The sun crawled higher, a merciless eye glaring down on Waylon as he staggered through the gravity formation. Hours bled into one another, each step a war against the invisible weight crushing his body. His tunic clung to him, soaked through with sweat, the fabric chafing against his raw skin. His legs trembled like they'd been carved from jelly, his arms hung limp at his sides, and his breath rasped out in shallow, desperate bursts. The circle—ten feet of torture—mocked him with every lap, the grass worn thin where his feet dragged.
He didn't know how long he'd been at it. Three hours? Five? Time blurred under the strain, his world shrinking to the next step, the next breath. His vision swam, sweat dripping into his eyes, stinging and blurring the edges. The man's voice drifted in now and then—gruff taunts or barked corrections—but Waylon barely heard him anymore, the words swallowed by the pounding in his skull.
"Back straight, kid," the man called from his perch by the fire, his tone lazy but sharp. "You're folding like a bad hand."
Waylon tried—God, he tried—but his spine bowed anyway, the weight pressing down like a mountain on his shoulders. His knees buckled, and he caught himself on one hand, the other clawing at the dirt. The formation's hum pulsed in his ears, a relentless drone that matched the ache in his bones. He shoved himself up, teeth gritted so hard his jaw throbbed, and took another step. Then another. His whole body shook, a leaf trembling in a storm, and black specks began to dance at the corners of his vision.
He was breaking. He could feel it—the edge of collapse creeping closer, his strength leaking out with every drop of sweat. His chest heaved, his heart slamming against his ribs, and those specks grew, swallowing the light. He swayed, one foot catching on nothing, and the world tilted.
The man stood, his shadow shifting as he moved toward the circle's edge, hand reaching for the crystal. "Enough," he muttered, fingers brushing the stone.
But then it happened—a pulse, warm and sudden, bloomed from Waylon's chest. It spread like wildfire, rushing through his veins, a tingling heat that wrapped around his shaking limbs. The weight didn't vanish, but it lessened, the crushing burden easing just enough that his next step didn't falter. His eyes widened, a ragged gasp tearing from his throat as the warmth pulsed again, steady and strong, like a second heartbeat.
The man froze, hand hovering over the crystal, his sharp eyes locking onto Waylon. The wave of energy rippled outward, a faint shimmer in the air that made the grass sway and the fire flicker. Waylon took one more step—then his knees gave out entirely. The black specks swallowed his vision, and he crumpled, hitting the ground with a dull thud, unconscious before his cheek met the dirt.
The man stared, his hand still outstretched, the crystal untouched. "What in the…" he breathed, voice trailing off as he stepped into the circle. The formation's hum faded as he yanked the crystal free, the weight lifting, and he knelt beside Waylon's sprawled form. The kid was a wreck—drenched, pale, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven jerks.
He placed a rough hand on Waylon's shoulder, closing his eyes. A faint film of blue energy seeped from his palm, spreading over Waylon's body like a thin veil. It shimmered, sinking into his skin, and the man's brow furrowed as he focused, tracing the energy's path. It pooled at Waylon's chest, a faint glow pulsing there—a core, small but undeniable, nestled where his heart beat.
His eyes snapped open, wide and disbelieving. "Impossible," he muttered, his voice rough with shock. He pulled his hand back, the blue film dissipating, and stared at Waylon like he'd grown horns. Scrambling to his feet, he dug into his robe, pulling out a small, crescent-shaped object—bronze, etched with runes, and faintly warm to the touch. He pressed it to Waylon's chest, right over that glowing core, and waited.
Nothing. No hum, no flare, no reaction at all. The object sat there, inert, as Waylon's breathing steadied in his unconscious stupor.
The man's lips twitched, then split into a wide, incredulous grin. A laugh burst out of him—low at first, then louder, rolling across the hillside like thunder. "So that's the reason," he said, shaking his head as he looked down at Waylon. He tilted his head back, staring up at the cloudless sky, his laughter fading into a wry chuckle. "Even resisting fate was part of its damn plan. You sneaky bastards."
He crouched again, his gaze softening as it settled on Waylon's slack face. "After all these years—leaving everything behind, hiding out here in solitude… and now I've got a chance to fix my mistakes." His voice dropped, almost tender, a weight behind the words Waylon couldn't hear. He reached down, hooking his arms under Waylon's limp form, and hefted him up with a grunt, slinging the kid over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
Waylon's head lolled, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, his arms dangling as the man carried him back toward the stone dwelling. The fire crackled faintly behind them, forgotten, as the man kicked the door open with his boot and stepped inside. He crossed the small room in a few strides, easing Waylon onto the cot—the same one he'd been lending the kid since he'd stumbled into his life.
Waylon landed with a soft thud, sprawling across the blanket, still out cold. The man straightened, rubbing his beard as he studied him, that faint smile lingering. The glow in Waylon's chest was invisible now, buried beneath skin and bone, but the man knew it was there—a spark of something he hadn't expected, something that changed everything.
"Sleep it off, kid," he muttered, turning toward the table where Waylon's letter still sat, its golden seal glinting in the dim light. "You've got no idea what you've just stumbled into."
He sank onto the stool, resting his elbows on the table, and let out a long, slow breath. His eyes drifted to the letter, then back to Waylon, and for the first time in years, a flicker of purpose stirred in his chest—something beyond the mountain, beyond Cillia, beyond the solitude he'd carved out for himself. Whatever the Myriad Paths had planned, whatever fate had dropped at his feet, he wasn't letting it slip away this time.
Outside, the sun climbed higher, oblivious to the shift that had just rippled through the quiet hillside.