The first light of dawn crept over the plains, casting long shadows over the tall grass. Edrik led the way as they made their slow march toward Veldros, the distant city still a faint outline against the horizon. The cool morning air was refreshing, but the weight of everything they had been through—the battles, the scars, and the looming threat of Alaric—pressed down on him like an invisible shroud. His muscles ached from the fight with the shadow wraith, but his mind was sharp, alert to the slightest sign of danger.

As they continued forward, something caught his eye—a glint of sunlight reflecting off an object half-buried in the dirt by the path. Edrik paused, his gaze narrowing as he bent down to inspect it. He brushed the dirt away, revealing a small metal amulet, its surface tarnished and worn by time. At first glance, it seemed like a simple piece of old jewelry, but as he held it up to the light, a wave of cold recognition washed over him.

The amulet was identical to the one his father had worn around his neck. The same intricate carvings, the same faded metal. For a moment, Edrik couldn’t breathe. His hand tightened around the amulet, his mind racing back to a memory he had long tried to bury.

The sound of his father’s screams.

Edrik was born in a small village far to the west, a place where the mountains met the forests and life moved at a slow, deliberate pace. His family had lived there for generations, farmers who worked the land and kept to themselves. They were not wealthy, but they were happy. Edrik’s father, Thandor, was a man of great strength and kindness, a respected figure in the village. His mother, Elara, was gentle and wise, a healer who tended to the sick and wounded with hands as soft as they were skilled.

From an early age, Edrik had idolized his father. Thandor was everything he aspired to be—strong, courageous, and deeply respected by the people of the village. He had a commanding presence, the kind of man who could make others listen simply by walking into a room. But more than that, Thandor was kind, always ready to lend a hand, always quick with a smile. Edrik remembered following him through the fields as a boy, watching his father’s calloused hands work the soil with ease.

His father’s amulet had always been a source of fascination for Edrik. He remembered asking his father about it one night by the fire, staring at the intricate carvings that adorned the tarnished metal.

“What’s it for?” Edrik had asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.

Thandor had smiled down at him, his hand resting on the amulet. “It’s an old family heirloom, passed down from father to son. My father gave it to me, and one day, I’ll give it to you. It’s a reminder, Edrik. A reminder to always be strong, even when the world seems against you.”

At the time, Edrik hadn’t fully understood the weight of those words. He had been a child, full of wonder and hope, his world limited to the boundaries of the village. But everything had changed the night the raiders came.

It had been a cold, moonless night when the attack happened. Edrik had been asleep in his bed, dreaming of the adventures he would have one day. He had woken to the sound of screaming, the distant shouts of men and the crackle of flames. His heart had raced as he threw off his blankets and ran to the window, his breath catching in his throat as he saw the village engulfed in fire.

The raiders had come without warning, a band of ruthless mercenaries who had swept through the village like a storm. They were after more than just supplies—they were looking for something specific, though at the time, Edrik hadn’t understood what it was.

His father had burst into his room, his face grim as he grabbed Edrik by the shoulders. “Edrik, listen to me. You need to stay hidden. Don’t come out, no matter what you hear. Promise me.”

Edrik had nodded, too scared to speak, and his father had hurried him into the small cellar beneath the house. The air had been damp and cold, the darkness thick and suffocating. Edrik had crouched in the corner, his heart hammering in his chest as he listened to the sounds of chaos outside.

He had waited there, alone in the dark, for what felt like hours. The sounds of battle raged on—screams, the clash of metal, the roar of fire. And then, suddenly, there had been silence. A silence so profound that it made Edrik’s skin crawl.

Unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, Edrik had pushed open the cellar door and crept out into the wreckage of his home. The smell of smoke and blood hung heavy in the air, and his heart sank as he stepped outside to see the village in ruins. Bodies lay scattered in the streets, their lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. Homes had been reduced to smoldering piles of ash, the flames still licking at the remains.

And there, in the center of the village, was his father.

Thandor had been kneeling in the dirt, his hands bound behind his back, his head bowed. The raiders had surrounded him, their weapons drawn, their faces twisted with cruel smiles. Edrik had watched in horror, frozen in place as one of the raiders—the leader, a man with cold, calculating eyes—had approached his father.

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“Where is it?” the man had asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Thandor had raised his head, his gaze defiant despite the blood that trickled down his face. “You’ll never find it.”

The leader had smiled, a slow, cruel smile. “We’ll see about that.”

And then, without another word, he had drawn his sword and plunged it into Thandor’s chest.

Edrik’s scream had ripped through the night as he watched his father collapse to the ground, the life draining from his eyes. He had run forward, his small hands grabbing at his father’s limp body, but it had been too late. Thandor was gone.

The raiders had spared him, if only because they hadn’t seen him as a threat. Just a child, too broken to fight back. They had taken what they wanted—rations, valuables, whatever they could carry—and left the village in ashes.

That night had changed Edrik forever.

In the days that followed the raid, the village tried to rebuild, but it was never the same. So many lives had been lost, and the shadow of the attack hung over them like a curse. Edrik’s mother had done her best to comfort him, but nothing could fill the void left by his father’s death.

Edrik became quiet, withdrawn, his once-carefree spirit buried beneath the weight of grief. He spent hours alone, practicing with the wooden sword his father had made for him. He swung it at invisible enemies, imagining himself avenging his father, imagining that one day he would be strong enough to protect the people he loved.

As he grew older, that desire to protect turned into something more. It became an obsession. He trained relentlessly, pushing his body to its limits, determined to never be helpless again. He practiced with a real sword, a weapon he had forged himself in the village blacksmith’s shop. His mother had tried to dissuade him, had begged him to find peace, but Edrik couldn’t. Not while the memory of his father’s death still burned in his mind.

He left the village when he was sixteen, unable to bear the constant reminders of what he had lost. His mother had cried, begging him to stay, but Edrik had been resolute. He needed to find his own path, needed to find a way to make himself strong enough to face the world. He promised her that he would return, that he would come back once he had found the strength to protect their village from anything that might threaten it.

But that promise had been broken.

Edrik had spent years wandering the land, searching for answers, for strength. He had sought out trainers, mercenaries, anyone who could teach him the skills he needed to survive. He learned how to fight, how to wield a blade with deadly precision. He learned how to survive in the wilderness, how to track and hunt, how to move silently and unseen.

But no matter how strong he became, the guilt remained. The memory of his father’s death, of his mother’s tears, haunted him. He had left them behind, and no amount of training or skill could erase that.

The guilt had only grown worse when he had returned to the village, five years after he had left, only to find it in ruins. A sickness had swept through the village, claiming the lives of nearly everyone who had remained. His mother had been among the dead, her body laid to rest in the small cemetery on the hill.

Edrik had stood at her grave, his heart heavy with regret. He had left to protect her, to protect the village, but in the end, he had failed. He had failed his father, his mother, everyone he had ever cared about.

From that day forward, Edrik had become a wanderer, a man without a home, without a family. He took on mercenary work, fighting for coin, but his heart was never in it. He fought because it was all he knew, because the sword was the only thing that gave him a sense of purpose. But the guilt, the grief, never went away.

Edrik had always known he was different, though he had never fully understood why. As a child, he had sensed things that others couldn’t—faint whispers in the wind, the subtle shifts in the earth beneath his feet. His father had called it a gift, though he had never explained it further. And after his father’s death, Edrik had buried that part of himself, too focused on survival to consider what it might mean.

But his encounter with Alaric had changed everything.

The first time Edrik had faced the dark sorcerer, he had felt something inside him awaken—something old and powerful, something that had been buried deep within him for years. It had been like a flame, igniting in his soul, filling him with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed.

At first, he hadn’t understood what was happening. His sword had glowed with a faint light, his movements faster, stronger than ever before. He had fought with a fury that had surprised even him, cutting through Alaric’s minions with ease. But it wasn’t until he had met Lyra that he had begun to understand.

Lyra had seen the magic in him immediately, had recognized the potential that lay dormant in his soul. She had told him that the magic was old—ancient, even—passed down through his bloodline. It was a gift, a rare and powerful magic that could shape the world itself if harnessed properly.

But Edrik had been reluctant to embrace it. Magic had always been something he associated with destruction, with pain. He had seen what Alaric’s magic could do, the way it twisted and corrupted. The thought of having that kind of power frightened him.

Still, he couldn’t deny what he had felt during the battle. There was something inside him, something powerful, and if he didn’t learn to control it, it could consume him.

With Lyra’s help, Edrik began to explore the depths of his magic, slowly coming to terms with the power that had been passed down through his family. It wasn’t the dark magic of Alaric, but something different—something tied to the earth, to the very fabric of the world. It was a magic of creation and destruction, a force that could bring life or death, depending on how it was used.

But the more Edrik learned about his magic, the more he realized how dangerous it was. The line between light and dark was thin, and the temptation to use his power for vengeance, to destroy those who had wronged him, was always there.

The amulet felt heavy in Edrik’s hand as he stood there, staring at it in the light of the rising sun. His father’s amulet, or one just like it. A reminder of everything he had lost, everything he had fought for.

“Edrik?”

Kara’s voice broke through his thoughts, and Edrik blinked, tearing his gaze away from the amulet. He looked up to see Kara and Lyra watching him, their expressions filled with concern.

“Are you alright?” Kara asked, her voice soft.

Edrik nodded, though the weight of the past still hung over him like a storm cloud. “I’m fine.”

But as he slipped the amulet into his pocket, he knew that was a lie. He wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been fine for a long time.

And with Alaric still out there, he wasn’t sure he ever would be.