The caravan’s wheels creaked over the uneven, rocky path, jolting Radyn in his seat. He shifted his weight again, trying to find some comfort on the hard wooden bench. It had been two weeks of rough terrain and relentless heat, and he was beginning to feel as though the journey would never end. The land stretched out before them, an endless sea of dry hills and gnarled trees. Above, the cloudless sky was a harsh, unwavering blue, and the sun bore down mercilessly.
“Are we ever going to get there?” Radyn muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. He squinted at the horizon, though he already knew what he’d see: more of the same barren landscape. No sign of Gismarll.
Dalen, sitting beside him with a relaxed grip on the horses’ reins, chuckled. His weathered face creased with the kind of amusement that only came with experience. “Patience, Radyn,” he said. “We’ll reach Gismarll soon enough. Besides, the journey’s part of the lesson.”
Radyn huffed, shifting again as the wagon hit another bump. “What lesson? How to sit on my backside for weeks and get sunburned?”
Dalen gave him a sidelong glance, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Your parents wanted you to see the world, boy. To get out of that village and learn something about life. You can’t learn everything sitting still.”
Radyn’s stomach twisted at the mention of his parents. He quickly looked away, staring at the dust rising from the wheels. His parents had always talked about taking him on their travels one day, showing him the world beyond the village. But they never got the chance. They had been killed on a trade route—on this very road, in fact—leaving him with Dalen, his uncle. It was a bitter reminder that gnawed at him with every passing mile.
“I know,” Radyn said quietly, the words tight in his throat. “It’s just… I don’t see the point. It’s been two weeks, and Gismarll’s not going anywhere.”
Dalen sighed, guiding the horses around a particularly deep rut. “The point isn’t just reaching Gismarll,” he said, his tone softening. “The point is what you see along the way. Every journey shapes you, Radyn. Even the hard ones.”
Radyn fell silent, staring at the dusty road ahead. He respected Dalen—his father’s older brother—who had taken him in when everything fell apart. But Dalen wasn’t his father. He was tougher, more practical, and spoke in cryptic lessons rather than offering comfort. Radyn often wondered if Dalen was preparing him for something more than just life on a trade route, but if that was the case, his uncle hadn’t said.
They rode in silence for a while, the steady clatter of the wheels and the occasional snort from the horses the only sounds between them. Radyn’s thoughts drifted, despite his efforts to keep them at bay, and he found himself pulled back to the day everything had changed.
He had been in the fields outside the village when Dalen came for him, his face drawn and grim. Radyn could still remember the way his stomach had dropped at the sight of his uncle approaching, his wide strides too fast, too urgent.
“Radyn,” Dalen had said, his voice tight. “Come with me.”
They had gone back to the house, where his parents’ belongings lay untouched, and Dalen had delivered the news—news that made Radyn’s legs give out from under him. His parents were dead. Bandits had attacked their caravan on the road to Gismarll, and there had been no survivors. The world had fallen away beneath Radyn’s feet that day, and he hadn’t been able to find solid ground since.
Back in the present, Radyn shifted uncomfortably, trying to push the memory aside. He didn’t like thinking about that day. He didn’t like thinking about the hollow ache that followed him everywhere, or the way Dalen looked at him sometimes, as though he wasn’t sure how to be a father to him.
“You’ve got a lot more to learn, Radyn,” Dalen said after a long stretch of silence. His voice was softer now, almost gentle, as if he, too, was caught up in thoughts of the past. “The world’s not all quiet villages and peaceful days. You’ve got to be prepared for that.”
Radyn frowned but said nothing. Dalen always spoke cryptically, as if he was trying to impart some greater wisdom without ever spelling it out. It was frustrating, especially when Radyn didn’t feel like learning anything from the world right now. He just wanted to get to Gismarll and be done with this endless, exhausting journey.
The caravan continued its slow, steady pace, the rough terrain making every mile feel like three. Radyn glanced back at the other wagons trailing behind them—five in total, carrying goods for trade. A few guards on horseback rode alongside, their eyes scanning the landscape, though they seemed relaxed enough. After two weeks of uneventful travel, even they had grown bored.
Radyn’s gaze returned to the horizon. He tried to ignore the growing sense of impatience gnawing at him. They had been on the road for what felt like forever, and every part of him itched to be done with it. Gismarll couldn’t come soon enough.
As they rounded a bend in the road, the landscape opened up before them, stretching out into the distance. But instead of the barren land they had been passing through, there was something else—something that made Radyn sit up straighter, his heart skipping a beat.
Figures, standing in the road ahead. At a distance, they seemed like regular travelers, but as the wagons drew closer, a strange tension settled in his chest.
Five or six men were clustered near a withered tree, their horses tethered nearby. Unlike most travelers Radyn had seen on this journey, these men lacked the usual signs of merchants or farmers. There were no packs or wagons, no tools or trade goods. Their clothes were ragged, mismatched, and heavily worn, more like the garb of men who spent their lives on the fringes of society. Several of them were armed, though their weapons were kept low, as if they didn’t want to draw attention—yet.
“Dalen,” Radyn whispered, his voice tight. “Look.”
Dalen followed Radyn’s gaze, his face hardening as his eyes landed on the group. “Keep your head down,” he muttered under his breath. “We don’t want trouble.”
Radyn didn’t need to be told twice, but his instincts screamed that trouble had already found them. Something about the way the men stood was wrong. Their casual postures were too controlled, too deliberate, as if they were lying in wait. One of them, a tall man with a deep scar running from his temple down to his jaw, leaned against the tree, his eyes sharp and calculating as they tracked the movement of the caravan. He wasn’t just watching—he was assessing.
Radyn’s fingers itched for his sword, his heart beating faster. “Something’s not right,” he murmured, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his short sword.
Dalen’s gaze stayed locked on the men. He gave a small nod, barely noticeable, but Radyn saw the tension in his uncle’s posture. “I know,” Dalen replied quietly. “But we’re outnumbered, and we’ve no reason to stop. We will keep moving, lad. Stay calm.”
Radyn forced his eyes forward, though every fiber of his being was on alert. His stomach twisted with a sense of impending danger. The men didn’t make any overt moves, but Radyn couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being sized up. As the wagons passed the group, the scarred man lifted his chin in a slow, deliberate nod. His eyes lingered on the goods piled in the back of the wagon, and for a fleeting moment, his gaze locked with Radyn’s.
A shiver ran down Radyn’s spine. It wasn’t just a glance. It was a promise.
As they moved past, Radyn caught snatches of conversation—too low to understand—but there was an unmistakable edge to the men’s voices. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn’t good. He glanced at the guards riding alongside the wagons, but they seemed unperturbed, casually scanning the landscape. They had likely encountered groups like this before—travelers, drifters, harmless enough when left alone. But Radyn knew better. These weren’t harmless drifters.
The tension in his gut twisted tighter.
Radyn risked another glance back as they passed the men. The scarred one was still watching, though he had now straightened from his position against the tree. His posture was more alert, more predatory. Radyn felt the air grow heavier around him, as though they were walking into a trap that had yet to be sprung.
“Do you think they’ll follow us?” Radyn asked, his voice low and strained.
Dalen’s lips pressed into a hard line, his eyes flicking from the road ahead to the shrinking figures behind them. “They might,” he said. “Keep your sword close, lad. We may need it before long.”
Radyn swallowed hard, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword. The sun was sinking lower now, the shadows of the valley growing longer, and the air felt cooler. The thought of making camp for the night with those men somewhere nearby made his skin prickle. Every instinct told him to keep moving, to put as much distance as possible between them and those men.
He looked over at Dalen, whose face was set in the same determined expression he always wore in moments of danger. “Are we in trouble?”
“Not yet,” Dalen answered quietly. “But we will be if we’re not careful.”
Radyn’s mind raced. The scarred man’s gaze lingered in his thoughts, along with the way the others had watched the caravan so intently. It wasn’t just curiosity. They had been calculating, watching, waiting. There was a hunger in their eyes, a look that sent a chill down his spine.
The wagons creaked onward, the guards still oblivious, their focus on the road ahead. The valley stretched on before them, but now every shadow seemed to hide a threat. Radyn kept glancing back over his shoulder, half expecting to see those men coming after them. The road was quiet, but the unease in his gut only grew stronger.
“We should warn the others,” Radyn suggested, his voice a little sharper than he intended.
Dalen glanced at him, weighing the suggestion before shaking his head. “Not yet. We don’t want to start a panic. We need to stay calm and stay together.”
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Radyn clenched his jaw, feeling a mix of frustration and fear. He trusted Dalen’s judgment, but his instincts were screaming that something bad was about to happen. The air around them felt charged, like the quiet before a storm.
As the caravan continued its slow, steady pace through the valley, Radyn kept his eyes on the road behind them, his heart racing. The sun had dipped below the horizon now, and the shadows were long and deep. In the distance, the figures were gone, swallowed by the growing darkness, but Radyn knew they were still out there.
Waiting.
The road stretched on, but Radyn couldn’t shake the feeling that something dark was creeping up behind them, waiting for the right moment to strike. His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, ready for whatever came next.
The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when the first scream pierced the air.
Radyn jolted awake, his body instantly alert, instincts honed from months of traveling on edge. His hand found the hilt of his sword even before his mind fully grasped the danger. The flickering light from the campfire cast ominous shadows on the wagons as figures emerged from the twilight, moving with deadly intent.
“Raiders!” The shout came from one of the caravan guards, already on his feet, sword drawn.
Chaos followed, unfolding with brutal speed. From the nearby trees, a swarm of attackers poured into the camp, their scarred faces twisted with a predatory hunger. They were like shadows, armed with swords, clubs, and axes, their movements fast and unforgiving.
Radyn scrambled to his feet just as Dalen sprang into action, loosing arrows from his longbow with unnerving accuracy. “Radyn, help the others!” Dalen’s voice was steady, even as he fired another arrow into the neck of an approaching raider.
Radyn’s heart pounded, adrenaline surging through him. Fear gnawed at the edges of his mind, but he forced it down. He drew his sword and ran toward the wagons, where a few guards were making a stand. The raiders, far outnumbering them, had already broken through parts of the line, their advance swift and brutal.
A raider charged at Radyn, his eyes wild with bloodlust. Radyn barely sidestepped the first swing, his body reacting instinctively, and retaliated with a quick slash across the man’s side. The raider grunted in pain, staggering back, but Radyn didn’t pause to finish him off. He had to reach the others.
All around him, the sounds of metal clashing and screams filled the air. The guards fought valiantly, but the attackers were relentless. For every raider that fell, another seemed to take his place. Radyn parried a heavy strike from a broad-shouldered raider, the force of the blow reverberating up his arm. He was holding his own, but he could feel the weight of the battle pressing in on him.
A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Dalen stood near the center of the camp, surrounded by the wagons, still firing arrows into the fray. His expression was focused, determined. But the raiders were closing in on him.
“Dalen!” Radyn shouted over the din of battle, cutting down another attacker. “We need to retreat!”
But Dalen didn’t have time to answer. A hulking raider, his face twisted into a vicious grin, broke through the guards and charged at him. Dalen whirled, releasing one last arrow, but the raider was too close. The arrow missed its mark, and the man’s sword drove deep into Dalen’s chest.
Radyn’s heart stopped.
Time seemed to slow as Dalen stumbled back, his bow slipping from his grasp. Blood poured from the wound in his chest, and his eyes locked with Radyn’s—shock and pain mingling in his gaze. And then he fell.
“No!” The scream ripped from Radyn’s throat, raw and desperate.
He lunged toward his uncle, but a raider blocked his path, swinging a crude axe at him. Radyn ducked the blow, but his movements were sluggish, his mind clouded with panic. The raider came at him again, and this time, Radyn wasn’t quick enough. The axe bit into his side, tearing through his leather armor. Pain flared white-hot, stealing his breath.
Stumbling, Radyn clutched his side, feeling the warmth of his own blood seeping between his fingers. He tried to push the pain aside, tried to focus. He had to reach Dalen. But everywhere he turned, raiders surrounded him. The guards were falling, one by one, their defense crumbling under the sheer force of the assault.
Radyn fought back, his sword a blur as he struck at any raider that came near him. But there were too many. His arms were heavy, his body protesting every movement as exhaustion and blood loss took their toll.
Another raider lunged at him, a cruel smile on his face as he swung his mace. Radyn barely managed to block the blow, but the impact sent him stumbling back. His vision blurred, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he thought he would fall.
Dalen’s lifeless body lay only a few feet away, his blood pooling on the ground, soaking into the earth. Radyn’s chest tightened, grief and fury warring within him. He had to fight. He had to avenge Dalen. But his body was failing him.
The raiders closed in, their laughter ringing in his ears. They smelled his weakness, sensed that he was no longer a threat.
With one last, desperate glance at Dalen, Radyn made his decision.
Radyn turned and bolted, his legs carrying him forward despite the searing pain in his side. Each step was agony, his wound burning as if a fire had been lit beneath his skin. He clenched his jaw, pushing through the pain. Behind him, the raiders’ jeers echoed through the night, but they didn’t follow. They didn’t need to. They had already claimed their prize—the camp, the goods, and his uncle’s life.
He didn’t stop until the dense line of trees rose before him like a sanctuary. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, and with a final surge of energy, he collapsed against the trunk of a tree, his back sliding down the rough bark until he hit the ground. The world spun around him, his head swimming from exhaustion and blood loss. Radyn pressed his trembling hand harder against the wound, feeling the warm stickiness of blood seeping between his fingers. It was bad. He knew that. If he didn’t stop the bleeding soon, it would be over.
The sounds of the raiders’ victory drifted through the forest—distant, muffled, but unmistakable. Their laughter, their cheers. It filled Radyn with a sense of crushing despair. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the sounds to disappear, but they only seemed to grow louder in his mind. Dalen was dead. The camp was gone. And he had run. He had fled like a coward while his uncle lay dying.
The weight of that failure pressed on his chest like a boulder, heavy and unforgiving. He had sworn to protect his family, to be strong. But in the moment that mattered most, he had faltered. And now Dalen was gone.
Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over. Radyn clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He couldn’t let himself break—not now. Not when the raiders were still so close. Weakness would only get him killed.
With shaking hands, he tore a strip of cloth from his tunic and pressed it against his side, gritting his teeth as a fresh wave of pain surged through him. He tied the makeshift bandage as tightly as he could, hissing through the pain. It wasn’t much, but it would have to hold for now. He couldn’t afford to stop, not here. Not when the raiders might still be looking for survivors.
Radyn forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. The forest stretched out ahead—dark, cold, and unwelcoming. But it was his only option. If he could disappear into the trees, maybe—just maybe—he could survive the night.
Forcing a deep breath, he took one last look at the camp in the distance. The fires still burned, casting an orange glow on the horizon. The place where everything had fallen apart. The place where his uncle had died. A swell of grief and fury rose within him, mixing into something cold and sharp, something that drove him forward despite the pain. He would not let this end here. He couldn’t.
He turned his back on the camp, his fists clenched tight. He would survive. For Dalen. For the revenge that now simmered like a second wound deep inside him, more painful than the one on his side.
Radyn stumbled through the underbrush, each step a battle against the exhaustion and pain that threatened to pull him under. His breath came in shallow gasps, his vision blurred with fatigue, but he kept moving. He had to. The branches whipped at his face, the thick roots nearly tripping him, but he barely felt it. The only thing he could focus on was the rhythmic throb of his wound, the sharp reminder that his time was limited if he didn’t find safety soon.
As the sounds of the raiders faded into the distance, the forest grew eerily quiet around him. The moonlight barely penetrated the thick canopy, casting shadows that moved like ghosts in his peripheral vision. His mind swirled with fragmented thoughts—memories of Dalen, of the moment everything had gone wrong. And now, here he was, alone, hurt, with nothing but his will to survive.
He didn’t know how long he ran before his legs finally gave out, collapsing beneath him like snapped twigs. He stumbled forward and crashed against the thick trunk of a tree, sliding down until he sat on the cold, hard ground. His chest heaved, his lungs raw and burning. Sweat mixed with the blood on his side, and his clothes clung to his skin, damp and sticky.
Radyn pressed a hand to his side, feeling the warmth of his own blood seeping through his fingers. The wound wasn’t deep—at least, it didn’t feel life-threatening—but it stung with every breath. Still, it was nothing compared to the hollow, aching emptiness that gnawed at his heart.
Dalen was gone.
The thought hit him with brutal force, harder than the fall, harder than the raiders’ blows. Dalen—the man who had been his mentor, his protector, the closest thing to family since the death of his parents—was dead. And Radyn had watched him die. Helpless. Useless. Cowardly.
A sob welled up in his throat, and before he could stop it, it broke free. His body trembled as the grief overwhelmed him, tears spilling down his dirt-streaked face. He buried his head in his hands, gasping for air between the waves of pain and sorrow.
He had failed. He had run. When Dalen needed him most, when the raiders closed in, Radyn had turned his back on the man who had raised him, the man who had shown him how to survive in this unforgiving world. The guilt was suffocating, crushing him beneath its weight. He had promised himself he would be stronger—that he wouldn’t let anyone else die like his parents had. But here he was, alone again.
The wilderness around him was eerily silent, as if the world itself had turned its back on him too. No birdsong, no rustling leaves—just the sound of his own ragged breathing and the faint whisper of wind through the trees. The dawn was a distant, faint glow on the horizon, but it did nothing to chase away the darkness that clung to his mind.
Dalen’s face haunted him. The memory of those last moments replayed endlessly, the flash of the blade, the look of resignation in Dalen’s eyes as he crumpled to the ground. Radyn had screamed, had reached for him, but it was too late. Too late for anything but the gut-wrenching reality that Dalen was gone. And it was Radyn’s fault.
For a long time, he sat there in the dirt, consumed by his grief and his failure. His body was shaking with cold, exhaustion, and pain, but he didn’t care. What was the point in caring anymore? The raiders had taken everything. His home, his mentor, his purpose. There was nothing left.
Why didn’t I stay? The thought sliced through his mind like a knife. Why did I run? He couldn’t find the answer. All he could feel was the shame of it. He was supposed to be a fighter, supposed to stand his ground, but when it mattered most, he had fled.
The shadows of the trees lengthened as the night passed, and Radyn remained motionless, lost in the storm of his own mind. The world continued turning, uncaring, as he sat there, rooted in his grief.
But as the first pale rays of dawn began to filter through the trees, something inside Radyn shifted. He couldn’t stay here forever, drowning in his guilt. He knew Dalen would never have allowed it. The man had always pushed him to keep moving forward, to survive no matter the cost. That was the first lesson he had ever taught Radyn—survival.
Radyn clenched his jaw and forced himself to his feet, his muscles protesting every movement. He swayed, lightheaded, and clutched the tree for balance. His side burned, but the wound wasn’t fatal. He had to keep moving. He had to survive, even if it felt like his heart had been hollowed out.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing dirt and tears across his face. There was no going back. The caravan was destroyed, its people either scattered or dead. Dalen was dead. Nothing he did would change that.
But he was still alive.
And that meant something. It had to. If Dalen had taught him anything, it was that the world didn’t care about fairness or justice. It was harsh, brutal, and unforgiving. If he wanted to live, he had to fight for it. No one else was going to do it for him.
With one last, pained glance at the wilderness behind him, Radyn took a step forward. Then another. He didn’t know where he was going—there was no clear path ahead, no destination. Only the raw instinct to survive, to keep moving.
His grief was still there, a heavy weight he carried with him, but he couldn’t let it paralyze him. There would be time to mourn Dalen later, time to confront the pain and guilt that gnawed at him. But not now. Now, he had to find shelter, food, and some way to stay alive.
Radyn’s steps were slow and labored, each one a reminder of the pain that coursed through his body. But he kept moving, the wilderness closing in around him. He was alone now, and the world would not wait for him to catch his breath.