Hero's Journey

The wind clawed at Kaelen's cloak, trying to tear him from the precipice. Far below, the valley floor was a tapestry of greens and browns, stitched together by the silver thread of the Serpent's River. He tasted the grit of the mountain on his tongue, the air thin and sharp in his lungs. He had come too far to turn back now, though a tremor ran through him, a cold echo of the battle he had just survived. A voice, smooth as polished obsidian, sliced through the wind's howl. "Admiring my handiwork, Kaelen? Such a pity you couldn't stop it." Kaelen didn't turn. He knew who stood behind him. "It's not over, Vorlag." Vorlag chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Isn't it? You're alone, broken, and the last hope of a dying kingdom. Tell me, Kaelen, what exactly do you have left to fight for?"