The Pathfinder's Oath

Aiden's words hung heavy, cutting through the hum of dissolved entities and the party's collective shock. "Change of plans," his voice flat, absolute. "You're not ready for this. Not like this."

Sascha, still kneeling with Excalibur plunged into the distorted earth, finally looked up, his face a mixture of exhaustion, confusion, and fresh irritation. "Not ready?" he challenged, voice raspy. "Aiden, we just faced... whatever those things were! We fought them! You finished them off like it was nothing! What do you mean 'not ready'?"

His gaze swept from the dissolving remnants to Aiden, then to his companions, seeking affirmation.

Miriam, clutching her daggers, found her voice. "He's right. We took on one. We just needed a moment to figure out their fight." She cast a quick, meaningful glance at Lucille, who subtly nodded.

Sona, her worry for Sascha morphing into nervous energy, chimed in. "They were really scary, Aiden, but we've faced scary things before! We can learn!"

Lucille stepped forward, thoughtful. "Pathfinder, with all due respect, your assessment, though accurate regarding our initial struggle, doesn't account for our adaptability. We may not have immediately understood their reality-warping properties, but we were adjusting. What, precisely, are we 'not ready' for?"

Aiden slowly turned his helmeted head, his gaze sweeping over them. "You struggled against one," he stated, voice devoid of judgment, simply fact. "Their attacks destabilize local reality. Prolonged exposure causes systemic breakdown. Mental, physical. You saw it in the trees. You felt it when you took that hit, Sascha."

Sascha flinched, recalling the painful disorientation and the ground rippling beneath him. "Okay, so they're tricky," he admitted grudgingly. "But we're still here, aren't we? We won, thanks to you, but still!"

"Winning by sheer luck and intervention isn't readiness," Aiden retorted, his voice still flat. "My purpose is mission success and your survival, not babysitting a training exercise." He paused, his next words carrying a deeper, more serious tone, devoid of his usual banter. "The deeper we go, the stronger the rifts become. More entities will be present. And they won't be 'minor.' You won't adapt. You will break."

Arianne, silent until now, spoke calmly but firmly. "Aiden speaks truth. The corruption here isn't merely physical. It preys on the mind, on the spirit. To face more, and stronger, of these abominations without clearer understanding, without a way to mitigate their influence... it would be folly."

Her elven senses, attuned to the subtleties of magic and existence, felt the deeper implications keenly.

Sascha, still chafing at the "not ready" assessment, visibly deflated under the weight of Aiden and Arianne's combined gravitas. He looked at Excalibur, its hum still faint. "So... what's the plan then, Pathfinder?"

Aiden returned his gaze to Sascha. "The original plan was to secure segments of the Thicket, identify the rift source, and suppress it. That requires the most direct path." He gestured ahead, into the still-darker, more twisted depths. "The new plan: you go around. I go ahead."

The party stared. "Go around?" Miriam blurted. "You're going in alone?"

"That's suicide, Aiden!" Sascha exclaimed, scrambling up, pulling Excalibur from the ground. "You just saw what those things can do! Even you said there'd be stronger ones!"

Lucille's tactical mind kicked in. "Pathfinder, while your capabilities are clearly exceptional, a solo infiltration of an unknown, reality-warping environment against escalating threats is an unacceptable risk. Our combined strengths, however flawed, are greater than a single point of failure."

Sona, pale, echoed their sentiments. "Please, Aiden! We're a party! We stay together!"

Aiden's helmeted head tilted imperceptibly, as if considering their protests. He offered no argument or explanation. Instead, he simply reiterated, his voice flat and final. "You aren't ready. I am."

Aiden's flat declaration only inflamed the rising tide of protest. "Not ready?! Are you serious, Aiden?" Sascha demanded, voice cracking with exasperation. "We're the White Eagle Party! We've taken down dragons, warlords, entire bandit armies! You expect us to just... sit here while you go play hero?" Miriam added, her usual bravado tinged with frustration, "He's right! We just needed a minute! Those things were weird, yeah, but we're not pushovers!"

Sona wrung her hands. "But... but we fight together! That's what we do!"

Lucille's jaw tightened. "Pathfinder, a lone operative, no matter how skilled, is always at a disadvantage against overwhelming numbers or unforeseen circumstances. Our combined, albeit unconventional, tactics offer a more robust approach than isolating our primary asset."

Aiden remained impassive through their barrage, his helmeted head tilted as if patiently waiting. When their protests faded, he spoke, his calm voice cutting through their arguments with surgical precision.

"Readiness isn't a feeling," Aiden stated, flat but undeniably weighty. "It's a state of being. You say you are ready. Let's examine that."

He paused, and the air thickened with his quiet intensity.

"Sascha," Aiden began, turning slightly towards the Hero, his voice devoid of accusation, simply stating facts. "You relied on brute force and Excalibur's sheer power. Faced with an enemy distorting reality, your first instinct was to clash directly, to absorb impact. You didn't adapt. You strained against it, absorbing disorientation rather than anticipating or negating it. Your power is immense, but without understanding their attacks' nuances, it becomes a hammer against a ripple in water. Effective in impact, but messy, costly, inefficient."

Sascha flinched, remembering how his vision wavered, the jarring vibration threatening to tear the sword from his grasp.

Aiden shifted his unseen gaze to Miriam. "Miriam. Your agility is commendable. You danced around its attacks. But your focus remained on finding a physical opening, a weak point for your blades. These entities don't have conventional weak points as you understand them. Their very existence warps space, making precise strikes against a stable target impossible. You'd wear yourself down chasing a target never quite where it appears, always just beyond reach, while its ambient distortion slowly fractured your perception."

Miriam swallowed hard, recalling how every dodge felt slightly off, how the creature's limbs seemed to stretch or shrink mid-swing.

"Sona," Aiden continued, and the mage visibly tensed. "Your magic is powerful. But your spells are designed for predictable physics, predictable magical resistances. When you cast, their ambient distortion interfered with your arcane flow. Your spells struggled to manifest fully, to find their target. Imagine facing multiple such entities. Your most devastating attacks dampened, your defensive wards shimmered into uselessness, all while their reality-bending aura preyed on your delicate mental focus."

Sona's face paled. She had felt her spells waver, struggled to maintain concentration. He was right.

"Lucille," Aiden finally addressed the tactician. "Your strategic mind is your greatest asset. You assess, plan, adapt. But your plans rely on observable patterns, logical progression. These entities, by their very nature, defy logic. Their movements aren't just fast; they're momentarily outside consistent space-time. Their attacks create micro-rifts. How do you plan for an enemy that doesn't obey engagement rules? Every tactic you devised would crumble the moment its reality-warping presence distorted the battlefield around you, shifting terrain, blurring targets, making coordinated movements a chaotic gamble."

Lucille's composure fractured slightly. Her sharp gaze now held a flicker of grim realization. He had seen every flaw, every limitation, with brutal clarity.

"This isn't about courage," Aiden concluded, unwavering. "It's about capability. And you lack the specific capability for direct, sustained engagement with these threats in their escalating forms. You are not ready."

A heavy, chastened silence fell. Aiden's blunt, surgical breakdown of their individual shortcomings was unarguable. He hadn't just watched them; he'd seen the subtle ways their perception of reality was being challenged, moments they themselves hadn't fully registered.

Then, Arianne, the group's calm anchor, stepped forward, serene gaze fixed on Aiden. "You speak with the authority of experience, Aiden," she stated, gentle yet firm. "You fought them... differently. Not just with skill, but with an understanding that transcends our own." She paused, eyes widening slightly with realization. "It's clear you've faced these entities before. Many times. The way you moved, the way you ended them... you completely wiped them from existence without hesitation, without a wasted motion. That efficiency, that absolute understanding of their vulnerabilities, goes beyond simple combat skill."

Arianne's gaze intensified. "I believe," she continued, voice soft but resonating with profound insight, "that you haven't merely fought these entities before, Aiden. I believe you've fought them in their native environment. In the very place they emerge from. You have been in the rifts. You have fought them where they are strongest."

Aiden remained perfectly silent, his helmeted head perfectly still—no denial, no confirmation, no movement at all. His utter stillness was confirmation enough. The party watched, utterly mesmerized, as the terrifying implication of Arianne's words settled. He'd been in the rifts—the chaotic, reality-tearing places these abominations came from.

Sascha felt a chill colder than any forest air creep up his spine. Miriam's eyes were wide, a silent testament to the sheer scale of Aiden's existence. Sona let out a small gasp. Lucille simply stared, mind reeling, trying to process the revelation.

Arianne continued, her voice tinged with quiet sorrow, as if burdened by unwelcome knowledge. "The Pathfinder Order... it fights these threats, doesn't it? Keeps them at bay. Keeps the world from knowing the true dangers beyond the veil. Is that why so few of you remain?" Her voice dropped to a near whisper, as if she already knew. "How many have fallen, Aiden? Keeping these horrors from our world?"

Aiden remained silent for a beat too long. Seconds stretched into an eternity, filled only by the distant, distorted creaks of the Thicket and the frantic beat of the party's hearts. Finally, his voice came, flat and devoid of emotion, yet carrying an immense, unspoken weight that silenced everything around them.

"Too many," Aiden said. "Too many to count."

Aiden's stark declaration echoed in the grotesque silence of the Thicket, settling over the White Eagle Party like a shroud. Its chilling finality painted a grim picture no elaborate tale could convey. The air crackled not with magic, but with the palpable weight of countless unseen sacrifices.

Sascha slowly lowered Excalibur, its tip sinking back into the soft, corrupt earth. His usual cockiness stripped away, replaced by profound, almost childlike awe and shame. He had been so quick to dismiss Aiden, to challenge his assessment, to boast.

Now, facing the enormity of what Pathfinders endured, what Aiden himself had endured, his arguments felt embarrassingly petty. He looked at Aiden—this silent, mysterious figure—no longer seeing a mere guide or temporary ally, but a living testament to a war fought in shadows, a sentinel of realities. The thought of Aiden going in alone now wasn't just strategically unsound; it was a testament to a burden he carried, one they could barely fathom.

Miriam's playful cynicism vanished, her face unusually somber. She prided herself on shrewd judgment, on seeing through facades. But Aiden… Aiden was an abyss. His casual talk of battling reality-warping horrors, the ease with which he dispatched them, the revelation of his journeys into the rifts, and now, the endless toll on his Order—it was simply too much.

She looked at her daggers, then at the dissolving smoke, feeling suddenly, acutely inadequate. Her world, once clearly defined by coin, shadows, and targets, had expanded into something terrifyingly vast and indifferent, guarded by silent warriors who died in droves.

Sona's eyes welled, though no tears fell. Her innate empathy, usually focused on her friends, now extended to Aiden. She saw not just a formidable warrior, but a solitary soul burdened by unimaginable weight.

"All those lives..." she whispered, barely audible. The thought of an entire order, dedicating themselves to such a horrific, unseen war, dying in numbers too vast to tally, broke her heart. Her worry for Sascha now encompassed Aiden, a deep, silent ache for the path he walked alone.

Lucille's analytical mind, usually quick to form strategies, felt overwhelmed. Every piece of information about Aiden, every displayed ability, every revelation about his Order, rewrote her understanding of their world. These 'entities,' 'rifts,' and 'Pathfinders' silently bleeding to keep them at bay—it was a strategic nightmare on a cosmic scale.

Her previous arguments about combined strength, while technically sound for a conventional war, felt tragically naive against what Aiden and his Order truly fought. Her initial assessment of him as an asset had been correct, but she had vastly underestimated that asset's scale, and the horrors it faced. A new, grudging respect, far deeper than any tactical admiration, settled upon her.

A long, heavy moment passed as the party absorbed the full impact of Aiden's words and Arianne's insights. They had asked for answers, and Aiden had given them, not with flowery prose or emotional appeals, but with the brutal, unadorned truth of his existence. It was a truth that dwarfed their own heroic struggles, making their immediate mission feel both more urgent and terrifyingly insignificant in the grand scheme.

The heavy silence stretched, a palpable weight in the twisted, eerie Thicket. Aiden stood unmoving, his helmeted head still, a dark sentinel amidst the dissolving motes.

The White Eagle Party remained frozen, each lost in stunned reflections on the crushing reality Aiden had laid bare. Battle's roar, combat's thrill, the familiar beats of a heroic journey—all evaporated, replaced by a cold, alien dread.

Finally, Sascha, his usual boisterous energy completely drained, broke the spell. His voice was quiet, hesitant, a stark contrast to his earlier shouts. He looked up at Aiden, then down at Excalibur, its legendary power suddenly insignificant against an unseen cosmic war.

"Aiden," he began, searching for words. "Aiden... I... I'm sorry." The apology was raw, genuine, stripped of pride or bravado. "We... we didn't understand. We don't understand any of this. We thought... we thought we knew what 'danger' was. What a 'hero' was supposed to do." He gestured vaguely at the lingering smoke. "Those things... they weren't like anything we've ever faced."

He looked from Aiden to his friends, a new, somber understanding in his eyes. "You were right. We weren't ready. Not for that."

Miriam, typically quick with a witty retort, simply nodded, gaze fixed on the ground. She bit her lip, then sighed, a sound of profound resignation. "Yeah," she muttered, "my bad. Your 'minor entities' were slightly... more than I anticipated. And your 'scared' comment? Okay, I get it now. That was dumb. Really dumb." For Miriam, admitting something was "dumb" was akin to a grand confession.

Sona, wiping a stray tear, finally looked up at Aiden. "But... if it's so dangerous," she whispered, "why... why do you do it, Aiden? Why does your Order do it? If so many have fallen..." Her voice trailed off, unable to voice the unspoken despair.

Lucille, ever practical despite the shock, lowered her sword. Her tactical mind, though reeling, sought purpose. "Pathfinder," she said, steadying her voice, "your assessment of our capabilities was accurate. Our initial approach was flawed. However, our objective remains. The rift, the source of this corruption... it must be dealt with. If we are not 'ready,' then what is the plan, precisely? To simply abandon this segment of the Thicket to these entities?"

Her question held a desperate plea for direction, for a way forward through this new, terrifying reality.

Arianne, her serene expression unchanged, placed a comforting hand on Sascha's shoulder. She looked at Aiden, a quiet understanding passing between them. "Aiden speaks of a 'Path' that can be glimpsed, a connection to the sword," she mused softly, addressing the party. "Perhaps our understanding of combat itself needs to evolve. We cannot fight beings that warp reality with mere physical prowess or conventional magic. We must find a way to meet them on their own terms, or find a way around their terms entirely." She then turned her gaze back to Aiden, a silent plea for guidance.

Aiden listened to their reflections and renewed questions, his posture unchanged. He processed their words—their humility, their fear, their tentative desire to comprehend. He finally broke his unmoving stance, taking a slow step forward, his boot making no sound.

"The objective remains," Aiden confirmed, addressing Lucille directly, his voice flat but resolute. "The rift must be suppressed. Abandonment isn't an option. It would only grow." He paused, his gaze sweeping over each of them, lingering on Sascha.

"You want to be ready," Aiden stated, his voice now holding a hint of detached acknowledgment. "Then you will train. Here. Now. You won't face another entity until you've learned." He gestured to the grotesque Thicket. "This forest is a natural environment for distortion. We will use it. We will use what you already possess. Your connection to your weapon, Sascha. Your perception, Miriam. Your arcane flow, Sona. Your tactical mind, Lucille. Arianne already understands adaptation."

He then looked at Sascha, his gaze boring into the young hero. "You think Excalibur is just a sword. It is a conduit. It is a key. It has chosen you. It will show you the way, if you learn to listen beyond your ears, beyond your sight, beyond your fear. It will show you the Path in combat."

"The Path isn't a spell you cast, or a move you make," Aiden clarified, addressing the wider party. "It's a fundamental shift in perception. A temporary bypass of conventional reality. You learn to flow through the distortions, to see the true vectors of attack, to strike where 'here' and 'now' are fluid concepts. You learn to listen to the whisper of reality tearing, and move with it, not against it."

"This training will be... unconventional," Aiden concluded, his voice holding no promise of comfort, only certainty. "And it will be difficult. But it is the only way you survive past this point. And the only way the mission succeeds. You will either adapt, or you will fall."

He gave them no time to respond, no room for further debate. With that, Aiden turned, his silent form already moving deeper into the Thicket, towards a less corrupted, yet still eerie, part of the forest.

He expected them to follow. The choice, though unspoken, was clear: learn, or be left behind to eventually be consumed by the horrors they were not yet ready to face.