Chapter One

The Raid

The wind howled a mournful dirge, whipping through the skeletal remains of the village, carrying with it the stench of blood and burning wood. The night was a tapestry woven with screams, now silenced, replaced by the guttural roars of the Orcs, a symphony of savagery that echoed through the ravaged landscape. Elara, no older than seven, huddled beneath the loose floorboards of his family's home, his small body trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. He pressed himself against the cold, rough wood, the scent of damp earth and decaying timber filling his nostrils, a stark contrast to the sweet smell of his mother's freshly baked bread that usually permeated their humble abode.

The sounds were horrific, a cacophony of clashing steel, splintering wood, and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the earth. Each thud felt like a hammer blow against Elara's fragile heart. He squeezed his eyes shut, his ears straining to filter out the chaos, his small hands clenched into fists, digging into the rough-hewn wood. He could hear his father’s battle cry, a desperate roar swallowed by the overwhelming tide of Orcish brutality. Then, silence. A chilling silence that was far more terrifying than the cacophony that preceded it.

Through a crack in the floorboards, a sliver of moonlight illuminated a gruesome scene. He saw his father, his body a mangled ruin, lying amidst a pool of crimson, a broken spear protruding from his chest. The Orcs, hulking figures of muscle and rage, their tusks gleaming in the moonlight, were a terrifying spectacle. Their faces, contorted in savage glee, were painted with the war paint of their tribe, grotesque masks of brutality. They moved with a terrifying efficiency, their weapons – crude but deadly – dripping with the lifeblood of his people. Their laughter, harsh and cruel, was a chilling counterpoint to the silent screams of the dying.

His mother, her face pale with terror but her eyes blazing with fierce determination, fought with a courage that belied her slender frame. She wielded a kitchen knife, a pathetic weapon against the Orcish weaponry, yet she fought with a ferocity that momentarily stunned her attackers. He watched, paralyzed with fear and horror, as she moved with surprising agility, deflecting blows, her movements fluid and desperate, a desperate dance with death. She was a whirlwind of motion, a tiny spark of defiance in the overwhelming darkness. For a fleeting moment, Elara thought she might escape, that she might somehow save them both.

But the Orcs were too many, too strong. One of them, larger than the rest, a monstrous brute with a scarred face and eyes burning with cold fury, brought his club down on her with a bone-jarring thud. The sound echoed in Elara’s mind, a sound that would forever haunt his dreams. He saw her crumple, her body falling limp, the light extinguished from her eyes. The knife slipped from her grasp, landing silently beside her lifeless form. The Orcs moved on, their attention drawn to other victims, their lust for blood unsated.

A wave of grief so profound it threatened to suffocate him washed over Elara. His heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice, the air trapped in his lungs a burning agony. His mother, his protector, his love, was gone. The world, once a place of warmth and security, had become a terrifying landscape of violence and loss. He had witnessed a baptism of fire, a brutal initiation into a world devoid of innocence. The sweet smell of freshly baked bread was replaced by the acrid stench of burning flesh and the metallic tang of blood.

Elara remained hidden, the only survivor of his family, his world reduced to the cramped confines of his hiding place. He stayed there for what felt like an eternity, the sounds of the Orcs’ revelry slowly fading into the distance, replaced by the mournful whispers of the wind. Days bled into nights, the cold seeping into his bones, hunger gnawing at his belly. He dared not move, dared not make a sound, his survival dependent on his ability to remain unseen, unheard. He rationed the meager scraps of food he found – a few dried berries, a piece of stale bread – clinging to life with the tenacity of a wild animal.

His thoughts drifted to his mother's final act, a desperate attempt to protect him. She had shoved him under the floorboards, her body shielding him from the onslaught of the Orcs. Her sacrifice was a searing brand on his soul, a promise he could not ignore. He was alive, a lone survivor in a world consumed by darkness, a world where vengeance was the only currency.

The chilling silence of the ravaged village was broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards, the sounds amplifying in the suffocating stillness. The image of his mother's lifeless body, the finality of her death, fueled a fire within him, a burning rage that consumed him. He vowed, in that dark, desolate place, to avenge his family, to exact retribution for the brutality and cruelty he had witnessed. This vow, whispered in the darkness, would become the driving force of his life, shaping his destiny and forging him into a weapon of vengeance. The night of the broken spears was not just the night his family died, but the night Elara was born anew, a warrior forged in the crucible of sorrow and fueled by a burning, unwavering thirst for revenge. The boy who had once known only the warmth of a loving home was gone, replaced by a chilling determination that would drive him to the heart of the Orcish lands and back. He would survive. He would endure. He would avenge.