Where stories are born,not generated.

Jun dragged his feet slowly and steadily along the steep mountain path. The thick morning humidity made his breathing shallow. He felt as though he was trying to breathe underwater, while his clothes clung to him heavy. The path led to the AltkanPass, the only way through to the northern lands for those who didn't wish to go by sea. It was an ancient trail that wound its way among the beeches, maples, and pines scattered throughout the forest. Few, however, still chose to cross it rather than sail around it. Jun preferred the silence of the woods.

He stopped briefly to catch his breath. He set his pack down carefully. He reached for his flask — a small, pale gourd hanging from the side of his pack. Pulled out the cork with a sharp tug, and drank. He was measured with his sips, knowing he would find no water on this side of the mountain. He had to reach the top of the pass and cross to the other side, where streams ran freely if he wanted to fill his flask again. When he finished he hung it back in its place. He looked back along the stretch of path he had already climbed, moving his body to shake off the ache of the ascent. He had been a child the last time he was here. He remembered descending this same path with a light, eager step. He smiled at the memory. How different things felt today, he thought.

He hoisted his pack with a small grunt and swung it over one shoulder. He set off up the slope again and then stopped immediately. High on the path, a man leaned against a tree. His face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat, leaving only his lips and chin visible. His body was relaxed, but in his left hand he held a katana, still in its scabbard. Jun had no need to guess who this man was. He would have recognized that sword anywhere, but even more so the hand that held it. He felt his heart sink in his chest, for he knew the reason the man was here.

"At last you are here, sensei," the man said as his hand closed around the hilt.