Next Stop: The Mountain Fire

                                    

                                          
Darkness clung to the edges of his vision, receding slowly like the tide. When it finally relented, the warrior blinked, squinting at the unfamiliar ceiling above. He lay on a rough cot, straw rustling beneath him, the air thick with the pungent scent of herbs. Disoriented, he attempted to sit up, a searing pain flashing through his back, sending him back down with a groan.
A weathered face peered at him from beside the cot, etched with concern but softened by a friendly smile. "Easy there, warrior," the man said, his voice a low rumble. "You took quite a tumble. Rest."
The warrior recognized him. The leader, the mastermind behind the weapon, the one who held the key to Netron and vengeance. But where was he? He raised his head, eyes narrowed. "Where am I?"
"Don't fret," the man chuckled, patting the cot reassuringly. "Safe and sound. You collapsed after... well, let's just say your resilience is impressive. Those wounds on your back tell a story, though. No need to worry, I took care of you while you were out."
The warrior's hand instinctively drifted to his bandaged back, a phantom sting lingering. "And the weapon? What happened?" he rasped, voice hoarse. The leader's smile fell away, replaced by a grim frown.
"I have bad news, friend," he admitted, his voice heavy. "The weapon... it didn't survive its fall. Broke into a thousand pieces. But fear not, I can rebuild it, stronger than before."
Surprise mixed with frustration in the warrior's eyes. "Broke? You can rebuild it?"
The leader's grim nod felt like a thunderclap in the quiet room. "Yes, a flower," he confirmed, "The Mountain Fire. Crimson blooms that dance on cliffs like tongues of flame. They hold the power to mend the Song of Sorrow."
The warrior's curiosity morphed into eagerness. "A flower then," he echoed, feeling a spark of determination ignite within him.
The leader's face clouded. "But not just any flower," he stressed. "The Mountain Fire blooms on the highest peak, guarded by a terror older than the mountains themselves – Griffin."
Excitement surged through the warrior's veins. "Griffin?" he breathed, the name a legend whispered on the wind.
The leader's eyes glinted like obsidian chips. "Eagle's head, lion's body, wings that blot out the sun. It guards the peak with jealous fury, allowing no trespasser near its fiery prize."
Determined, the warrior declared, "Then I'll fight. I'll bring you the mountain fire to fix the weapon."
The leader, a flicker of admiration warming his weathered face, gave a slow nod. "Brave words, warrior. But Griffin is no playground beast. It demands cunning, not just steel."
The warrior met his gaze, eyes burning with purpose. "My mind is as sharp as my blade," he assured, turning to leave.
But the leader's hand, calloused and kind, stopped him. "Rest, friend," he urged. "A mountain's climb is better faced on strong legs and a full belly. We'll have the weapon ready, and my people safe with the Commander. You'll find us there, when the Mountain Fire burns in your hand and the war drums echo across the land."
The warrior hesitated, logic warring with impatience. His wounds whispered of caution, his spirit roared for action. Finally, he conceded, "A short rest," he conceded, "then the Griffin falls."
The leader smiled, a hint of relief easing his worry. "Go then, rest and dream of fire. The mountain waits, but time, for once, is on our side."
With those words, the warrior yielded to the pull of sleep, the promise of battle and Mountain Fire his lullaby. The war awaited, but first, a dance with a winged lion under a sky ablaze with flames.