Beads of sweat formed between Arrin's palms and the hilt of his sword. He tightened his grip.

“Again,” Gregor said. His tone was stern in a way only a father’s could be.

Arrin squared his hips toward the practice dummy. He planted his feet and quickly spun around, slamming his sword into the dummy’s straw ribs. He pivoted, swinging the blade overhead before bringing it into the base of the dummy’s neck for a killing blow. His sword stuck into the wooden stump with a thud.

Gregor grinned. “Good, Arrin.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

Arrin had competed in and won the Daroh combat tournament for the last three years in a row. He had a moderate build, allowing him to out maneuver larger opponents and overpower smaller ones. It only helped that his now farmer father was once a renowned soldier.

“Arrogance causes mistakes,” Gregor said. “Graham almost bested you last year in the tournament. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“That big oaf? He almost got lucky.”

They laughed.

The sun was setting on the training yard, bathing everything in a soft golden glow. Flocks of roosting crows cast long shadows as they moved toward the dense treeline that surrounded Gregor’s farm. The leaves whispered ever so slightly as a warm, gentle breeze passed through them.

Gregor started down the cobblestone path that led back to the house before beckoning toward Arrin. “Walk with me. It’s time we prepared supper for your mother.”

The house was modestly built. Gregor built it himself just before the time that Arrin was born. After completing a tour of duty in the Sorengard Legion, he and his newlywed, Jennifer, moved near the small village of Daroh to settle down away from the clamor of the capital city.

The smell of venison stew filled the kitchen. Gregor had become an adept cook in recent years. Jennifer’s health had been in steady decline for as long as Arrin could remember.

Gregor poured two bowls of stew and sat down at the table with Arrin.

“I’m proud of the hard work you have been putting into your training. Swordsmanship is an essential skill. In the event that you need it, you’ll be glad you’re trained.”

He paused for a moment, then grinned.

“Besides, how else are you going to keep the rats out of our corn field?”

Gregor chuckled.

Arrin thumped his father in the shoulder. “I’ll let them eat the whole damn thing. I swear it,” he joked.

Gregor stood from the table and made a third bowl of stew. He slid it across the table to Arrin.

“Take this to your mother.”

Arrin grabbed the bowl, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. He made his way down the hall and slowly opened the door to his parents’ bedroom, afraid to disturb the seemingly endless darkness inside. Light from the hallway crept in, illuminating a frail figure lying in bed.

“Mother,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’ve brought you some food.”

Jennifer’s eyes slowly opened. She stared at Arrin for a moment before he spoke again.

“I’ll just leave it here then.” With trembling hands, he placed the bowl on her bedside table.

Her eyes were empty. She stared at Arrin as if she were looking right through him. “Thank you. I love you,” he wished she would say, but she hadn’t spoken in months.

Arrin kissed his mother on the forehead and left the room, leaving her in the perpetual darkness.

“I’m headed to The Cliff,” he told his father as he walked back through the kitchen. “I need a drink.”

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“Don’t be too late.” Gregor turned in his chair to face him. “We have a lot of work to do tomorrow in the fields.”

Arrin nodded as he walked out the door.

The walk to Daroh was a short one. Arrin's family lived just outside of the village. At the center of town stood The Cliff, a tavern owned by a man named Griffin Holden. Griffin was a giant by all standards and his appetite for ale could match. The only person in the village even close to him in size was his son, Graham.

The warm, inviting glow of The Cliff broke out into the town center when Arrin opened the large wooden doors. Laughter and voices of the bar’s patrons echoed through the streets. Tavernhands weaved between bodies with arms full of mugs, dancing at near blinding speeds to replenish empty glasses. The air inside was noticeably warmer, and made even more so by the upbeat tune of a lyre. A clump of men around Arrin’s age cheered on another as he stood on a table and demolished a pint.

A loud voice boomed from across the bar. “Arrin!” Graham was already deep in his cups. “Get over here, little guy!”

Arrin couldn’t help but smile as he joined his friend at the bar.

“Get this man a drink!” Graham turned to Arrin, slapping him on the back. “I hope you’ve been practicing for the tournament this year. I won’t go so easy on you this time.”

Arrin laughed. “Easy? You were breathing like a dying mule before the end of the first round!”

The Cliff was a place of reprieve for Arrin. There aren’t many problems that good ale and good friends can’t solve. Arrin and Graham had known each other all their lives.

Graham wobbled slightly before leaning closer to Arrin. “Have you heard?” Graham had a look on his face that may have otherwise been fear, were he not drunk.

“Heard what?”

“Derrik’s dah says the ground’s been trembling. Earthquakes more like. Two in the last week.”

Arrin raised an eyebrow. Earthquakes? This far north?

“Derrik’s father? The same man that plants his crops when the stones tell him?”

“Aye. I’d not believe him had Derrick not said he felt it, too.”

Arrin frowned in agreement. Despite his father’s reputation, Derrik was relatively trustworthy and stood to gain nothing by fabricating stories of this like.

The boys shared a few more drinks and many more laughs before Arrin noticed him. On the far side of the bar sat a man in a hooded cloak. His clothes were made of some of the finest purple silk Arrin had ever seen, which made their obvious wear and filth even more out of place. Arrin couldn’t see his eyes, but felt them bearing down on him. The hair stood on the back of his neck.

He nodded toward the cloaked man while turning toward his friend. “Who is that?”

Graham waved his hand dismissively. “Nobody as far as I know. The people here think he’s from Hett. Doesn’t look like much of a fisherman to me.” Graham could sense Arrin's uneasiness. “Relax! Besides, the strongest guy in the village is here to protect you.”

Arrin grinned. “And fattest, you oaf.” He stood, remembering the agreement he made with his father. “I need to be making my way home.”

“Give Gregor and Jen my best,” his friend said as he raised his glass.

Arrin nodded and headed for the exit. He glanced over to where the man had been sitting before, hoping to get a better view. The man was gone.

Arrin headed home. The cool outside air was refreshing after a long night of drinks. He reached for the handle of the front door and was met with nothing.

Had he really had that much to drink?

He reached out again. Nothing.

The front door was lying flat on the ground just inside the house, blown off the hinges. The chair Gregor was sitting in when Arrin left was turned over. The smell of stew still hung in the air faintly, now accompanied by a hint of a strange acrid smell that reminded Arrin of…sulfur?

“Father?” he asked loudly. No response.

He grabbed a butcher’s axe from the kitchen and made for his parents’ bedroom.

The door was open. His mother was lying in bed in the same position as before.

Arrin walked towards the bed. “Moth-“ he started to say, but stopped at the sound of wet footsteps. Blood pooled underneath Jennifer’s lifeless body and ran onto the floor. Her eyes maintained the same blank stare.

What...

A pair of red eyes loomed near the ceiling in the far corner of the bedroom. A massive pale blue hand clasped around Gregor’s torso, suspending him off the ground effortlessly. Gregor’s sword stuck through the demon’s forearm.

“Finding you was difficult, boy,” the demon said. Its deep voice echoed as if every word was said twice. “The master will reward me handsomely when I bring him your heads.”

Gregor turned to Arrin. He could hardly speak. “Arrin, run.”

The demon tightened his grip, crushing Gregor’s ribs and killing him instantly. He threw his limp body to the ground.

“Now, you die!” The towering, horned figure lunged across the room, pinning Arrin against the wall. The demon’s strength was overwhelming.

Arrin screamed out in pain as he helplessly smashed into the stone bricks that his father had so carefully laid.

The demon reached for Arrin's head. Arrin prepared for death.

A searing pain shot down Arrin's right arm. A red-orange glow began to fill the room. The ground shook, creating a deafening vibration.

“What?!” The demon was confused. “How is this possible?”

The pain was unbearable. Arrin screamed in agony. A wave of intense heat exploded through the room. A bright white flash evaporated everything it touched.

Arrin fainted.