Alaric's world was a blur of pain and darkness as he struggled to stay conscious. He had tried to stand, to keep fighting, but his body had betrayed him, collapsing under the relentless blows. The last thing he heard before everything went black was the distant sound of raider horns—a haunting, bone-chilling call that signaled doom.
When he awoke, the world around him had transformed into a nightmare. The acrid smell of smoke filled his nostrils, and the once-familiar streets were now engulfed in flames. His district, the place he had called home, was reduced to a burning ruin. His heart pounded as he forced himself to his feet, the pain from his injuries momentarily forgotten in the face of this new horror.
Stumbling through the wreckage, he saw the lifeless bodies of his neighbors strewn across the ground. Their faces, once filled with life, were now twisted in fear and pain. His breath caught in his throat as he came across his parents, their bodies lying cold and still amidst the chaos. A strangled cry escaped his lips, but he didn't have time to grieve.
A piercing scream cut through the air—Mari's scream. Alaric's heart lurched, and he took off in the direction of the sound, his legs barely carrying him forward. As he rounded the corner, he saw them—his siblings, desperately fighting against the raiders. Lia's disciplined movements were faltering, her spells weak and easily deflected. Niko fought with grim determination, but his strikes lacked power. Jorin's loud, charismatic nature was gone, replaced by raw fear as he struggled to fend off their attackers. The twins, Juno and Maka, were trying to protect Mari, their tiny hands glowing with faint magical energy, but it wasn't enough.
Alaric's heart broke as he watched them. He wanted to help, to save them, but his body refused to move. He was paralyzed by the sheer hopelessness of the situation, knowing that even if he could stand, he was too weak to make a difference. The raiders, clad in dark, menacing armor, overwhelmed his siblings with ease, knocking them down one by one.
Mari was the last to be caught. Her small, trembling form tried to resist, but she was no match for the brute strength of the raiders. Alaric's vision blurred with tears as he watched them drag her away, her terrified eyes searching for him, pleading for help he couldn't give.
"NO!" Alaric screamed, finally finding the strength to move. He stumbled after them, desperate to save his siblings. But the raiders were merciless. They turned on him, beating him down without hesitation. His wounds reopened, blood soaking through his clothes as he was thrown to the ground. He fought to stay conscious, to keep going, but it was futile. The world spun around him as the raiders kicked him one last time, leaving him broken and bleeding in the dirt.
As the raiders disappeared into the shadows, taking his siblings with them, Alaric's world went dark again. He was left for dead, his body a mangled mess, barely clinging to life.
When the authorities finally arrived, it was too late. The raiders had vanished without a trace. They found Alaric, barely alive, lying amidst the carnage. The providence's medical team acted swiftly, healing his wounds with powerful blessings and magic. What should have taken weeks to heal was mended in mere moments, his torn flesh knitting back together, bones realigning, blood loss stopped.
But as the medics marveled at their work, Alaric's face was not one of relief. It was twisted in fury, a cold, burning anger that consumed him from the inside out.
"If only I had this kind of power," he thought bitterly. "I could have saved them… I could have stopped this."
His fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms as tears of rage and frustration streamed down his face.
"Why am I so weak?" he berated himself. The thought gnawed at him, festering into a dark resolve. No, he corrected himself, why am I so useless?
The medics, oblivious to the storm brewing within him, offered him words of comfort and encouragement, but Alaric heard none of it. His mind was consumed with one thought: he had failed. His siblings were gone, and it was all because he wasn't strong enough to protect them.
As he lay there, surrounded by the ruins of his life, Alaric made a silent vow. He would find the power he needed, whatever the cost. He would become stronger—strong enough to take on any enemy, to protect those he loved. And when he found those who had taken his siblings, they would pay for what they had done. But for now, all he could do was lie there, seething in his own helplessness, as the fires around him slowly died out, leaving only ashes in their wake.
After the initial chaos of the attack, Alaric was left alone in the smoldering remains of his home. The authorities had come and gone, leaving behind only the faintest trace of order amid the destruction. Alaric, battered and barely able to stand, was determined to find any clue that could lead him to his missing siblings. His heart pounded in his chest as he scoured the area, pushing past the pain and fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him.
As he stumbled through the ruins, Alaric noticed something strange—a symbol, crudely painted on the wall of a nearby building. The symbol was a jagged, twisting mark, something that looked like it had been made in haste, but with a deliberate purpose. It was a symbol he had seen before in passing, mentioned in hushed tones by the townsfolk: the mark of the Children of Malice.
His mind raced as he tried to recall where he had seen it. Then it hit him—just a few days earlier, while running an errand in the market, he had overheard a conversation between two shady figures. They had spoken in low voices, but Alaric had caught snippets of their exchange. Words like "Malice," "sacrifice," and "power" had made him uneasy, but he hadn't thought much of it at the time. Now, with the symbol before him, those words came rushing back with new significance.
Driven by desperation, Alaric sought out more information. He began asking questions around the city, though most people were too frightened to speak openly about the Children of Malice. Those who did offer any information were vague, warning him to stay away from such dangerous topics. It wasn't until he visited the rundown tavern on the outskirts of the city—a place where whispers of dark dealings were more common than the clink of coin—that he got the confirmation he needed.
Alaric sat in the dimly lit corner of the tavern, nursing a mug of ale that he barely touched. The room was filled with the sounds of clinking glasses, low murmurs, and the occasional raucous laughter. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer and sweat, a far cry from the peaceful, orderly life he had known just days before.
His eyes, though weary, scanned the room for any sign of hope or information—anything that could lead him to his siblings. Desperation gnawed at his insides, a constant reminder of the horror that had befallen his family.
Across the room, an old man, his face etched with deep lines and his hands shaking from years of hard living, caught Alaric's attention. The man was more drunk than sober, his speech slurred, and his movements unsteady. But there was something in his ramblings that made Alaric's ears prick up.
He moved closer, slipping into a seat near the old man, who was holding court with a small group of similarly inebriated patrons. The old man's words were barely coherent, but Alaric listened intently, hoping to catch something—anything—that might give him a lead.
"And I'm tellin' ya," the old man slurred, leaning heavily on the table, "these days, ya hear 'bout some kids goin' missin', it's those damned Malice freaks. Always lookin' for more power, they are."
Alaric's heart skipped a beat. He leaned in closer, his voice low and urgent. "What do you know about the Children of Malice?" he asked, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.
The old man blinked at him, his bloodshot eyes trying to focus. "They're a nasty lot," he muttered, his breath reeking of ale. "Been growin' in number, spreadin' across Tesara like a plague. Targetin' kids with magic, strong bloodlines… like yours, maybe."
Alaric felt a chill run down his spine. He remembered his younger siblings' magical abilities—abilities that had only recently begun to manifest. They were strong, unusually so for their age. He had always seen it as a blessing, a sign of their potential. Now, it seemed like a curse.
"Why would they target my family?" Alaric asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The old man let out a harsh laugh, one that quickly turned into a cough. "Power, boy. They're hungry for it. Always lookin' for more power. Strong magic, ancient blood… they want it all. They think it'll help 'em bring back the Destroyer, stop the monsters, or some such madness."
Alaric's blood ran cold. His siblings hadn't just been taken—they had been hunted. Targeted. All because of their potential, because of the power that ran in their veins.
"Those bastards… they took my siblings," Alaric muttered, more to himself than to the old man.
The old man looked at him with a mixture of pity and fear. "Then they ain't comin' back," he said grimly. "Not unless you can find 'em. But those Malice folk… they're dangerous. Don't go gettin' yourself killed, lad."
But Alaric was no longer listening. The pieces were falling into place, and all he could think about was finding his siblings. The final piece of the puzzle came when Alaric returned to the site of the attack once more, determined to find any other clue he might have missed. In the rubble, half-buried beneath charred wood and broken stone, he found a pendant. It was simple, a small metal charm that had somehow survived the inferno. It bore the same twisted symbol he had seen on the wall, and he knew without a doubt that it belonged to one of the attackers.
This pendant became Alaric's key. He showed it to those who had seen the cultists before, and the responses were unanimous: it was indeed the mark of the Children of Malice. Armed with this knowledge, Alaric knew where to start looking. His siblings had been taken by a group far more dangerous than he could have imagined, and now, he had a name to go with the fear that had been growing in his heart.
But Alaric knew he couldn't do this alone. The cultists were powerful, organized, and ruthless. He needed guidance, someone with the strength and knowledge to help him track down these fiends and rescue his family. And in Tesara, there was only one place where he might find such help.
The forge was a place of intense heat and relentless noise, a sanctuary of iron and fire where the rhythm of hammer against anvil was as constant as a heartbeat. Alaric pushed through the heavy wooden door, the air inside thick with the smell of burning coal and molten metal. Flint, a man as solid and unyielding as the anvil he worked on, looked up as Alaric entered.
"Ahh! What brings you in today, boy?" Flint grunted, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. His voice was gruff but not unkind, welcoming Alaric with a nod.
Alaric stepped forward, placing his trembling hands on the worn wooden counter. "I need help," he began, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. "My siblings—they've been taken."
Flint's brows furrowed. He had seen desperation before, but there was something about the way Alaric carried himself that caught his attention. This wasn't just a plea for help; it was a vow.
"Taken, you say? Don't tell me your district was the one?" Flint asked, his tone shifting from casual to serious.
"A group," Alaric replied, his voice low as he pulled out the pendant and placed it on the counter. "They call themselves the Children of Malice."
At the mention of the name and the sight of the pendant, Flint's expression hardened. He set down his tools and leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he examined the charm. "The Children of Malice… they're no ordinary cult. They're dangerous, boy. Extremely dangerous. And they are growing bolder by the day."
The blacksmith glanced around his forge, his gaze lingering on the array of weapons and tools that adorned the walls. Each weapon bore the marks of battles fought and won, crafted with care for those who stood against the encroaching darkness. The forge, a sanctuary of heat and fire, now seemed to embody the very struggle Alaric faced.
"I've heard whispers about them," Flint continued, his voice lowering as if revealing a dark secret. "They're forming factions, spreading their influence across the kingdoms. One of their strongest factions is in Caldria, across the river."
Alaric's eyes widened at the mention of Caldria. The dread in his voice was palpable as he echoed, "Caldria? But that's in Ignara. The authorities won't cross the border. They won't risk starting a war."
The blacksmith nodded grimly, the lines on his face deepening as he considered the gravity of the situation. "Exactly. The bastards know it too. They've holed up there, safe from any retribution. Ignara's borders are tightly guarded, and any intrusion could spark an international conflict. It's the perfect place for them to hide out."
Alaric's heart sank further at the realization. The Children of Malice had chosen their refuge well, exploiting the political tensions to shield themselves from justice. His determination flared, the flames of his resolve burning brighter in the face of such obstacles.
"But if you're determined to go after them…" Flint said, trailing off as he assessed Alaric's intense expression. "You're going to need help. You'll need someone who knows how to get across that river and into Caldria without attracting too much attention."
At that moment, the heavy wooden door to the forge creaked open, and a grizzled old man stepped inside. His one visible eye scanned the room with a mix of exhaustion and relief. The old man's presence was unmistakable—he was the same veteran Alaric had encountered in the market a few days earlier.
Flint chuckled, surprise flickering across his face. "Berik! What are you doing here?"
Berik's gaze fell on Alaric, who was speaking with Flint, and his face softened slightly. "Roderic, I've been looking for you. And it seems I've found what I was looking for."
Alaric, bewildered, looked between the two men. "Roderic? You know him?"
Flint wiped his brow with a rag, nodding. "Yes, Berik and I have a history. He's one of the most seasoned fighters I've known."
Berik stepped closer, addressing Alaric directly. "I heard about the recent raid attack and how there was a sole survivor. Now I don't think it's a coincidence that I found you here."
Alaric's eyes widened with realization. "You've been looking for me?"
Berik nodded, his voice gruff but filled with urgency. "I knew the raid on your district was significant. When you didn't show up at the market and I didn't see your family, it raised my suspicions. Maybe I was foolishly hoping the survivor was one of you."
Berik's demeanor softened as he continued, his voice tinged with pain. "I've seen families torn apart before. I know what it's like to lose everything." His gaze grew distant, and he fought back a wave of emotion. "I lost my own family to monsters. The Children of Malice. I've been searching for a way to stop them ever since. Finding you here… it's not just a coincidence."
He reached under his shirt and pulled out a small, worn locket. Opening it, he revealed tiny, faded portraits of a woman and a young girl. "These were my wife and daughter," Berik said quietly. "Taken from me by the very creatures we're fighting."
Alaric's eyes widened in shock and understanding. "I'm sorry. I had no idea."
Flint stepped in, placing a hand on Berik's shoulder. "Berik's one of the best fighters I've ever known. He's been through more than most people could imagine. His experience and loss have made him a valuable ally."
Alaric, deeply moved by Berik's revelation, felt a surge of determination. He clenched his fists, steeling himself for the challenges ahead. "I need to find my siblings. If there's a chance, they're still alive, I have to try. If you know anything about the Children of Malice, I need your help."
Berik nodded, a sense of duty and solidarity filling him. He stepped closer to Alaric, offering a hand of both support and guidance. "I'll help you. I know this world and its shadows better than most. We'll find them and put an end to this. I won't let you face this alone."
Flint chimed in with practical advice, pointing out that Berik's knowledge and connections would be crucial. "Berik's knowledge of the world and its underbelly will be crucial for what lies ahead. If you're going after the Children of Malice, you'll need all the help you can get."
Berik, his mind already racing with possibilities, quickly outlined a plan. "First, we need to gather as much information as we can about the Children of Malice's current activities. I have some contacts who might have intel. We'll visit them first to get leads. Time is of the essence, so we'll make our way to Caldria as soon as we have a direction."
Alaric nodded; his determination unshaken. "Let's go. We can't afford to lose any more time."
Berik clapped Alaric on the shoulder, a rare gesture of encouragement. "We'll find them, Alaric. I've seen too much to let this go unchecked. Let's get to work."
As they prepared to leave, Berik's expression darkened. "You should know, Alaric, this isn't just about your family. The Children of Malice have been making moves across the kingdoms. Their influence is spreading, and they're leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. There are whispers that they're not just targeting families like yours—they're aiming for something much bigger."
Flint, who had been listening intently, added, "I've heard disturbing rumors. Some say they're trying to destabilize the kingdoms, create chaos. But no one knows for sure what they're really after. The only thing that's clear is that they're a threat to everyone."
Berik nodded grimly. "Exactly. They're a shadowy organization, and most of what we know comes from fragmented reports and frightened survivors. Some believe they're trying to revive an ancient evil, while others think they're just sowing discord for their own gain. Whatever their true goal is, their actions are causing widespread panic, and it's only getting worse."
Alaric's eyes narrowed as he absorbed this. "So, we don't know what they're really after. But we know they're dangerous, and they're spreading."
"Right," Berik said. "Their methods are insidious. They exploit fear, manipulate the vulnerable, and they're not above using force to get what they want. Some of the kingdom's heroes have been sent to investigate, but even they're struggling to get a clear picture. All we have are pieces of the puzzle."
Alaric's resolve deepened. "If they're involved in causing this much chaos, we need to stop them before it's too late. I don't care what they're after—I just want to save my family."
Berik's gaze was steely. "We'll do everything we can to stop them. But we need to be smart about this. The Children of Malice are cunning and dangerous. We'll gather what information we can, head to Caldria, and follow the leads. Maybe then we'll start to uncover what they're really up to."
Flint, seeing the determination in their eyes, nodded in support. "I'll assist in gathering any local intelligence and keeping an eye on the situation here. Be careful out there. The Children of Malice are unpredictable, and they've already taken too much from too many."
As Flint moved to gather his equipment and begin his search for information, Berik turned to Alaric, his gaze more serious than before. "We'll need to move fast, but rushing in without preparation is a death sentence. You've got determination, Alaric, but I can see you're not ready for what's ahead."
Alaric's brow furrowed, but he nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I've never had to fight like this before. I've always been a merchant, a provider. But I'll do whatever it takes to save my family."
Berik studied him for a moment before speaking. "That's the right attitude, but it's not enough. You need to know how to hold a weapon, how to defend yourself. We don't have time for formal training, but I'll teach you the basics. It might just be enough to keep you alive."
Without another word, Berik walked over to a rack of weapons and picked up a sword. He handed it to Alaric, who took it awkwardly, the weight unfamiliar in his hands.
Berik watched him struggle to find a proper grip. "Have you ever held a sword before?"
Alaric shook his head. "No, I've only ever handled tools and goods."
Berik sighed but didn't judge. Instead, he stepped closer, adjusting Alaric's grip and stance. "A sword is different. It's not just a tool—it's an extension of your body. You have to feel the balance, understand its weight. If you're clumsy with it, it'll betray you."
As Berik guided Alaric through the basic stances and swings, he began to notice something troubling. Alaric was trying, but his movements were stiff, his strikes weak and imprecise. He lacked the natural instinct for combat, and Berik could see that even these basic lessons were a struggle.
After a while, Berik paused, his expression thoughtful. "Tell me, Alaric, have you ever received a blessing?"
Alaric hesitated, then shook his head. "No. I've never been blessed. I… I'm just an ordinary man."
Berik's eyes widened in shock. "You've never had a blessing? That's... unheard of. I've never met anyone who hasn't been blessed. I assumed it was simply a matter of seeking it out."
Alaric's face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. "It's not for lack of trying. My family has always been poor, and we couldn't afford the offerings or the rituals. I've asked for a blessing, prayed for it, but it never came. It's a sore subject for me."
Berik's frown deepened. He had seen warriors blessed by the gods, their abilities enhanced, their skills honed to near perfection. Those without blessings often struggled, especially in combat. A blessing could be the difference between life and death.
A heavy silence hung between them, and Berik's thoughts raced. In every village, every town he had passed through, blessings were commonplace, almost a rite of passage. Children, upon reaching a certain age, would make their offerings, recite their prayers, and receive a blessing tailored to their spirit and needs. To lack one was almost inconceivable—a sign of favor denied by the gods themselves.
He studied Alaric with new eyes, seeing beyond the man's determination to the deeper struggle that had marked his life. "No one ever told you why? No elder, no priest?"
Alaric shook his head, the frustration giving way to a quiet resignation. "They always said it would come in time, that I had to be patient. But the years went by, and nothing happened. I watched others receive theirs, watched as they grew stronger, more capable... while I stayed the same. It's like there's something wrong with me, something the gods see and turn away from."
Berik's heart softened as he listened, a pang of empathy threading through his usual stoic demeanor. He'd known men who boasted of their blessings, who wielded their power with pride and confidence. Yet here was Alaric, someone who had been denied that fundamental gift, struggling against a fate that had left him powerless.
"It's not your fault," Berik said quietly, his tone gentler than before. "Blessings aren't everything. They don't define your worth, no matter what others might think. The gods' reasons are their own, but it doesn't mean you're any less capable of making a difference."
Alaric looked up, meeting Berik's eyes with a flicker of hope, though the doubt still lingered. "But without a blessing, how can I stand a chance? I've never been strong or skilled..."
Berik placed a firm hand on Alaric's shoulder. "You've got heart, Alaric. And that's more than many blessed fighters can claim. We'll work with what you have. You might not have divine power, but you have something else—something that can't be taken away. Your will. And that can be just as powerful."
They resumed their training, but the conversation weighed heavily on Berik's mind. As he guided Alaric through the motions, he couldn't shake the unease that settled in his chest. A man without a blessing was a rarity, a mystery that defied the natural order. It was something the gods themselves would have to answer for, but until then, Berik would make sure Alaric was as prepared as he could be.
After an hour of training, Berik called for a break. Alaric was breathing heavily, sweat dripping down his face. He looked frustrated, and Berik could see why—he wasn't making the progress he needed.
"Alaric," Berik began, choosing his words carefully, "I'm not going to lie to you. This isn't going to be easy. Without a blessing, you're at a disadvantage. But that doesn't mean you're helpless. You're fighting for something important, and that gives you strength."
Alaric wiped his brow, looking up at Berik with a mixture of determination and doubt. "I know I'm not a fighter. But I can't just sit back and do nothing. I have to try."
Berik nodded, respecting the resolve he saw in the younger man's eyes. "That's all anyone can ask. We'll keep training, and I'll teach you what I can in the time we have. We'll work on making your strikes more efficient, your defense tighter. You don't need to be the best fighter, simply good enough to survive and protect your family."
As they resumed their training, Berik adjusted his approach. Instead of focusing on traditional combat techniques, he began teaching Alaric how to use his environment to his advantage, how to compensate for his lack of strength with strategy and quick thinking. He also showed him a few tricks that didn't rely on raw power—disarming an opponent, using momentum to enhance a strike, and staying calm under pressure.
Though Alaric still struggled, there was a gradual improvement. His strikes became more controlled, his movements more deliberate. It wasn't much, but it was progress.
By the time Flint returned with information, Alaric was exhausted but more confident. He wasn't a seasoned warrior, but he was learning, adapting. And with Berik's guidance, he was starting to believe that he might just stand a chance.
Berik, for his part, kept his concerns to himself. Alaric had heart, but he would need more than that to survive what was coming. The real challenge lay ahead, and Berik knew that the outcome would depend not just on Alaric's training but on his ability to stay focused and use what he'd learned when it mattered most.