The village square was silent, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Edrin was buried beneath the oak tree, his blood soaked into the earth. Auren stood alone, the weight of the shovel in his hands, the dirt piling higher as he buried his father.

No words were spoken. No one came to help. They’d all seen what happened. None had stepped forward.

When the last of the dirt covered the grave, Auren stood, his chest tight, and stared at the oak. The village would forget. They always did. But he wouldn’t. Not this time.

The village of Rivenstead was wrapped in silence. Edrin was dead, and life moved on, a dull, uncomfortable hum beneath the surface.

Auren saw it—the way people avoided his gaze, the way they moved, heads down, as if pretending nothing had happened would make it go away.

He clenched his fists. His father had protected them all. Now they bowed to the very people who had taken him.

Then came the Lorewarden.

Auren stood by the river, his back to the elder as he spoke. “You intend to leave.”

“There’s nothing left here,” Auren replied.

The elder sighed. “Where will you go?”

Auren’s jaw tightened. “I’ll find my own way.”

The Lorewarden studied him for a moment. “The world outside Rivenstead is not kind to those without power. You think you can take on Hadric Valthorne?”

“I’d rather die fighting than live under their rule.”

“Death is easy. Living with purpose is harder.” The Lorewarden placed a hand on Auren’s shoulder. “You don’t have to forget your anger, but you must temper it.”

Auren pulled away. “You’re all the same. Just bend, just survive.”

“We fight in the ways we can,” the elder said quietly.

Auren turned away. “Then I will do so in my own way.”

He found Seline at the edge of the village, her arms crossed, her face tight.

“So, that’s it? You’re leaving?” she asked.

Auren didn’t hesitate. “I have to.”

She exhaled sharply. “Of course you do.”

She didn’t beg him to stay, didn’t try to hold him back. Instead, she nodded, like she had already known.

“I’ll come back,” Auren said.

“Better,” she replied with a small smile. “Or I’ll hunt you down myself.”

Auren smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He turned away, and without another word, walked into the woods, Rivenstead fading behind him.

The weight of his promise, the fire of revenge, carried him forward.

And so he left.

###

His breath came in ragged gasps, but he did not stop. The weight of his father’s death, pressed down on him like an iron collar.

Somewhere in his mind, he clung to the image of Rivenstead’s old withered oak, standing alone in the village square—scarred, gnarled, yet unyielding. That was how his father had stood before death. Unbent.

But Auren? He was breaking. His stomach twisted with hunger and grief.

The wilderness was not kind. He knew of the bandits who thrived in the shadows. Yet, his hands were empty, and his knowledge was shallow. He had never needed to fend for himself-Until now. He scoured the forest floor for anything edible, but the berries he found were bitter, barely easing the pain in his gut.

He pressed on, searching for water. His lips were dry, his throat raw, but the only sound that reached him was the whisper of leaves and the distant caws of birds. He followed the faint scent of damp earth, hoping it would lead him to a stream, but his legs faltered before he found one. He collapsed against a tree, panting, eyes unfocused.

Time passed in a haze. The sun shifted, shadows stretched. He lost track of how long he sat there, slumped and defeated. His mind drifted between exhaustion and stubborn resolve.

Then, the growl came.

Auren froze. The night was still young. He could not even run. He stumbled and fell.

His fingers clenched the bloodstained cloth tied around his head—a keepsake from his father’s tunic. He had thought it would give him strength. Instead, it had drawn some uninvited guests.

A pair of glowing green eyes emerged from the darkness. Then another. Then more.

Wolves.

Auren’s gasped. He crawled back. The largest of the wolves—a beast with a scar running down its snout—stalked closer. It bared its fangs, saliva dripping onto the forest floor. The others circled him, leaving no room for escape.

Auren felt death looming closer than ever. He gritted his teeth.

"No. Not like this. Even if I die,it will be after I claim that bastard's head!"

Auren grabbed the nearest thing he could find—a jagged rock, rough and cold in his palm. He clenched it as hard as he could. He didn’t think. He moved.

The rock met flesh.

A sickening sound echoed through the forest as the wolf yelped and staggered, blood darkening its fur. Auren wasted no time. He scrambled to his feet and drove the rock down again, striking with everything he had. The wolf went still.

For a heartbeat, the pack hesitated.

Then, the growls grew fiercer. Auren barely had time to lift his hands before the rest of them closed in.

A blur of motion.

A flash of steel.

A sickening thunk—shiekkk—

The second wolf collapsed mid-leap, an arrow lodged deep in its skull. The others had begun to run as a shadow stepped into the dim moonlight, bow still drawn, another arrow already nocked.

A man.

His cloak was dark, hiding his face, his hair streaked with gray, but his eyes were sharp—too sharp for an ordinary hunter. He exhaled, lowering his bow slightly as he studied Auren’s bloodied hands and the dead wolf at his feet.

Then, with a smirk, he spoke. “Kid, if you’re trying to die, there are quicker ways than wearing a dinner bell on your forehead.”

Auren, still shaking, removed the bloodstained cloth from his head.

The man sighed, slinging his bow over his shoulder. “Come on. You’ll last two more nights out here, maybe three if you stop bleeding all over the damn place.”

Auren hesitated. He didn’t trust this man.

But he had nothing to lose, nowhere else to go.

So, with one last glance at the darkened trees, he followed.

The man led him deeper into the forest, moving with ease through the dense trees. Auren struggled to keep up, his limbs felt heavier then ever. He had a ton of questions, but his throat was too dry for words.

Eventually, they reached a small clearing. A camp, a few hunting tools, and a single, weathered tent. The man gestured for Auren to sit by the fire. He followed, too exhausted to argue.

From a pack, the man pulled out a strip of dried meat and tossed it to him. “Eat.”

Auren caught it with shaking hands, barely hesitating before biting down. The taste was coarse and salty, but to him, it was the finest thing he’d ever eaten. He devoured it in seconds.

The man watched with an unreadable expression. After a moment, he spoke. “Name’s Corren.”

Auren swallowed hard. “Auren.”

Corren gave a slow nod. “Well, Auren, you’re either brave or a fool to wander these woods alone.”

Auren met his gaze, determination burning behind his exhaustion. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Corren studied him, then smirked. “No one ever does.”

Then Corren chuckled, shaking his head. “Seriously, though, the blood-soaked headband? What?, were you planning on intimidating the wildlife? ‘Cause let me tell you, the only thing you scared was me-thought I’d found some lunatic forest spirit.”

Auren frowned, glancing at the cloth in his hands.

Corren sighed. “Fine, fine, keep your sentimental death-rag. Just… maybe don’t wear it like a damn target next time.”

Auren huffed but tucked the cloth away. He wasn’t ready to let go of it yet.

Corren grinned. “See? You might just survive, kid. Maybe.”

He poked at the fire, then shot Auren a sideways glance. “You got a plan, or are you just winging this whole ‘lone avenger’ thing?”

Auren hesitated, then met Corren’s gaze. “I have a plan.”

Corren chuckled again, shaking his head. “Well, this I gotta hear.”

The fire crackled between them, and for the first time in days, Auren felt warmth—not just from the flames, but something else.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t alone in this.