The road to Thornwood was long and winding, cutting through the dense woods like a serpent. Edrik Thornwood, once a noble warrior of Eldra, now nothing more than a shadow, urged his horse onward. The beast was weary, its breath coming in harsh gasps, but Edrik paid it no mind. His thoughts were consumed by a single, relentless desire: vengeance.

It had been years since he had last seen his homeland, and even longer since he had allowed himself to feel anything beyond the cold satisfaction of a completed mission. The men who had betrayed him, who had taken everything he held dear, had paid with their lives. But the fire inside him still burned, a raging inferno that no amount of blood could quench.

As the familiar outline of Thornwood Keep came into view, Edrik felt a pang of something almost forgotten—home. But the feeling was fleeting, quickly buried beneath the hardened layers of his soul. There was no room for weakness, not now, not ever.

The village that sprawled out beneath the keep was quiet, unnaturally so. Edrik’s eyes narrowed as he took in the sight. The streets were empty, the doors of the houses shut tight. A cold wind swept through, carrying with it the scent of smoke and something else—something darker.

Edrik dismounted, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the sword strapped to his back. The weapon had seen more bloodshed than most men would in a lifetime, and yet it still felt light in his grip, as if it were an extension of his own will.

He moved through the village like a wraith, silent and unseen. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he approached the keep. The heavy wooden gates were ajar, swaying slightly in the wind. A chill ran down his spine, but he pressed on, every sense on high alert.

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The courtyard beyond the gates was deserted, save for a few scattered belongings—a broken toy, a discarded basket. The silence was deafening, oppressive, as if the very air was holding its breath.

Edrik’s heart pounded in his chest as he ascended the steps to the keep’s entrance. The great hall beyond was dark, the only light coming from the dying embers in the hearth. Shadows danced on the walls, twisted and malevolent.

He moved forward, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of life. It wasn’t until he reached the center of the hall that he saw it—a figure, slumped against the far wall. Edrik’s breath caught in his throat as he recognized the man—one of his father’s old retainers, a loyal servant who had been with the family for as long as he could remember.

The man was dead, his eyes wide open and staring at nothing. A single cut across his throat had ended his life, the blood pooling beneath him in a dark, sticky mess. But it wasn’t the sight of the dead man that sent a wave of dread crashing over Edrik—it was the symbol carved into the wall above him, a twisted, ancient rune that seemed to pulse with dark energy.

Edrik took a step back, his mind racing. He knew that symbol, had seen it once before in the old tomes his father had kept locked away. It was a mark of dark magic, forbidden and feared, and it could mean only one thing—someone had unleashed a power that should have remained forgotten.

A low growl escaped his lips as he realized what it meant. This was no ordinary attack, no mere act of violence. This was a message, a challenge. And Edrik Thornwood was not a man to back down from a challenge.

As he turned to leave, the shadows in the room seemed to shift, coalescing into a shape, a figure that watched him with glowing eyes. Edrik’s hand tightened on his sword, but before he could move, the figure spoke, its voice a whisper of wind and darkness.

“Your soul is mine, Thornwood.”

And then, with a rush of cold air, it was gone, leaving Edrik alone in the dark, a hollow emptiness where his heart should have been.