At the hour of the first cry of dawn, Elijah set forth beyond the edge of known lands, where the horizon kissed the unbroken sky. There were whispers of a visionary destination—where one could confront their shadow and emerge anew. The path was riddled with trials meant to render the unfit asunder.
Elijah was not without skepticism. The tales had spun tales of their own, migrating like the sparrows across dusk-swathed villages. Yet, each dotted his resolve with beads of purpose, and he found the road beneath him a river of destiny.
On the second day, Elijah was greeted by the Sage of Coals, seated amidst a circle of flickering embers. She spoke not in words, but in whispers sewn into the breath of the campfire. Each flicker held truth, and each glow held vision. Here, initiations began, stripping away the known to fuel the flame of new sight.
He plunged his hands into the coals, not to burn, but to feel. The heat coursed through like a memory of pre-evolutionary space—a return to origin, a primal echo. Only then did the sage speak, her voice carried by unseen winds: To see, one must blind the eyes that perceive with folly.
It pained him, her words threading deeper than flesh, into the sinews of understanding. Days merged into nights, with watch fires turning the terrestrial into ethereal. Each moment a step along the winding chrysalis.
Finally, after moons of unwavering persistence, he reached the edge of the world. Truth unveiled itself, not as a silver platter, but as a barren landscape marked with milestones of countless wanderers. And here, new eyes unclouded, he understood: the destination was liberation from destination.