The fading light of dusk filtered through the threadbare curtains of the modest home in Eldora's artisan quarter. Gilbert hunched over the glowing crystal in his hands, his face bathed in its ethereal light. The mageglass, as it was called, was a rare and coveted device ("This is like a modern phone today"). Its smooth surface pulsed with arcane energy, projecting vivid images of fantastical realms and epic quests.
Gilbert's fingers danced across the crystal, guiding his virtual avatar through treacherous dungeons and past fearsome beasts. In this digital world, he was a hero – strong, respected, wealthy. Everything he felt he wasn't in reality.
"Gilbert! For the love of the old gods, put that cursed thing down and come help with dinner!" His mother's voice, tinged with exasperation, cut through his concentration. The smell of simple stew – more vegetables than meat – wafted from the kitchen, a constant reminder of their meager circumstances.
Gilbert's jaw clenched. "Leave me alone!" he snapped, not bothering to look up. "I'm in the middle of something important!"
In the adjacent workshop, separated only by a thin wall that did little to muffle the argument, Gilbert's father paused in his work. Sawdust clung to his calloused hands – hands that had once wielded a sword with unmatched skill. Now, they carefully shaped a chair leg, creating functional beauty from raw wood.
He set down his tools and walked to the doorway, leaning against the frame. "We could train today, son," he offered, a note of hope in his deep voice. "The sun's still up. Perfect time to practice your forms."
Gilbert's scoff was audible even over the tinny sounds emanating from the mageglass. "Why bother? Your swords are gathering dust while you play with sticks and nails. Fat lot of good your 'skills' do us now."
His father's face fell, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Gilbert, there's honor in all honest work. The path of the sword-"
"The path of the sword?" Gilbert finally looked up, his eyes flashing with anger and resentment. "Is that why we can barely afford decent food? Why mother's dresses are patched and faded? Why I'm the laughingstock of the village because I can't afford new boots?" He gestured wildly with the mageglass. "If you'd stuck to fighting instead of whittling, maybe we wouldn't be in this mess! But no, you had to 'find peace' or whatever nonsense you spout. Well, your peace is our poverty!"
The silence that followed was deafening. Gilbert's mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, her face a mask of sorrow. His father's shoulders slumped, the weight of unspoken regrets visible in his stance.
But before anyone could break the tense silence, a blood-curdling scream tore through the air. The ground beneath them shook violently, dishes clattering to the floor as explosions rocked the very foundations of Eldora.
Gilbert's father's eyes widened in recognition and fear. "The Rouge Corps," he whispered, his voice hoarse. In an instant, the retired swordsman vanished, replaced by a warrior springing into action. He rushed to the back wall, pulling down an old sword that had hung there for years, more decoration than weapon. With practiced ease, he unsheathed it, the blade gleaming despite its long rest.
"Mara, take Gilbert and run!" he shouted to his wife. "Head for the caves in the eastern hills. I'll hold them off as long as I can."
Gilbert's mother grabbed his arm, yanking him from his chair with surprising strength. The mageglass slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. For once, Gilbert didn't protest, shock overriding his usual defiance.
But it was too late for escape. The door splintered inward, and the nightmarish figures of the Rouge Corps poured into their home. Clad in mismatched armor stained with the blood of their victims, their eyes gleamed with a terrible hunger for violence.
Gilbert's father moved like lightning, his blade singing through the air. Two attackers fell before they could even raise their weapons, testament to the skill that years of carpentry hadn't dulled. "Run!" he roared, engaging three more assailants at once.
Gilbert's mother pushed him toward the back door, but another group of marauders had circled around. She grabbed a heavy iron skillet, determination etched on her face. "Stay behind me, Gilbert," she said, her voice steady despite the terror in her eyes.
What followed was a blur of violence and desperation. Gilbert watched in horror as his parents fought with everything they had, protecting him to their last breath. His father's sword flashed like silver lightning, each stroke a poem of deadly grace. His mother wielded her makeshift weapon with fierce determination, surprising even hardened killers with her ferocity.
But they were outnumbered. Overwhelmed.
As silence descended on the ruined city, Gilbert found himself alone, huddled in the corner of what had been their home. The floor was slick with blood – so much blood. His parents lay still, their vacant eyes staring at nothing.
Trembling, Gilbert crawled toward them. His hand brushed against something smooth – the mageglass, miraculously unbroken in the chaos. The screen flickered weakly, showing his abandoned game character standing victorious over a vanquished foe. The image seemed to mock him now, a pitiful shadow of real courage and sacrifice.
Memories flooded Gilbert's mind, relentless and cruel in their vividness. His father patiently guiding his small hands as he learned to whittle, explaining how to read the grain of the wood. The pride in his eyes when Gilbert managed his first clean cut. His mother's gentle smile as she tended a scraped knee, singing softly to soothe his tears. The quiet evenings spent as a family, his father recounting tales of his adventures while his mother mended clothes by the fire.
All the moments he'd taken for granted. All the love he'd spurned in his bitterness and misplaced anger.
Gilbert clutched the mageglass to his chest, its glow fading as its power drained away. He rocked back and forth, the magnitude of his loss crashing over him in waves.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry. Please... please come back. I'll do better. I'll train. I'll help. Just please... don't leave me."
But there was no one left to hear his pleas. His cries echoed through the empty streets of Eldora, mingling with the distant sounds of destruction and the lamentations of other survivors. It was a requiem for innocence lost, for gratitude unspoken, and for the harsh lessons learned too late.
As night fell on the ravaged kingdom, Gilbert wept until he had no tears left to shed. The mageglass in his hands finally went dark, leaving him alone in the shadows with nothing but his grief and regret for company.