I sit alone beneath towering trees, their ancient forms stretching towards the heavens like solemn guardians. The forest around me whispers secrets on the wind, each rustling leaf carrying fragments of tales I can never fully understand. A gentle breeze winds its way through the branches, bringing with it a coolness that contrasts sharply with the warmth of the lone tear sliding down my cheek.

As the tear lingers, I reach up and brush it away, the mud and dirt caked beneath my nails scratching slightly against my skin. It’s a small pain, a fleeting reminder of the countless hours I’ve spent wandering this forest, lost both in place and in thought. I take a steadying breath, trying to banish the ache that weighs on my chest, yet I know it won’t truly leave me.

Each time I venture into the woods, I make a silent promise: today, I won’t cry. Today, I’ll hold onto my composure. But every time, the truth breaks me in the end. It’s not the forest itself that brings me to this point—it’s the memories etched into every tree, every shadow. This place is haunted. Not by spirits, but by a life and beauty that remain stubbornly vibrant, despite the weight of my grief.

I glance down at my hands, dirty and roughened by the journey, and watch as a single droplet of water clings to my finger, reflecting the muted sunlight filtering through the canopy. Its delicate balance fascinates me, the way it shimmers, hanging precariously on the edge. Somehow, it mirrors my own heart, always teetering between the promise of moving forward and the memories that bind me.

I tell myself it’s foolish to feel this way, that I should be stronger, like Father. But the thought of truly forgetting him, of letting go of the only memories I have left, feels like abandoning my brother all over again. Who would I be without those memories? Without him as my silent companion, the one who believed in me? Even if it’s painful, even if his absence claws at my heart, I cling to the echoes of his presence like a lifeline.

With a final, lingering glance at the tear on my finger, I wipe it away, letting it fall to the forest floor where it mingles with the rich earth, close to him, forever part of this place. I brush the mud from my hands and rise, my gaze settling on the twisted roots of an ancient oak, where a small gravestone rests, half-hidden among the tangled undergrowth.

“In memory of Eldric Rimor, Hero of Elderwood.”

The words carve themselves into my mind each time I see them, as if they’re etched into my very soul. I reach out, fingertips brushing over the stone, feeling the cold, unyielding surface beneath my hand.

“My hero,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the whispering leaves. “Goodbye, brother. Until tomorrow.”

I stand there a moment longer, letting the forest’s quiet embrace me before turning away. The walk back is long but familiar, the forest giving way to scattered signs of life as I near the edge of the woods. I always make this journey alone, and in the quiet hours between the trees, I allow myself to linger in his memory, to let my thoughts run wild before I return to the routine of everyday life.

When I finally reach the town’s edge, the hum of activity meets my ears—the rhythmic clopping of hooves, the laughter of children, the distant chatter of the market. Elderwood is quaint, a town nestled amid the towering trees that give it both its name and its warmth. Narrow cobblestone streets wind through clusters of homes with wooden frames and thatched roofs, each one radiating a cozy charm. In the town square stands a fountain, and just beside it, a statue of Eldric, his gaze cast forward, forever immortalized in stone.

As I pass through the gate, I feel eyes on me, curious glances from townsfolk who’ve grown used to my presence, yet remain wary, almost as if my grief is a visible thing, something they can sense and fear. I let the whispers slide off me and quicken my pace, steering clear of the bustling market and the cheerful voices that feel out of place in my world.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Soon, the grand iron gates of my home loom before me. Crafted with intricate detail and towering over the path, they stand as a testament to my father’s reputation—the famed Iron Blade, Alaric Rimor. Our mansion is imposing, each stone carefully laid, the walls an unyielding barrier between us and the world beyond. To anyone else, this place would seem like the pinnacle of wealth and respect. To me, it’s a prison.

I step inside the gates, and the weight of expectation settles over me like a cloak. Every inch of this place feels designed to remind me of my father’s legacy, of what he expects from me, and what I’ve yet to achieve. Deep down, I hold onto the belief that somewhere beneath his stern exterior lies a trace of warmth, a spark of the father I once knew. But that hope dims each time I walk these halls alone, each time I’m reminded of the unrelenting pressure he places upon me.

As I reach the grand entrance, our butler Jerald steps forward, his face creasing into a gentle smile. “Is that you, young master?” he asks, his tone warm and familiar.

“Yes, Jerald, I’m back!” I say, managing a smile. “Is Father in? I need to show him my form—I think I’m finally getting it right.”

Jerald’s expression shifts, and he hesitates before answering. “I’m sorry, young master. The lord is… occupied at the moment.”

My heart sinks, the brief flicker of hope extinguished. “That’s okay,” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady. “I’ll just train alone again.”

As Jerald nods and steps back, I head towards the training yard, the courtyard behind the house serving as my usual practice space. It’s a simple place—cobblestone floors, no lavish decorations, just enough room for drills and exercises. I’ve spent countless hours here, each one trying to refine my form, to become someone worthy of Father’s approval. To make him see me.

A patter of footsteps catches my attention, and I turn to see a young maid hurrying towards me, a wooden practice sword held carefully in her hands. She’s young, probably close to my age, with curly blonde hair that bounces with each step. She bows as she reaches me, her voice tentative. “Young master, I’ve brought your training sword.”

“Thank you,” I say, accepting it with a nod. She glances away, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she quickly retreats, leaving me alone.

I grip the sword, feeling its familiar weight in my hand. My heart pounds as I take my stance, letting my mana flow, its energy seeping into my muscles, lending strength and precision to each movement. I begin the Razor Leaf Form, each step a memory, a thread tying me to my brother. He taught me this form, once upon a time, his voice echoing in my mind, correcting my stance, guiding my strikes.

In my mind, he’s there with me, watching, nodding as I execute each move. His smile, warm and proud, fills my heart, spurring me onward. I pour my all into each swing, each step, each breath, hoping to bridge the gap between who I am and who I need to be.

As I move, my thoughts drift to memories of him—my brother, my hero. I see him clearly, his dark hair tousled by the breeze, his blue eyes sharp with focus, the way he moved with effortless grace. I lose myself in the rhythm, each movement an echo of the lessons he imparted, a silent dialogue with a memory.

And then, something shifts. In my mind’s eye, his face changes. His smile fades, his expression grows tense, pained. I freeze, my heart pounding, as he meets my gaze, his eyes darkening with an emotion I can’t name.

A wound opens on his chest, blood blooming like a dark flower against his shirt. My hands tremble, the wooden sword slipping from my grasp as I watch, horror-stricken. His lips move, forming words I cannot hear, but his eyes say everything. You killed me.

I stagger back, the weight of guilt and grief crashing over me like a tidal wave. The world around me blurs, and I sink to my knees, pressing my hands to the cold cobblestones beneath me. I try to breathe, but the air feels thick, suffocating.

“It was me,” I whisper, voice raw. “I’m the reason he’s gone.”

The stars above begin to emerge, faint glimmers in the twilight, watching in silent indifference. I close my eyes, letting the tears spill freely now, unashamed in the quiet of the night.

But as I kneel there, broken and alone, a flicker of resolve stirs within me, born from the depths of my grief. I will make this right, I vow to the stars and to myself. I will make everything right again.

This is my burden, my promise. The weight I carry in the hollow spaces of my heart. And tomorrow, just like today, I’ll carry it again.