The gates of Valoria slammed shut behind him, their echo lingering in the air as if to taunt Alistair with the finality of his exile. He stood in the shadow of the imposing walls, his heart heavy with loss and regret. His friends were gone, and the home he had known all his life was now a distant memory.
For a moment, he turned back to gaze at the stone fortress. Memories of Marcus's laughter, Elara's teasing, and Leofric's camaraderie flooded his mind, each one a painful reminder of what he had lost. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he turned his back on Valoria and began his march northward towards Clan Dornhelm.
The road stretched before him, winding through the lush valleys and over rolling hills. Alistair's steps were slow at first, burdened by the weight of his banishment, but as he walked, the world around him began to unfurl like a forgotten dream.
The early morning sun cast a golden hue over the fields, illuminating wildflowers that danced in the breeze. Birds flitted between trees, their songs a cheerful counterpoint to his somber thoughts. Alistair paused by a clear, sparkling brook, kneeling to drink from its cool waters. The reflection of his own weary face stared back at him, framed by the vibrant green of the forest.
For a brief moment, the beauty of the world beyond Valoria stirred something within him—a glimmer of hope, a reminder of life's simple pleasures. He marveled at the sight of a deer and her fawn grazing in a meadow, the pair moving with a grace that momentarily lifted the gloom from his heart.
"If only Marcus and Elara could see this," he thought wistfully, imagining their reactions to the untouched beauty of the landscape. Yet, as quickly as the thought came, it was replaced by a wave of sadness. His friends would never share in these moments again.
The day wore on, the sun climbing high into the sky. Alistair's march took him through dense forests, where ancient trees whispered secrets with their rustling leaves, and past tranquil lakes that mirrored the sky's brilliant blue. He crossed grassy plains dotted with wildflowers and clambered over rocky outcrops that offered glimpses of distant mountain ranges.
Despite the enchanting scenery, fatigue soon set in. The weight of his sword and the pack on his back grew heavier with each step, his muscles aching from the relentless pace he forced upon himself. Sweat trickled down his brow, stinging his eyes, and his throat grew parched from the dry summer air.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape, a sudden, searing pain gripped Alistair's body. He fell to his knees, a cry of agony escaping his lips. His left hand glowed with a faint blue light, the magic within him flaring uncontrollably.
"What's happening?" he gasped, clutching his hand as the pain intensified. It felt as if his very essence was being torn apart. Amidst the turmoil, a faint whisper echoed in his mind—a fleeting, indistinct voice, like a breeze through leaves, barely registering against the cacophony of pain.
He forced himself to his feet, determined to continue his journey despite the excruciating pain. Each step was a battle against the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him, but he pressed on, driven by the hope that Clan Dornhelm might offer him refuge.
Night had fallen when Alistair stumbled upon a small camp nestled in a secluded grove. A dozen men in armor sat around a crackling fire, their swords close at hand. The flickering light cast eerie shadows on their faces, making them appear as wary sentinels guarding their temporary home.
As Alistair approached, one of the men spotted him. "Who goes there?" the man demanded, rising to his feet and drawing his sword.
Before Alistair could respond, the men charged, swords gleaming in the firelight. He had no choice but to defend himself. His sword clashed against theirs, the sound of metal ringing through the night. The fight was brutal and desperate.
He struck down two men quickly, but a sharp pain erupted in his right arm as another man's sword sliced deep into his flesh. Blood poured from the wound, the pain blinding. Alistair gritted his teeth, pushing through the agony as he fought to survive.
With a final, desperate effort, he felled the last of the attackers. Amidst the carnage, he noticed a sturdy shield lying beside one fallen soldier and a small pouch of coins clutched in another's hand.
Alistair knelt, his breathing ragged, and picked up the shield and coins. As he did, a fleeting moment of regret washed over him. These men had families, hopes, and dreams—now extinguished by his hand. He closed his eyes briefly, offering a silent prayer for their souls, before steeling himself once more for the journey ahead.
Bloodied and weary, Alistair stumbled away from the camp, his strength nearly spent. He found refuge beneath a towering oak tree, its branches offering a semblance of shelter from the night's chill.
He leaned against the rough bark, his wounded arm throbbing painfully. The journey to Clan Dornhelm seemed impossibly long, but another thought surfaced—Solara, a smaller kingdom to the west. He remembered hearing about a town there, a place where someone he once knew had lived. Perhaps Solara would offer him a chance at a new beginning.
"Solara... it might be worth a try," he thought, his mind heavy with exhaustion and uncertainty.
As he closed his eyes, the fatigue finally overtook him, and he drifted into a restless sleep, his dreams haunted by memories of his friends and the unknown path that lay ahead.