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NORTHERN FURY
A solitary struggle

A solitary struggle

Jason Grekor

When consciousness returned, it was gradual, a slow, creeping awareness. An agonizing pain lanced through my body, a symphony of aches and throbbing pulsations. Each breath was a labored effort. My vision was blurred, the world a hazy canvas of muted colors and indistinct shapes.

The ambush, the wolf's crushing weight, the desperate struggle—it all played back in fragmented flashes, each scene laced with a chilling fear. The cold pierced my bones, a relentless reminder of my vulnerability. I tried to move, to sit up, but my body protested with a chorus of agony. My lungs still burned with each breath.

Absorbing too much natural mana was always painful and could even be fatal for a mage. But in my case, since my awakening, I've been somewhat immune to not only mana poisoning but also any kind of poison, thanks to my crown. But I wasn't immune to the pain. My wounds ached, but the blood had thankfully clotted against the rough bandages.

As I worked, my vision gradually cleared, and the world slowly came back into focus. The forest had grown darker, shadows deepening amongst the trees. The crisp air filled my nostrils with the scent of pine needles and damp earth.

The wolf lay lifeless a few feet away, its once imposing form now still and silent. Its dark fur was matted with blood, its eyes glazed over, its jaws frozen in a silent snarl. But a few yards in front of the wolf, a sight chilled me to the core. Rudolph Fichtner's lifeless body lay sprawled on the ground, a grim reminder of the ambush.

The forest was silent, save for the lonely call of a bird in the vast wilderness. I knew I couldn't stay there. The cold was seeping into my bones, and I needed to find shelter, a place to recover for the night. But first, I had a solemn duty to attend to.

With renewed determination, I pushed myself to my feet, my legs wobbling and the world swaying as I leaned against a tree for support. My head throbbed relentlessly, and every movement sent waves of agony through my body.

My first task was to build a torch, using my remaining dry cloth and some oil from my pack. With the flickering flame casting long, dancing shadows, I scanned the area. Behind the bushes and trees, the signs of the fight were evident: bloodstains on the leaves and disturbed earth. There was no sign of my attacker, nor of the Visir. A large section of the riverbank was broken, suggesting they had fallen into the icy current during their struggle.

Satisfied that the immediate threat was gone, I turned my attention to Rudolph. I knelt beside him, the cold earth dampening my trousers. His face was a mask of peaceful serenity, a stark contrast to the horror of the scene. The ground was crimsoned beneath him, a grim testament to the violence that had claimed his life. I closed his eyes, gently removed the arrow from his skull, wincing as I disturbed the fragile peace that had settled upon his features. Gently, I straightened his limbs, wincing as I brushed against the dark stain on his tunic.

With trembling hands, I unfurled the clean cloth from my pack, spreading it beneath him like a shroud. I sprinkled the last of my calming herbs – rosemary and lavender – over his body, their fragrance a final, sorrowful offering. Then, one by one, I gathered fallen leaves and branches, carefully covering him, building a mound of earth and forest debris to protect him from scavengers. It wasn't much, but it was the best I could do. With just a little interaction I could tell, he seemed a decent man.

Rest in peace, Rudolph Fichtner, I thought solemnly.

With Rudolph laid to rest, I turned west, my steps slow and deliberate. The dense fog obscured my vision, making it difficult to see beyond a few yards. The flickering torchlight provided warmth and a sense of direction, but I knew I wasn’t the best at navigating. The road led to Garrison, but I chose a more cautious route through the western forest, towards the Shaniyar range. Following the vine river upstream seemed like the best course of action.

My black mare had vanished, taking my makeshift tent with it. With the cold wind howling, sleeping under the open sky wasn’t an option. A cave would have been ideal, but even a flat tree trunk would suffice for the night.

The forest stretched endlessly before me, a labyrinth of trees and shadows. Hours later, an ancient hemlock loomed into view, its gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. Its rough, furrowed bark was a testament to centuries of enduring the harsh elements. A faint scent of resin mingled with the damp earthiness of the forest floor. I discovered a hidden opening, concealed by a curtain of moss, and cautiously stepped inside. The air within was still and heavy, imbued with a strange, almost sacred quality. A sense of peace washed over me, as if the ancient spirit of the hemlock itself was offering me shelter.

With a fire crackling before me, I attempted to rest my weary body. But sleep was elusive, my injuries aching and throbbing. The moonlight filtered through the canopy, casting the forest in an eerie, silver glow. Shadows writhed and twisted, taking on the shapes of menacing creatures. The rough bark of the hemlock scraped against my back as I leaned against it. My numb fingers fumbled with the bandages. My mind raced, replaying the ambush over and over. Who was the attacker? What had become of him? Had the Visir managed to kill him, or had they both perished? So many unanswered questions.

-------

The morning sky was a canvas painted with strokes of pink and gold as consciousness gently drew me back to the world. I opened my eyes to a softened landscape, the harsh lines of the forest blurred by a gentle luminescence. The fire had died down to embers, the ashes.

I sat up, my body protesting with a chorus of aches and stiffness. But I was undeniably better than yesterday. My lungs were clear, my breathing easy, and my crown thrummed with a steady energy, fueling itself effortlessly.

The world outside the cave offered solace, a balm to my weary soul. The sun's gentle caress, a warm embrace against the lingering chill, promised a new day, a new chance.

With painstaking effort, I tended to my wounds. The bandages were stained crimson, the cloth clinging to the raw flesh. The pain was a constant companion, a dull throb that echoed through my body. But I endured, cleaning and re-dressing the wounds with a practiced hand, drawing on years of experience patching myself up after countless hunts and skirmishes.

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I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing, drawing in the crisp morning air. With each inhalation, I channeled the natural mana, the Wyrd particles, into my crown. A tingling sensation spread through me as the particles replenished my reserves, fueling my strength. To my surprise, my crown felt unusually powerful. It seemed that pushing myself to the limit multiple times had triggered a breakthrough.

Though I couldn't accurately assess my current strength without the gauzing stone, I suspected I might be nearing the final stage of Visir. However, my official rank remained Sa'liq, determined by the noble houses to which knights were affiliated. To officially attain the rank of Visir, or even the elusive Knyaz, I would need to complete my mission. The thought of becoming a Knyaz brought a wry smile to my lips.

Achieving the rank of Knyaz was an extraordinary feat. Few had ever managed to break through the Visir stage, making it a distant dream for most.

With a replenished crown, I abandoned the sanctuary that had offered me a brief respite, and plunged back into the unforgiving wilderness.

The forest seemed to close in around me, the towering trees casting long, ominous shadows that danced and swayed in the wind like macabre specters. The path was barely discernible, a faint trail winding through a labyrinth of tangled undergrowth and fallen branches. I stumbled frequently, my weakened body protesting with each misstep, sending jolts of pain through my battered limbs.

The cold numbed my extremities. My wounds throbbed with a dull ache, and my head pounded with a relentless intensity.

The oppressive forest gradually gave way to a rolling expanse, a promise of open land and a clearer path. In the distance, a cluster of buildings emerged from the horizon, a beacon of hope in the desolate landscape. My heart pounded with anticipation as I quickened my pace, the sight of the garrison fueling my weary body with renewed purpose.

With newfound vigor, I pushed forward, the sounds of human activity growing louder with each step. The rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the cheerful chatter of soldiers, the comforting aroma of smoke and cooking—it all washed over me, a symphony of civilization that filled me with a sense of longing and belonging.

Finally, I emerged from the forest's embrace, stumbling into the open courtyard of the garrison. My legs buckled beneath me, and the cobblestones rushed up to meet my face. The world tilted, the sounds of the garrison fading into a distant roar.

Vaguely, I felt hands grasp my arms, hauling me upright. Faces swam into view, blurry and indistinct, voices murmuring words I couldn't comprehend. I tried to speak, to explain, but my tongue felt thick and heavy. Darkness crept in from the edges of my vision, swallowing me whole. The last thing I remember is the cold stone against my cheek and the smell of woodsmoke mingling with the scent of blood. Then, I slipped into oblivion.

"Jasie, where are you, my darling? Jasie?" My mother's voice echoed through the house. I huddled in the closet, my tears a silent river flowing down my cheeks, my heart pounding against my ribs as I desperately tried to muffle my sobs. "Come out, or I'll cut you off from dinner! And guess what? I brought lobsters." My mother's words were a cruel joke, knowing how much I loved the delicacy. I remained hidden, my heart pounding with sadness and hunger. As her footsteps grew closer, I closed my eyes, waiting for the inevitable. The door creaked open, and my mother knelt beside me, her face filled with worry. She pulled me into her arms, her voice gentle. "I've warned you about hiding in the closet, honey. It's dangerous. And why is my brave boy crying?"

"I'm not crying," I said, my voice a strained whisper, my eyes burning with unshed tears.

"Lying won't fool me, Jasie," my mother replied, her voice gentle yet firm. "Now, let's get you a herbal bath and then we'll eat. You worked hard on your sword practice, and you need to fuel your body to grow big and strong."Her smile was like a ray of sunshine, dispelling the darkness within me. As she gently wiped away my tears, her touch was a comforting caress, and her kiss on my cheek filled me with a sense of peace.

"Mom," I said, my voice trembling, "Why do they always hit me too hard intentionally? I've never done anything wrong to them, but they insist on making me feel worthless. Aren't we family?" Tears welled up in my eyes, threatening to spill over.

My mother's expression softened, her eyes filled with a deep understanding. "They don't understand, Jasie," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "They see your kindness as weakness. They envy your gentle spirit, and they lash out in fear."

I looked up at her, my eyes wide with confusion. "Fear?" I echoed, unable to comprehend her words.

She nodded, her gaze unwavering. "They fear the power within you, the power of empathy and compassion. They see it as a threat, a challenge to their own fragile egos."

A silence fell between us, the only sound the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. I was lost in thought, trying to reconcile my mother's words with the harsh reality of my life.

"Remember, Jasie," she said, breaking the silence, "true strength lies not in physical power, but in the strength of character. Your kindness is your greatest weapon, a shield against the cruelty of the world."

Her words resonated within me, a beacon of hope in the darkness. I clung to her words, a lifeline in the turbulent sea of my emotions. As she led me to the bathroom, I felt a sense of peace wash over me, a sense of calm that had been long absent from my life.

My eyes fluttered open, revealing an unfamiliar ceiling. As I attempted to rise, my body protested with a symphony of aches and pains. Leaning against the wall, my gaze swept across the room, a stark military dormitory devoid of life. Four beds, each a solitary island in a sea of emptiness, a door and a window guarding the opposite ends.

The dream lingered, a bittersweet memory. The laughter of my cousins, a cruel symphony mocking my vulnerability, echoed in my mind. Their fists, a physical manifestation of their emotional cruelty, had often left me bruised and broken. I was a solitary figure in a hostile world, a fragile flower trampled by their roughshod boots.

My mother had been my refuge, her herbal baths a soothing balm for my wounds. Even after her death, their cruelty persisted, perhaps even intensified. A wry smile tugged at my lips. "Perhaps I was too weak," I murmured, a quiet acknowledgment of my past.

My mind returned to the present. As I lay on the makeshift army bed, the harrowing images of the incident replayed endlessly. The day I had witnessed the man who had been speaking to me killed by an arrow shot. In a single, horrifying moment, his lifeless body had lain cold on the forest floor. How I had miraculously survived the treacherous wilderness, a solitary survivor adrift in a sea of danger.

A sudden sound jolted me from my reverie. The creaking of the gate, a harbinger of intrusion, drew my attention. A man, cloaked in a long coat, stepped into the room, his silhouette a stark contrast against the dim light.

The man's gaze bored into me, his eyes a cold, calculating blue. "Sir Jason Grekor," he began, his voice low and deliberate, "we understand your condition, but the circumstances demand caution. One of our men was found dead within the woods. Another is missing. Your father had confirmed your identity, so we aren't suspicious of you... yet."

His tone, heavy with unspoken implication, sent a chill down my spine. I could sense the undercurrent of doubt, the skepticism lurking beneath his carefully crafted facade.

"Did you encounter them?" he pressed, his voice hardening. "Tell me everything."

I hesitated, the weight of the truth heavy on my shoulders. I could feel his eyes boring into me, searching for any sign of deception. "Yes, I did, sir," I replied, my voice barely a whisper. "It was a terrible ordeal."

I recounted the events, my voice trembling as I described the attack, the wolf, and the tragic fate of Rudolph. The man listened intently, his expression impassive. When I finished, he stood up, his eyes narrowing. "We'll investigate further," he said, his voice cold and distant. "Until then, rest."