Forged in Fire
Aethyr fastened the straps of his travel bag, checking the essentials one last time. His provisions were packed, his hide armor fitted snugly to his frame, and his prized Damascus sword rested at his side. He took a deep breath and glanced back at Fjallgard, the only home he had ever known. The familiar faces of his people lined the streets, watching him with quiet pride and apprehension. This was the day he left behind his childhood, stepping into the unknown, into a world that would either harden him or break him.
His destination was Ashmark, the southern city carved into volcanic cliffs where the great Fire Temple stood. The flame god’s magic flowed through the land like molten rivers, empowering those capable of wielding its destructive beauty. Aethyr had heard stories of its power, of the intense heat and the ever-burning temples, but now he would see it for himself. He would seek to master it.
He waved a final farewell to those gathered to see him off and climbed aboard a cart headed south. His heart pounded with both excitement and nerves as the cart rattled across the dusty roads. But the journey wouldn't remain easy. The cart dropped him off near the border, and from there, Aethyr continued on foot through the thick, misty forests—a 12-year-old boy stepping into the trials of adulthood.
Days passed, and soon he approached the imposing walls of Darugar Keep, where word of his journey had reached the ears of the chief. As Aethyr entered, he was greeted with booming cheers.
“Welcome, welcome! The hero of the River Niyx! Savior of my offspring!” the chief bellowed, his voice carrying across the courtyard.
Aethyr was startled by the enthusiastic greeting. The events of the river had been a wild, almost surreal memory, but here he was, already gaining a reputation. The chief insisted on a feast and provisions for his journey south. Aethyr ate, refueled, and resupplied. But he couldn’t linger long. His path was calling, and beyond Darugar lay the treacherous swamps. Thankfully, he would not have to face them alone.
The chief, concerned about the dangers that lurked in the swamps, had assigned two seasoned warriors to escort him—a stout fighter named Gormund and a swift archer, Alaya. Both were veterans of the borderlands, their faces marked with the scars of past battles.
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The Ambush in the Swamp
The swamp was thick with decay. Aethyr could feel the oppressive weight of the air clinging to him, dampening his senses. The ground squelched beneath his boots, and the twisted trees cast eerie shadows in the fading light. His instincts were alert, but he was grateful for the company of his escorts. Gormund led the way, his massive axe ready, while Alaya walked quietly behind, her sharp eyes scanning the murky depths of the swamp.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Suddenly, a ripple of movement stirred from the shadows ahead. Aethyr froze as a whisper of something ancient and malevolent filled the air. The swamp groaned as undead creatures rose from the muck—ghouls, their decayed forms dripping with fetid water, eyes glowing with a fierce hunger.
“Ghouls!” Gormund barked. He hefted his axe and charged toward the first of the creatures, slashing with brutal efficiency. Alaya notched an arrow and let it fly, piercing another ghoul through its rotting skull.
Aethyr’s heart pounded in his chest as he drew his sword, positioning himself behind Gormund for support. He was no stranger to training, but this was real—these creatures wanted him dead.
The ghouls came faster than expected, their grotesque forms lunging at them in waves. Aethyr fought alongside Gormund, his strikes hesitant but growing in confidence. His blade cut through a ghoul’s neck, sending its head tumbling into the swamp.
“Stay close to me, boy!” Gormund growled, cleaving another ghoul in half with a single swing. Alaya’s arrows whizzed through the air, dropping several more as they advanced.
One ghoul managed to get close to Aethyr, its claws raking across his armor. The hide absorbed the brunt of the blow, but the force knocked him back. For a moment, panic seized him. He could see the gleam of the creature’s teeth, smell the decay on its breath.
But before it could strike again, Gormund was there, his axe splitting the ghoul’s chest in two.
“Watch yourself,” Gormund muttered, pulling Aethyr to his feet.
Aethyr nodded, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wasn’t used to fighting in such conditions—the swamp made every movement sluggish, the air thick with rot. Yet, he pressed on, gaining his composure as the fight raged on.
A fresh wave of undead rose from the murky waters, ghouls and skeletal warriors alike. Aethyr found himself locked in combat once more, his muscles burning with fatigue. This time, though, his sword moved with more precision. He dodged a swipe and drove his blade through a ghoul’s chest, feeling the satisfying give of decayed flesh.
The escort was holding their own—Gormund’s strength was unmatched, and Alaya’s arrows found their mark every time. Together, the trio carved their way through the swamp.
At last, the final wave of undead faltered, their decayed forms collapsing under the relentless assault. Aethyr, panting, surveyed the battlefield. The ground was littered with rotting corpses, but the danger had passed. His sword, covered in muck and gore, felt heavier in his hand.
“You did well,” Alaya said, her eyes flicking toward Aethyr with a small nod of approval. “For your first real fight.”
Aethyr exhaled, his chest heaving with exertion. His body was weary, his armor scratched but intact. Gormund slapped him on the back, a sign of camaraderie.
“Not bad for a green lad,” Gormund grunted. “But remember—it's not always about brute strength. You’ve got the instinct. Learn from it.”
The trio paused to catch their breath, then continued through the swamp. Had it not been for his escorts, Aethyr knew he would have taken a more cautious, perhaps indirect, path. But their strength gave him courage, allowing him to face the danger head-on.