Chapter One

The Night of Ashes

The night air, usually scented with woodsmoke and the sweet perfume of honeysuckle, was thick with the stench of blood and burning. The screams still echoed in Kael’s ears, a cacophony of terror that clawed at his sanity even now, years later. He remembered the orange glow of the burning houses, the flickering shadows that danced like grotesque puppets in the flames. He remembered the guttural roars of the Orcs, their crude weapons cleaving through flesh and bone with sickening ease.

He’d been only ten, a child tucked away in the relative safety of his family’s small cottage, the sounds of the evening celebration muffled by the thick oak walls. Then, the shattering crash of the door, splintering wood and the terrified cries of his mother. The memory remained a searing brand, etched onto his soul in vivid detail. He saw his father, a strong man usually brimming with laughter, brought down by a massive Orcish axe, his body crumpling like a broken twig. His mother, her face contorted in a silent scream as a crude blade pierced her heart. Her eyes, wide with disbelief and terror, were the last thing he saw before he scrambled under the bed, the rough wool scratching his skin as he pressed himself against the cold earth floor, his breath held hostage in his chest.

The Orcs, a tide of green-skinned savagery, surged through the village. Their laughter – a chilling, guttural sound – mingled with the screams of the dying. The rhythmic thud of their heavy boots echoed through the houses, a death knell for Hollow Ridge. The air was thick with the coppery tang of blood, the acrid bite of smoke filling his lungs. He could feel the vibrations of the ground, the tremor of chaos shaking the very earth beneath his small body. Each guttural bellow, each scream, felt like a blow to his heart.

He stayed hidden, his body trembling, until the sounds gradually subsided, replaced by the crackling of flames and the occasional groan of the dying. The silence that followed was even more terrifying, a chilling emptiness that spoke of unimaginable loss. He waited, huddled in the darkness, until the night seemed to stretch into an eternity, until finally, he felt the courage – or perhaps, the sheer terror of remaining – to push himself out from under the bed.

The cottage was a charnel house. The air hung heavy with the cloying sweetness of death. He stumbled through the wreckage, his bare feet crunching on broken wood and shattered pottery. He saw his parents, lying lifeless amongst the debris, their bodies mutilated beyond recognition. The image remained seared into his memory; a grotesque tableau that would haunt him forever. His heart ached, a physical pain that mirrored the gaping hole in his soul.

He fled, a tiny shadow slipping through the night, the fires of Hollow Ridge casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock his despair. He ran blindly, propelled by primal instinct, guided only by an unyielding desire to escape the carnage. He didn't know where he was going, only that he couldn't stay. He stumbled through fields and forests, his small legs pumping furiously as he tried to outrun the horror that clung to him like a shroud. The sounds of the raid, the smell of death, the sight of his parents’ lifeless bodies – they were all imprinted on his mind, indelibly marking his journey into a life forever shadowed by loss and fueled by a searing thirst for vengeance.

His only possession was a small, worn leather pouch containing a few copper coins, a gift from his father on his last birthday. He clutched it tightly, a tangible link to a life that was brutally stolen from him. As dawn broke, painting the sky with hues of blood orange and bruised purple, he found himself alone, utterly alone, in a vast and unforgiving wilderness. Hunger gnawed at his belly, thirst parched his throat, and fear – a constant, chilling companion – wrapped its icy fingers around his heart.

The wilderness was both his sanctuary and his prison. He learned to hunt, to forage, to avoid the dangers that lurked in the shadows. He was small, scrawny, and constantly hungry, but he was also fiercely determined. He learned to move silently, to track his prey, and to rely on his instincts. The forest, initially a menacing presence, slowly became his teacher. Each passing day was a struggle, each night a testament to his resilience. He slept under the stars, his only comfort the hard, unforgiving earth. The animals, once sources of fear, eventually became sustenance. He learned to kill for survival, a skill he never wanted, yet one that would later become his grim trade.

The first few months were a blur of hardship and near starvation. He learned the hard way that the wilderness offered no mercy. He once saw a deer, slender and graceful, and stalked it for hours, his heart thrumming in his chest. He finally managed to kill it, the small knife he had found amongst the wreckage his only weapon. But the act of killing, while necessary for survival, filled him with a strange mixture of accomplishment and horror. He was just a boy, and yet, he had taken a life.

One day, while scavenging for food near the ruins of an old homestead, he stumbled upon a grizzled old woman tending a small patch of vegetables. Her eyes, though lined with age and hardship, held a spark of kindness that surprised him. She was a hermit, living a solitary life on the fringes of civilization, surviving by her wits and the bounty of the land. She took him in, teaching him the basics of survival and offering a glimmer of hope in his bleak existence. She didn’t ask about his past, but her quiet strength and unwavering compassion slowly began to mend the shattered pieces of his heart. She taught him to identify edible plants, to build a fire, and to read the subtle signs of the forest. She provided him with shelter and, most importantly, a sense of belonging, however fragile it might seem. She helped him find the quiet strength that was already within him.

He spent years under her tutelage, honing his survival skills. He also discovered a latent aptitude for combat. The old woman, whose name was Elara, taught him hand-to-hand combat, rudimentary swordsmanship, and the art of archery, skills that would later serve as the foundation for his quest for vengeance. She saw the rage that simmered beneath his calm exterior, the hunger for justice that was his only remaining motivation. She didn’t condone it, but she didn’t try to suppress it either. Instead, she channeled his pain, transforming it into a weapon. She instilled in him discipline, focus, and a quiet determination that belied his young age. As he grew stronger physically, the embers of his rage slowly began to ignite into a furious flame.

He learned about the Orcish warband responsible for the raid on Hollow Ridge. He learned their names, their strengths, and their weaknesses. He learned about their cruel rituals and their violent history, details that served only to further fuel his already fervent desire for retribution. He discovered that the warlord, known as Gorthag, was a cruel and ruthless brute, who reveled in violence and slaughter. His name echoed through the dark corners of the forest, a synonym for pain and suffering. And he vowed that Gorthag would pay for what he and his raiders had done. His memories, once a source of pain, became fuel for his training. The faces of his family flickered in his mind, their eyes pleading with him to avenge their deaths. The faces became his training partners, urging him to sharpen his skills, to perfect his technique, to become the weapon he knew he needed to become.

The years melted into a relentless pursuit of mastery. Each sunrise brought new challenges, each sunset a testament to his growing skill. He was no longer the frightened boy who had fled the massacre; he was a creature of the wilderness, forged in the fires of loss and tempered by years of hardship. His body became lean and powerful, his movements fluid and precise. His gaze was sharp, his senses honed to an almost superhuman level. The once-frightened boy became a lethal warrior, driven by a potent cocktail of rage, grief, and unwavering determination. The forest had become his home, its dangers his teachers. He was alone, yet he was not entirely alone, for the ghosts of his past were his unwavering companions. They whispered their stories in the rustling leaves, their tales a battle cry that echoed within him, prompting him towards his inevitable confrontation with Gorthag. The night of ashes had birthed a shadow; now, that shadow was ready to strike.