with ease. Blood splattered the rocky ground as the exiles fought with everything they had. Finally, after hours of relentless attacks, the beast collapsed, its breath ragged and shallow.

Nakarro stepped forward, blade in hand, to deliver the killing blow. But just as he raised his weapon, the creature surged with a final burst of strength, lunging at him with its tusks.

Time seemed to slow. Torak's body moved on its own, his hand finding the hilt of a dagger at his waist. With a flick of his wrist, the blade flew through the air, embedding itself deep into the creature's eye. The beast roared once more before collapsing, lifeless, to the ground.

The silence that followed was deafening. The group stared at Torak, their expressions a mixture of shock and awe. Even Torak looked at his hand as if it belonged to someone else.

"That was..." Nakarro began, his voice trailing off.

Alaena stepped forward, her eyes wide but thoughtful. Under her breath, she murmured words that only she could hear:

"When the red star bleeds and the sky burns, a son of shadow and steel shall rise. He shall wield death as an artist wields a brush, and his blade shall carve the path to destiny."

Torak glanced at her, frowning. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," Alaena said quickly, though her tone betrayed her unease. "Let's return to camp."

That night, as they feasted on the spoils of their hunt, Alaena sat beside Torak, her expression pensive. The others celebrated their victory, but her thoughts were far away.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low so only Torak could hear. "There is something you should know."

Torak turned to her, his curiosity piqued. "What is it?"

Alaena hesitated, her hands trembling slightly. "In Braavos, there are stories about our bloodline. Tales of warriors who were born with an innate mastery over weapons. It's said that their skill is not learned but given, destined by the gods."

He frowned. "You're saying that... I'm one of them?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "But what I saw today... It reminded me of those stories. And of the prophecy."

Torak's gaze hardened, his mind racing. He wanted to dismiss her words as superstition, but the events of the day lingered in his thoughts. The dagger, the prophecy, the way his body had moved without thought—it all felt too significant to ignore.

"I don't believe in prophecies," he said finally. "But I'll keep an open mind."

Alaena nodded, her expression softening. "That's all I ask."

As the fire crackled and the camp settled into uneasy sleep, Torak stared into the darkness, the weight of his mother's words pressing heavily on his mind.