Philip serves another round of ale, the atmosphere at the table is filled with casual conversations and bursts of laughter. Aware of this, I realize that the somber tale of Bortoli, lacking a dramatic flair, may not hold their attention as I had initially thought. It seems the story's gravity doesn't quite fit the casual mood that has taken over.

Accepting this shift in interest, I decide it's best to silently let the story conclude without further elaboration. It's time to return to my usual spot and the familiar company of my large cup of ale. Standing up from my chair, I prepare to move away from the group, content in the knowledge that the evening has brought a brief, unexpected connection, even if Lysander's story remains largely untold.

"Hey old man, where you think you're going?"

The men at the table quickly take notice of my attempt to leave, their enthusiasm for the story unabated. They start slamming their empty jacks down on the table in a rhythmic chant. "Story! Story!"

This unexpected display of interest brings a sense of relief to me. Lysander's life is a story I hold close to my heart, simply for the fact, that I lived every moment of its unfolding. With that thought in mind, I've always believed, that his story deserved to be told. It's important to me that his name isn't remembered merely as the demon of Bortoli, but as a man who sacrificed everything, asking nothing in return.

I reclaim my seat at the table, ready to continue the tale.

⊱─━━━━⊱༻●༺⊰━━━━─⊰

When I met Arland for the first time, I was 12 years old.

My life changed drastically for the better during that period. Those years with Arland were perhaps the happiest I ever had. I grew up surrounded by farm life, learning everything from riding horses to developing a keen sense for trading, a trait Arland was famous for. After the loss of my parents, it was the first time I had experienced peace in my life.

I not only learned the basics of farm life, but Arland also taught me how to wield a sword and use a bow and arrow. He was my mentor in hunting, guiding me through the wilderness with a steady hand during a tumultuous period of my childhood.

I trained rigorously in combat skills, driven by a desire to protect Arland from any threats. By the time I turned nineteen, I had become proficient with a sword. My life's purpose became safeguarding the Lord of the manor - it was the only way I knew how to repay the immense kindness and compassion he had shown me.

One particular night, Arland and I were out hunting in the northern forest. We came across a large hog, big enough to provide meat for several days. Gunnar, our trusty hunting dog, stayed silent beside us, ready to sprint after the prey once it was struck.

Arland, recognizing the opportunity presented by the sizable animal, readied his bow and arrow. He took his time, carefully pulling back the string, aiming the arrow directly at the hog that was partially hidden among the bushes.

Just as Arland was about to release his arrow, another animal emerged from the shadows, catching us off guard. In the confusion, Arland took his shot, but it struck a wolf that had suddenly appeared, instead of the hog. Gunnar didn't hesitate and bolted after the injured wolf, with Arland and I quickly mounting our horses to join the chase.

We rode hard through the forest, the pursuit stretching on as the sun began its descent, casting long shadows between the trees. It wasn't until sundown that Gunnar finally stopped. He was at the edge of a small gorge, barking relentlessly, alerting us to the wolf's location.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"Arland, the wolf can't have gone much further. The blood trail is thinning out here."

I carefully dismount my horse, drawing my sword in preparation for any potential attack from the wounded wolf.

Arland also dismounted, kneeling beside Gunnar, placing a calming hand over the dog's head. "Gunnar, stay here."

I followed the trail of blood, faint, but noticeable over the muddy ground. The wounded animal had sought refuge deeper into the forest, eventually concealing itself within a small cave that had previously escaped our notice.

Arland followed close behind me, halting my advance by placing a firm hand on my shoulder.

"Try not to make any noise." Arland said.

Arland struck a torch to life, its flame casting a flickering glow within the damp confines of the cave. The light revealed more signs of the wounded animal - smears of blood on the rocky walls, close to a small stream of water that trickled further into the depths of the cave. As we ventured deeper, the eerie silence of the cave was abruptly shattered by a low, resonant growl emanating from the darkness ahead.

"Careful Randall, we are getting close."

My thoughts were conflicted as we moved deeper into the cave. The pursuit of the wolf, initially a reaction to the hunt gone awry, now seemed to carry a different weight. Perhaps Arland was driven by the practical need to protect his livestock. A wounded predator, if left to roam, could become a greater threat in its desperation and pain.

"I don't think we should take our chances with this wild animal."

Arland chuckles. " I took my chances with you and that turned out alright."

But the moment of vivacity is short-lived. The growl suddenly intensifies, and the wolf launches itself towards us with ferocious speed. Reacting instinctively, I strike the animal with the hilt of my sword, a non-lethal blow intended to fend it off rather than harm it further. The animal retreats, crashing against the cavern walls.

In that moment, as the torchlight casts its flickering glow, we realize that what we're facing in the cave is not an ordinary animal; what we encountered in that cave was no animal at all.

Arland steps forward, his expression changes into disbelief as the torchlight reveals what we were really fought against. Lying there, injured and cornered, is not a wolf, but a small boy, barely ten years old. His hair is an unusual, striking white - as vibrant as freshly fallen snow. His eyes, glowing with a fiery red hue, burning with pain and anger, directed at us for the injury we've inadvertently caused.

The boy's left leg is wounded, Arland's arrow still embedded in it, blood flowing freely from the wound.

Arland carefully sets his bow on the ground, a gesture aimed at showing the boy we meant no further harm.

"Arland, be careful."

The boy, weakened from blood loss and injury, eventually succumbs to exhaustion and pain, collapsing onto the muddy floor of the cave. Seizing the moment, Arland moves quickly to the boy's side. He removes the arrow tip from the boy's leg, and then immediately begins to administer first aid to the wound.

"You think this a sign?" Arland said.

I understood immediately what he was alluding to. Arland had always been a man of faith, seeing the hand of providence in the events of life. His encounter with the boy, especially under such extraordinary circumstances, was bound to be interpreted as something more than mere coincidence.

Arland and his wife, Ingrid, had long faced the heartache of childlessness. Ingrid had been barren since she was fifteen years old. The fact that she couldn't get pregnant had left a void in their lives, a longing for a family that remained unfulfilled. My arrival as a young boy into their home had brought temporary relief, but as I grew into a man, that sense of parental fulfillment they sought had dwindled.

Arland carefully lifted the frail child, securing him to his back for the journey home. But as we reached the mouth of the cave, a sense of foreboding prompted me to voice my concerns.

"I think you should reconsider from bringing this boy into your house."

Arland smiled, believing I was just jealous and afraid to welcome a new family member. "Son, are you afraid of having a new stepbrother?"

"It's not that, Arland. This isn't just a normal boy, who's been abandoned by his parents; this child is something else."