The next morning, dawn tore across the sky in a wash of pearl-gray light, casting a pale glow over the ruins that warmed nothing.
Mist still clung to the crumbled stones, winding its way through the remnants of a forgotten past.
Gaël pulled the animal pelt tighter around his shoulders, the cold biting at his cheeks, reddened from the freezing night. He hesitated, his steps slowed by apprehension. Then, with a sudden burst of resolve, he moved forward, closing the distance between himself and the man.
Brann was already walking, that same steady, tireless pace, as if fatigue simply couldn't touch him. His massive frame stood out sharply against the desolate backdrop, his long dark coat swaying gently at his calves. The great sword strapped to his back shifted slightly with each step.
To Gaël's surprise, he wasn't pushed away. No harsh glare. No warning gesture to keep his distance. Only silence. Deep. Unmoving.
They walked side by side. Or at least, within arm's reach, each lost in their own thoughts.
Their boots crunched over the debris, the scrape of stone beneath their soles eventually blending with the rhythm of Gaël's heartbeat. Around them, the broken streets stretched in all directions, the gutted skeletons of buildings reaching toward the sky with shattered spines of stone, glass, and rusted steel.
Here and there, remnants of signage creaked in the wind, swaying gently, groaning like old ghosts.
The air was heavy. Oppressive. As if the city itself still remembered what had happened.
When abominations appeared, spawned from the lingering Umbra infecting the ruins, Brann didn't even pause.
His blade sliced through the air with frightening economy, cleaving flesh and shadow alike with effortless grace.
The creatures collapsed, their twisted bodies spasming before dissolving into a dark shimmer.
Gaël kept his distance. He watched. He stayed quiet. Not out of cowardice, but out of respect. Or maybe… fear. Fear of disrupting that deadly dance he wasn't yet worthy to join.
They didn't speak.
The hours dragged on, broken only by the breath of the wind, the rustle of their steps, and the dry whisper of steel.
Then, as the sun began its slow descent behind the clouds, Gaël finally broke the silence. His voice was hesitant, slipping between them like a twig falling into a still lake.
"Gaël Ardyn."
Brann didn't respond right away. He just kept walking.
Then, after a long moment, he let out a low, rough chuckle.
"Brann," he said simply.
A pause. Then, with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, he added:
"Brann… the Umbra-Drinker."
A chill ran down Gaël's spine.
Later that day, Brann stopped. They had reached the heart of the ruined city. There, in the midst of the rubble, lay a massive slab of metal, half-buried under debris. Unlike everything else around it, it looked nearly intact.
Not twisted. Still straight. Its edges held a dull glint.
Without a word, Brann drew his sword.
The blade, massive, scarred by countless battles, sang as it slid from its sheath. Gaël instinctively stepped back, breath caught in his throat.
The man knelt, pressed the sword to the slab, and with a movement as precise as a surgeon's cut, began to shape the metal into a long, narrow form.
Sparks flew, briefly illuminating his face, hard and focused.
It didn't take long.
He carved through the metal as if slicing butter, as if his blade held the finest edge, or perhaps it was the sheer force of his intent that made it seem effortless?
Gaël found himself wondering, genuinely intrigued.
When it was done, Brann set his weapon down, pulled a worn strip of leather from his satchel, and wrapped it tightly around one end of the makeshift blade, forming a crude handle. Then, without ceremony, he extended the weapon to Gaël.
"Take it."
Gaël hesitated.
His eyes flicked from the blade to Brann's expressionless face, then back to the weapon.
He reached out. His fingers brushed the cold metal.
Heavy. Heavier than he had imagined. That's not a sword, it's a monolith.
He clenched his jaw, refused to back down, and closed his hand around the rough leather grip.
Brann let go, and the weight dropped.
All at once.
Like a mountain collapsing into his arms.
Gaël felt his legs buckle under the pressure. His right hand, still locked on the hilt, was yanked downward.
He tried to resist, his arm muscles screaming in protest. But it was no use. The weapon dropped, dragging him with it. His knees slammed into the dirt, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs.
'How…?!'
In Brann's hands, the blade had seemed like an extension of his body, fluid, light, precise. But here… here, in Gaël's grip, it was a boulder. Immovable.
'Why…?' The question hit harder than the fall.
'Why such a difference?'
He felt his pride crack, his ego splintering. His arms trembled. His fingers clung to the leather strap like they could somehow salvage what was left of his dignity.
Brann watched him in silence for a moment. Then his deep voice sliced through the air like a cleaver:
"If you want to be like me…" The words stretched out, weighty, deliberate. "…then carry a blade at least similar to mine."
Gaël looked up at him, breathing hard. Shame twisted in his chest. And something else, something closer to furious admiration.
Brann turned away.
"You can speak to me again," he said, voice flat, "when you can lift it above your head."
And with that, he walked off.
No further explanation.
Just that same steady pace.
That damned steady pace.
Gaël remained on his knees, palms caked with dust, the sword lying in front of him like a taunt.
He burned inside.
He doesn't even believe I can walk beside him…
The blade scraped along the ground as he tried to lift it again. It dragged over gravel and shattered stone with a coarse, grating sound that hung in the air like a challenge.
Ahead of him, Brann's silhouette grew smaller, uncertain whether Gaël would follow.
'He doesn't even care if I'll follow. He thinks I'll quit.'
The boy clenched his teeth.
'Lift that damned thing… or die trying.'
He inhaled sharply, ignoring the burn in his muscles. And with a growl, he pulled again.
The journey wasn't ending.
Not here. Not now.
'How can it be this heavy?' His muscles screamed in protest, but he refused to yield.
Gaël seethed. His breath came in ragged gasps, turning into clouds of mist in the cold air.
He could have given up. A voice deep inside him begged him to.
'Put the sword down. Let Brann go. You've done all you could.' But… his eyes rose, locking onto the man's silhouette.
There, thirty paces ahead, the warrior was still walking. Unshaken. Unchanged. That step… that damned steady step that had haunted his nights.
'Not yet… Not after everything.'
"Move," he hissed to himself.
His voice was more a rasp than a command. He planted his foot into the gravel, the stones slipping under his sole. His arms strained, fighting the relentless pull of gravity. The veins along his forearms bulged, pulsing from exertion. Slowly, inch by inch, the weapon began to rise. The tip remained embedded in the earth, but the hilt reached the height of his waist. His muscles burned, but he didn't stop.
'Higher. Don't stop here!'
His teeth clenched so tight they ground together. His legs trembled, knees threatening to buckle.
The blade rose past his chest. A silent scream tore through his throat. The weight felt like it was crushing his very soul.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, sliding down his temples, mixing with the grime and exhaustion. But his eyes… His eyes burned with a stubbornness that bordered on ferocity.
'I can do this. I have to. I must.'
Inch by inch. An eternity. But it still wasn't enough. In his frustration, Gaël cursed the steel, the edge, and the impossible task he'd been handed.
His legs nearly gave out… but he held. One second.
Two.
Five.
His lungs burned. The world narrowed to a tunnel of pain and willpower. A world reduced to the sword, his arms, and a single thought:
'Lift it. Higher. Higher still. LIFT IT!'
But it was too much. His muscles screamed, nearly tearing themselves apart. A fiery heat radiated from his shoulders to the base of his neck.
And the blade fell. With a dull thud, it crashed into the ground.
His arms collapsed with it, drained of all strength.
Gaël dropped to his knees, gasping, head bowed, face drenched in sweat. Each breath was a firestorm in his chest.
He had failed…