Chapter 8: The price of Weakness
He didn't dwell on it much, just continued walking.
The path was lighted, it flickered through the trees like a flame, held just out of reach—soft, golden, and familiar. He'd seen this kind of light before, back in the early days of the game. They were called checkpoints of safety.
But this wasn't a game anymore, though it still felt the same to him. It called out to him as if it knew him.
The surrounding forest was quieter than he thought it would be—no bristling winds, no chirping birds, just the continuous hum of something ancient nearby.
He felt a weight in the air, as if he'd just stepped into someone else's domain. That's when he saw something.
In a clearing stood a shrine, hollow, half-swallowed by roots and mud. Moss overgrew the cracked stone, and a ruined statue lay beside it, missing a face and with arms outstretched in welcome or warning, he didn't know.
At its base, the light pooled like liquid sun.
A Site of Grace, real and whole. He never thought he'd see one again.
It didn't hiss or flicker like the others. This one responded.
He stepped closer to it, his heart thudding hard against his ribs. Slowly, he reached out. The mark on his palm pulsed once, then flared. A warm current rushed up his spine, then the light surged around him.
It was working.