Those were his father’s words from long ago. Not just words, in truth, but a warning. Despite this, in the end, Cutter, like so many others, had chosen pain, had chosen death. Maybe he had done so when he lay dying in some back alley of his home city. Maybe it had been when Yeladrian, the Fey King, had gifted him the Breaker of Pacts. Or perhaps he had not chosen his path at all. Perhaps it had chosen him. Either way, there was no choice left to him now. His path lay before him, and so the only thing left to do was to walk it. And so he did. His brother beside him, Cutter walked through the shadows and into the alien darkness of the Black Wood. He was wounded from the countless fights which had come before. He was tired from days and weeks, from a lifetime spent striving in battle. He was hopeless, for his life had taught him little of hope but much of pain. And yet, he was breathing. He was alive. And so he walked the path before him. He walked a warrior’s path.