A week had passed since Ashwat's harrowing experience near the mine, and he had spent nearly all of it secluded in the dim silence of his basement. The once-proud swordsmith, whose steady hands had crafted blades for the town's finest guards, had withdrawn into himself, vanishing from the streets where his presence had once been a reassuring constant.
Ashwat had no family in the town—no wife or siblings, no aging parents to keep him tethered to the world above. His solitude, once a matter of preference, had become a prison. The townsfolk, fond of him as they were, grew increasingly uneasy. Whispers filled the market stalls and tavern corners. Concerned citizens knocked at his door, but none received a response. Curtains remained drawn, the forge cold and silent.
Meanwhile, the deadline for the massive weapons order loomed ever closer. Yet the forge remained untouched, and Ashwat hadn't so much as lifted a hammer since the day he stumbled upon that infernal vision outside the mine.
Ten days after the incident, something shifted.
Before dawn broke over the rooftops, Ashwat emerged from his home. His eyes, once calm and contemplative, now burned with urgency. He moved with purpose, gathering supplies—maps, dried provisions, water, parchment, and ink. Without informing anyone, not even the town guards who often sought his blades, he slipped away, leaving behind the town that had been his home for years.
His destination lay far to the south: Rhushan, the legendary city of knowledge.
If the capital was known as the City of Steel, built upon power, politics, and military might, then Rhushan stood in contrast—a place of scrolls and silence, of scholars and sages. Generations of minds had passed through its libraries and lecture halls. It was said that within Rhushan's walls, one could find an answer to any question—if they knew where to look.
Ashwat had many questions, and he knew only one man who might help him begin the search.
Uvaan, his childhood friend, had left the town nearly a decade ago to pursue his academic ambitions. The two had been inseparable in their youth—one drawn to steel, the other to scripture. While Ashwat had remained, content with the rhythm of the forge, Uvaan had followed the wind to Rhushan, eventually finding work within the Royal Archives, the heart of the city's accumulated wisdom. If anyone could help make sense of what Ashwat had witnessed—of the flaming beast, the hooded rider, and the screams from the depths—it was Uvaan.
But the journey to Rhushan was no simple task.
The scars of war still marred the roads. Many routes once safe and patrolled had been reduced to rubble or left untended, and bandits now ruled the open paths, preying on anyone who dared travel alone. In his haste, Ashwat had committed a grave oversight—he had brought no weapon with him. The swordsmith had departed without a sword.
Still, he pressed on, driven by fear, curiosity, and a feeling in his gut that time was running out.
By the third day of his journey, Ashwat found himself walking a narrow woodland trail that skirted the edge of an old riverbed. It was there that he heard shouting. Curiosity—or perhaps his sense of justice—led him toward the sound.
In a small clearing, he discovered a group of bandits surrounding an old man. The man was hunched, wrapped in tattered robes, and clearly in distress. The bandits, four in number, shoved and mocked him, rifling through his belongings.
"Leave him alone!" Ashwat shouted, stepping into the clearing without thought.
The bandits turned. They laughed when they saw him—one man, unarmed and travel-worn, standing against four armed thieves.
"You've got a death wish, stranger?" one of them sneered, drawing a short sword.
Ashwat tried to stand tall, tried to intimidate them with tone alone, but it was no use. Within moments, they were upon him. A punch landed squarely on his jaw, followed by a kick to his ribs. He collapsed, barely conscious, as his belongings were taken—his food, his maps, even his boots.
The old man fared little better, and when the bandits had taken what they wanted, they left the two crumpled figures in the dirt.
Pain clouded Ashwat's vision. He groaned, every muscle aching, as he lay on the cold earth. Then, to his surprise, he felt a cool hand touch his shoulder. The old man knelt beside him, face calm despite the bruises on his cheeks.
"Hold still," the old man said in a quiet, soothing voice.
From a hidden inner pocket of his robe, the old man produced a small clay vial. He uncorked it, dipped his fingers into a thick green balm, and began to gently apply it to Ashwat's wounds.
A strange warmth coursed through Ashwat's body. The pain ebbed, the swelling faded. In mere moments, he felt as though days of healing had passed in seconds. Even the dull ache in his ribs receded.
"What is that?" Ashwat asked, blinking in disbelief.
"Just a little something I've picked up in my travels," the man said with a smile. "Works better than most magic I've known."
Ashwat slowly sat up, watching the man tend to his own wounds with the same balm. Despite his frail appearance, the old man moved with a quiet strength.
"My name is Ashwat," he said. "I was on my way to Rhushan... looking for answers."
"Then perhaps our paths are aligned," the old man replied. "They call me the Wandering Hermit. I, too, have business in Rhushan—though my reasons are not so easily explained."
Ashwat offered a grateful nod. "Then let's walk together."
The two men continued their journey side by side. They avoided the main roads, choosing instead to move through narrow trails and forgotten paths, steering clear of other dangers lurking in the countryside. They shared food when they could find it, drank from hidden springs, and rested under the stars.
In the evenings, as the fire crackled between them, they spoke of distant cities, ancient prophecies, and strange happenings that had begun to stir across the land. The Hermit seemed to know more than he admitted, but he never pressed Ashwat to share more than he was ready to.
Days passed.
By the time the sandstone towers of Rhushan rose on the horizon, the two men had forged an unspoken bond. They stood before the city gates, flanked by twin statues of owls—symbols of wisdom and watchfulness.
"This is where we part ways," the Hermit said, turning to Ashwat with a soft smile. "I trust you'll find the answers you seek."
"And you?" Ashwat asked.
"Oh, I'll find what I'm looking for," the old man replied with a glint in his eye. "Rhushan has a way of revealing what's hidden."
With that, they clasped hands—warrior and wanderer—and bid farewell.
Ashwat watched as the Hermit disappeared into the flow of people entering the city, then turned and stepped through the gates, the scent of ink and parchment thick in the air.
He had arrived at the city of knowledge.
But what truths awaited him within its ancient halls remained to be seen.
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