CHAPTER 2 - ECHOS IN THE DARK

Jolted back to the present by the shock of the impact, Alric’s survival instincts took over. The relentless current tumbled him over rocks and through rapids, leaving him gasping for breath. Panic gripped him as he fought the churning waters, but he managed to drag himself onto the muddy shore, exhausted and trembling from the cold. As he lay panting, the distant glow of his burning village haunted him, filling him with guilt and despair. Alric knew he had to keep moving, to find a way to survive this night of terror.

As darkness enveloped the forest, Alric's cautious steps were guided by the echoes of his father's teachings, a beacon in the oppressive night. "Stay aware of your surroundings, son," he whispered to himself. Every sound in the nocturnal wilderness set his heart racing, fear whispering to him from every shadow. The loss of his brother haunted his thoughts, the grief mingling with an acute sense of vulnerability.

Under the twin moons—one a mere sliver, the other a glowing orb—their ghostly light tangled through the trees, casting eerie shadows that played tricks on his eyes and mind. Haunted by echoes of the attack and too scared to sleep, Alric remembered his father's teachings about the forest's flora. Spotting a cluster of safe mushrooms, he gathered them, grateful for the small relief they provided from his gnawing hunger.

As the oppressive weight of the night lifted with dawn’s approach, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink, Alric remembered his father’s advice on tracking time and direction in the woods. He looked for the faintest signs—like how moss grew on the trees and the position of the emerging sun—to guide him towards what he hoped was safety. The two moons, now fading in the growing light, served as a reminder of the tale that had led them on their ill-fated adventure, a symbol of the unity and division Alric felt within his own heart.

With the dawn’s light bringing a fragile warmth, the shadowy outline of a village emerged at the edge of the woods, a sight that filled Alric with both relief and a piercing sense of foreboding.

Under the vast, indifferent sky, Alric allowed himself a moment of grief, his sobs muffled by the wilderness. With each tear, he vowed to navigate the treacherous paths of his fate, driven by a desperate need to honor his brother’s sacrifice. The forest around him seemed to sense his turmoil, the rustling leaves and whispering winds urging him to press on, each step away from the past yet towards an unknown destiny.

As he neared the unfamiliar village, its serene atmosphere seemed surreal against the backdrop of his recent horrors. The quaint homes and quiet streets, untouched by war, felt like stepping into another world, one where the night’s terrors were just distant whispers.

The scent of freshly baked bread wafted through the air as he reached the market, where the sight of bread and fruits intensified his gnawing hunger. He hesitated, torn between dire need and the moral teachings of his mother, which echoed faintly against the urgent pangs of hunger.

A firm hand on his shoulder snapped Alric out of his contemplation. Turning, he faced a grizzled man whose presence spoke of past battles—his calm demeanor and the sword at his hip suggesting a life steeped in conflict but guided by strength and wisdom. He wore a simple tunic, well-worn but clean, and his stance exuded a quiet strength. The man’s eyes, reflecting a history of hardships, scanned Alric. They noted his clothes, tattered and stained, clinging to his frame, and shoes scuffed and torn. Small brambles were tangled in the fabric, and smears of dirt and dried mud marked his skin, testament to his harrowing journey through the forest.

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"You weren't about to take that without paying, were you, boy?" he asked, a trace of amusement in his voice mingling with concern.

Swallowing hard, Alric felt a mix of fear and embarrassment. "No, sir, I don't have any money," he admitted in a near whisper.

The man nodded understandingly, his gaze softening. "I'm Morgan. It looks like you've seen better days, right?"

Alric hesitated, the lump in his throat growing. He studied Morgan's face, searching for a hint of deceit but finding only genuine concern. It reminded him of his father's advice: "Trust, Alric, but not blindly. Look for the earnest in a man's eyes." Taking a deep breath, he nodded slowly.

"Alright then, come with me. I'll get you something to eat," Morgan said, his voice a gentle command.

As they walked through the market, Alric’s senses remained on high alert, despite the exhaustion tugging at his limbs. He noticed how the other vendors greeted Morgan with warm nods and respectful waves, indicating his familiarity and standing in the village.

Morgan led Alric to a cozy tavern. Alric noted the worn wooden beams overhead, the walls adorned with tools and tapestries that told the village’s history. Each table bore marks of countless meetings; the air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and the tang of spiced ale, its walls echoing with soft conversations and the clinking of dishes. The tavern, a cozy hubbub of village life, felt alien to Alric. Laughter and chatter around him seemed like echoes from a different world. An elderly couple shared a quiet meal in the corner, a group of young men laughed boisterously by the hearth, and a woman with a kind face served drinks, her smile a contrast to the cold Alric had endured.

Collapsing into a tavern chair, Alric’s exhaustion surged—a deep, engulfing wave that dulled the surrounding murmurs into a distant hum. The candlelight seemed surreal, flickering like the reality he had escaped. Just a few hours ago, he was amidst death and destruction, and now here he was, in a haven of warmth and life. He found himself grappling with a mix of relief and guilt—relief at his own safety, and guilt for being the one who made it out. 'Why me?' he thought, struggling to reconcile his brother’s sacrifice with his own continued existence.

He was given a hot meal of stew and bread, the aroma alone making his stomach ache with hunger.

Alric's hands trembled as he took the spoon, each movement echoing a memory of Rylan. The laughter they shared, the plans they made—now ghosts that flickered in the candlelight. He ate quickly, each spoonful of stew a balm to his weary body. Now, those simple joys felt like relics from another life, making Alric’s solitude even sharper. Across the table, Morgan watched with a steady, empathetic gaze that seemed to pierce through Alric's defenses, inviting him to share more than he had intended.

"What's your name, lad?" he finally asked.

"Alric," he replied, his voice steadier now, the warmth of the food and the tavern infusing a slight strength into him.

"Alric," Morgan echoed thoughtfully. "And where are you from?"

Hesitating, Alric's gaze fell to his bowl. "A village… it was destroyed by soldiers wearing golden masks," he murmured, the words reigniting the ache of loss in his chest. "They… they took my brother…"

As Alric recounted his tale, Morgan's demeanor shifted subtly. His hand, which had been resting casually on the table, clenched into a fist, knuckles whitening. His gaze, once warm and inviting, now bore a steely edge as he stared into the distance, momentarily lost in his own thoughts. His voice dropped to a murmur tinged with anger, "It's the same old story," he muttered, shaking his head. "Preying on the innocent… cowards, every last one of them."

Alric looked up, finding a shared sense of outrage and understanding in Morgan's eyes. For the first time since the attack, he didn't feel utterly alone in his grief. Morgan softly added, "Years ago, I found myself on a similar path, lad," Morgan began, his gaze distant as he stirred his own stew. "Lost more than I care to admit. It's why I stopped to help you. I saw a bit of my own story in your eyes. But you're safe here. You can stay with me for a while, get back on your feet."

The offer lodged in Alric's throat, a mix of gratitude and disbelief. Safe. The word echoed in his mind, a faint glimmer of hope in the midst of his shattered world.