Alaric:

Alaric embarked on the familiar trail once again, equipped with an abundance of provisions, well-fitting clothes, and a sheath custom-made for the supposedly “flimsy” swords crafted by the skilled blacksmith.

Truth be told, those swords surpassed his expectations, far better than the blade’s in the local shops. Alaric had attempted to sharpen his dueling skills by sparring with the villagers, but their lack of experience was evident. Occupied primarily with farming or their meager trades, they had little exposure to combat. Only a few ventured into the realm of dueling, and even they were beginners.

The absence of attacks in the past had bred complacency, but with the Riders now wreaking havoc and burning down entire villages to recruit people to the mines, the motivation to learn how to defend oneself had surfaced. The burden of higher taxes as well had sparked secret riots among the people.

They had extended an invitation to Alaric to join their cause, yet he had no choice but to decline. Until he understood the true nature of the unfolding events, he couldn’t involve himself in overthrowing the crown. He was driven by a desire for justice. However, if the accusations were true, if his father—a man with whom he wasn't close with, but knew very well—was indeed a traitor, it would shatter his very soul.

But the question remained, Why was there a bounty on his head?

Uncertain as to the truth, he pushed those thoughts aside for another time.

Alaric’s prowess with a sword far surpassed that of the locals, at least for now. He knew he would face tests at the academy, and he fervently hoped his skills were up to par. Unfortunately, the locals proved inadequate in gauging his true level of expertise. Resuming his intense training regimen, he gradually regained some of his former strength, but it would be months before he reached his previous peak.

He had been gifted a few pieces of formal clothing, but still had no armor. After knocking on the door, the old woman answered, and he said, “I’m ready to go to the festival.”

She smiled warmly and called for Luna. When Luna appeared, Alaric greeted her formally. “You look lovely this evening,” he complimented, causing a slight blush to rise on her cheeks.

As the evening sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the village, they started to make their way to the festivities together.

The festival had already begun, and the entire community had gathered, dressed in silver and white garments that shimmered in the moonlight. The air was filled with anticipation as lanterns and candles were lit, their soft glow illuminating the brown streets. Alaric and Luna joined the procession.

Alaric noticed how the villagers occasionally nudged each other and smiled, teasingly pointing at him and Luna walking side by side. "Looks like Alec has found himself a date," one of the villagers, Soren, whispered loudly enough for Alaric to hear, causing Luna to blush and smile shyly.

However, Alaric only felt apathy.

As the procession continued, they stopped at various altars adorned with special offerings for the Moon, or Lutri, the God that supposedly ruled over Lutra, alongside Fate, Death and Time. Alaric found these things hard to believe, but as a prince, he understood the power of belief in running the kingdom and empowering the lower classes.

Mooncakes made from rare lunar flowers, fruit that only ripened under the moonlight, and intricately carved wooden totems were placed reverently on the altars. Alaric found himself fascinated by the designs that weren't as elaborate as he was used to, but still looked beautiful as well. He and Luna added their offerings, and he couldn’t help but notice the proud smile on her face. "Thank you for accompanying me," Luna said softly. "This means a lot."

Alaric just nodded, head facing to the front. For some reason, he couldn't bring himself to look at her. Like he felt from before, her face felt eerily familiar.

They moved to the central square, where the highlight of the festival, The Call, a dance, was about to begin. Skilled dancers dressed as celestial beings performed intricate routines that mimicked the movements of the stars and constellations. Musicians played ethereal tunes on harps and flutes, their melodies weaving through the night air. The performance ended to thunderous applause, and soon after, the tables for the grand feast were set. The central square was transformed into a banquet hall under the stars. Tables were laden with dishes made from ingredients believed to be blessed by the moon.

Alaric and Luna sat together with the others, sharing delicacies like lunar berries, moonbeam fish, and silver honey cakes. The villagers shared stories, laughed, and celebrated under the moonlight.

Alaric truly felt a bit out of place. The imprisonment had taken everything from him, just leaving back the sting of revenge.

"You know," Luna said between bites, "You look better now. After cutting your hair and cleaning up, I mean."

Alaric tried to smile, thanking her. He tried to look her in the eyes, but his face immediately snapped away.

"Hey Alec."

"Hmm?"

"I've always wanted to ask why you work so hard around the village. Cleaning houses, hunting, collecting wood, even arranging everything from before."

Alaric hesitated. A sharp pain shot through his head as memories started flashing through his mind.

The old prince chose to lie. “I’m a journeyman,” he said finally.

"An Ansout?"

He frowned, unfamiliar with the term. “What’s that?”

Luna smiled. “Journeyman and Ansout are one and the same.”

Alaric thought for a moment and then nodded. “I’ve never heard that word before.”

Luna didn’t respond, but her eyes held a glint of understanding. Before they could continue their conversation, the village leader called everyone over, signaling that dinner was done. The villagers began to gather, their plates and utensils clinking as they moved.

Alaric stood up and offered, “I can clean off the tables for an extra copper.”

Luna laughed and grabbed his arm, pulling him away. “Not tonight, Alec. Come on, let’s enjoy the festival.”

As the full moon reached the top of the sky, everyone gathered once more in the central square, each holding a sky lantern inscribed with their hopes and wishes for the coming year.

Alaric wrote his wish, and watched as Luna did the same.

“What did you wish for?” Luna asked, curiosity in her eyes. Alaric chuckled, turning over his sky lantern to reveal nothing there.

She exclaimed in surprise. “Why didn’t you write anything?”

Alaric hid his emotions behind a calm facade. “I guess I have nothing to wish for because I’m happy with what I have.”

Luna looked at him, a mix of confusion and admiration in her gaze. “That’s… really something.”

Deep inside, Alaric knew the truth. His real wishes—vengeance, justice, and answers—were things he believed would never be granted, even if the gods existed.

On a silent signal, they released the lanterns together, and the night sky filled with floating lights, symbolizing the community’s collective dreams and aspirations.

The sight was breathtaking, a sea of glowing lanterns ascending into the heavens, carrying the hopes and dreams of everyone below.

As the night grew late, they all gathered by a large fire in the center of the square. The village leader, Cid, looked around at everyone, villagers—Finn, Elda, Tomas, Mira, Roland, Sera, Gareth, and Luna—but finally, his gaze settled on Alaric.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Luna suddenly grabbed Alaric’s hand and squeezed it, probably expecting him to respond back with something or squeeze her hand as well. However, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Cid’s voice boomed over the crackling fire. “The final festival activity has always been stories—ones that haven't been told around the fire for the last 50 years. However, it seems everyone has run out of new tales.”

A murmur of agreement passed through the gathered villagers. Cid then pointed at Alaric, a twinkle in his eye. “Except for you, Alec. You’re the only one left. Care to share a story with us?”

Alaric felt all eyes turn to him. He hesitated, the sharp pain of his memories returning. The agony in his mind threatened to spew forth.

Suddenly, he laughed with a wild insanity—a harsh, manic sound that echoed through the silence.

Everyone stared at him in shock, their expressions confused and concerned. He pulled his hand abruptly away from Luna’s and walked towards the fire, standing next to it, his face illuminated by the flickering flames.

A few moments later, Alaric's laughter died down, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. The prince stared into the fire, a few burning hot embers settling into his skin, burning him.

“Of course,” he said, his voice raw. He pulled away from the flames.

"I was traveling along the destroyed roads when a small child approached me," Alaric began. "The child handed me an envelope and shared a story—"

"A tale of valor and tragedy that begins in our grand land of Lutra."

Alaric took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts.

"Once, there was a prince who had everything—a palace of gold, fine silks, and all the luxuries one could imagine. But when he picked up a sword for the first time, his father, the king, spoke a single, life-changing sentence:

"From now on, you are not a prince, but a defender to every citizen before you. The last line of defense."

“The prince took those words to heart. Day and night, he trained tirelessly with every weapon he could get his hands on until his muscles screamed in protest and his body refused to move. Yet, he never gave up. Under the cover of darkness, he would sneak out of the castle, learning every alley and rooftop to navigate the city swiftly and silently. He became a shadow, stopping small crimes and protecting the innocent, all while keeping his nightly escapades a secret from his father.”

“Years passed, and his skills grew sharper. His heart was heavy with the responsibility of being the kingdom's unseen guardian. His actions were known only to those he saved, and he asked for nothing in return.”

“Then came the day of the grandest dueling tournament in history, a competition that drew the finest warriors from far and wide. The prince, now a young man, entered the contest, not as a prince, but as a defender of Lutra. His skill with the sword was unmatched, and he bested every opponent, rising through the ranks until he stood as the champion.”

“But as the crowd cheered his victory, they did so with an air of expectancy. "Of course the crown prince would win," they murmured. "It was only natural."

“The prince watched as his fallen opponents were jeered at and dismissed, their efforts belittled despite their courage and determination. As a child, he might have ignored the injustice, but now, as a defender, he felt the weight of it.”

“Raising his sword high, he silenced the crowd with a single, commanding gesture. "This victory is not mine alone," he declared, his voice resonating with the strength of his convictions. "Every warrior here has shown bravery and skill. They deserve your respect, not your scorn." “

“Years later, the prince was truly recognized as the next successor to the throne. Revered and feared, his name became legendary. His marriage ceremony commenced with someone that he had known from childhood, someone that he had mutually loved as friends.

His father, his guards, the weapons master who had taught him everything from a young age, and people, all attended with smiles and happiness. The civilians gathered around the streets, whispering in excitement.”

“But during the ceremony, chaos erupted as screams echoed through the halls.”

Alaric opened his eyes wide, feeling his chest constrict and his breath start to increase in speed. Everyone was watching him with curiosity, seemingly deep within the narrative. His vision started to blur, and his legs were holding on by a thread. Alaric bit his tongue until it bled, feeling the pain course through him, grounding him back to reality. He swallowed all of his emotions, continuing with the story.

“A shadowy figure clad in black, the emblem of a black bird etched upon his chest, loomed over the prince with a bow and a cynical smile. His words were something that the prince would never be able to forget. "You say you are so strong, yet you can't even save what you hold dear." “

“The man dressed in black clapped, and the prince watched in horror as everyone he loved was slain—his friends and attendants, his future wife who cried and pleaded for her life, his guards, and normal civilians. But only he was taken alive to the gallows, his heart not only shattered, but completely empty. He lost his true purpose.”

His voice felt hoarse and dry. The fire had started to dim, and the moon felt as if it was shining more brightly in the night sky.

“That’s it. The end.”

A heavy silence hung in the air, interrupted only by the crackling of the dying fire and the faint rustling of leaves in the night breeze. His audience, caught in the grip of the story's tragic conclusion, remained speechless for a moment. Then, as if prompted by an unspoken cue, voices erupted all at once, clamoring for the moral of the story.

Alaric slowly trekked towards his seat, wobbling on his legs, feeling his mind starting to hurt again. He closed his eyes, a gesture of gathering his thoughts and calming his stirred emotions.

Suddenly, a soft voice cut through the fighting. "Maybe the moral of the story is that true strength does not come from skill with a sword or the adoration of a kingdom," Luna began. "The prince had trained to be a defender, but in his focus on physical prowess and duty, he overlooked the deeper connections that truly make life worth defending."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd, a quiet acknowledgment of the profound truth in Luna's words. Just as the atmosphere began to settle into thoughtful reflection, Cid stepped forward, starting to end the festivities.

"Alec, are you okay?" Luna’s gentle touch lifted his chin, guiding his gaze to meet hers. For a fleeting moment, their eyes locked, and in Luna’s face, Alaric saw a haunting resemblance that struck him like a lightning bolt. His breath caught in his throat.

"Ela..." he whispered, the name slipping out before he could stop it. Realization dawned like a dagger to his heart, and he recoiled from Luna's touch as if burned.

"No," Alaric gasped, his voice strained with anguish, his hands trembling as he stepped back, his gaze wild with fear.

The crowd, enraptured by his tale moments before, now watched in stunned silence as Alaric turned away, his movements erratic and desperate. His breath came in ragged gasps, his hands clutching at his chest as if to still the ache that threatened to consume him once more.

Without another word, without daring to meet anyone's gaze, Alaric fled from the village. His footsteps echoed hollowly on the path, each stride carrying him further from the haunting memories that threatened to drown him. The fire behind him dwindled to mere embers, casting long, stretching shadows that seemed to reach out for him in the night.

̶̛̓͜18? Years ago?

.̶̛̓͜.̴͔͝.̵̪̀̾.̶̛̓͜???.̴͔͝.̵̪̀̾:

A yellow lamp light swung in a dark room bathed in an otherworldly hue of brown. Its depths remain concealed, a symphony of shadows playing upon the walls, creating an illusion of shifting dimensions. Tables and contraptions, all fashioned from an ethereal metal, stood as silent witnesses to the horrors happening within.

The very air within the cryptic sanctuary hummed with a spectral energy, a force that transcends the boundaries of mortal comprehension. Every step was a venture into the unknown, and every surface, reflective and metallic, hinted at an arcane wisdom that defied the logic of the known world. In the center of it all, a black horned being stood over one such table, trembling as black tears fell to the ground, disappearing in green magic circles that burned the liquid to a crisp. The being muttered to itself insanely, but through all of its rambling, it only clearly mumbled one word.

“Kismet. Kismet. Kismet.”

But the horror lay on the table. Green orbs entered bodies that continuously appeared on the table, but the eyes of these people fluttered open, they screamed in demonic pain and burned to ashes. The robed demon kept on crying as he took out his hands as if he was weaving a scarf, twisting and turning green strings that constructed the green orbs that he inserted in the bodies. The green circles took his tears and burned black symbols onto the demon’s body, branding the number of the experiment onto his skin. In fact, only a few more spots had a bit of brown left, and after he had completed enough attempts to fill his entire body with black ink, the demon would find another way to write on himself, trying to remember the pain and suffering he made so many go through. Finally, as the last brown spot filled with the number that could very well be described as almost infinite, the demon screamed to the sky.

“Gods! Gods! Is it enough? Is it? Can I die?”

There was no response. The demon cleared the ash and another body materialized. A handsome baby boy. The demon’s hand shook as he forged another green orb with his perfected technique, simultaneously branding a number on his eyes, as he only had one place left, but as the boy woke up, its eyes made the demon’s eyes sharpen for once in eons.

“Kismet. Kismet. Kismet.” It repeated.

The boy’s eyes glowed in different colors, one white, and one black. It didn’t cry, it didn’t yell. Instead, it stood there, watching the world, just like he had done forever. The demon quickly took the boy into his arms, taking out a vial from his pocket and dropping it onto the ground. The floor immediately lit on fire, and the lab burned. The demon’s black eyes opened wider after placing the boy carefully into his robes, and walked outside into the snow of the mountain, whispering to itself again. But suddenly, all of the black tattoos on its body lit up, each glowing with an otherworldly light, and the entire world shook as lightning and fire struck the figure, incinerating it into ash.

A few moments later, the soot immediately started moving back together to form horns and a head. The demon’s eyes rolled back as its body got struck by lightning countless times, and the baby boy, unharmed by the absurd scene, dropped off the snowy mountain. However, just as the baby was about to land on a rock that would end its small life, a lady picked it up and left, ignoring the constant explosions that made the earth churn below her.