The day was bleak, the sky a mottled gray as storm clouds churned above the vast forest. Seth—Elrianon, as he often reminded himself—moved silently through the underbrush. His footsteps were barely a whisper against the damp earth. The weight of two million years pressed down on him, a burden that even his inhuman strength could not lighten.
Time had dulled many things—the pain of his transformation, the faces of those he once loved—but one thing remained sharp: his curse. It had become his constant companion, lingering just beneath his skin, a dark presence that pulsed with every step he took.
Through the dense woods, the sound of muffled curses broke his concentration. Seth's crimson gaze pierced the trees, spotting an old man struggling to free his carriage from a pit of thick mud. The wheels were sunk deep, the horse pawing at the ground in frustration. The man, clad in tattered clothing, muttered to himself as he pushed futilely against the cart.
Seth paused. His first instinct was to turn away. Humanity had long proven it wanted nothing to do with him. Yet, something tugged at him—a faint echo of the man he once was, a shadow of Elrianon, the protector of Aeloria.
He started to walk away but froze when a rustling sound reached his ears. Bandits. He could hear their guttural laughter, the creak of saddles, the metallic jingle of weapons. They were closing in fast.
For a moment, Seth hesitated. The old man wasn't his problem. He had spent centuries avoiding entanglements, staying out of mortal affairs. But the thought of leaving the man to his fate… it churned something deep within him.
With a sigh, he stepped out of the shadows.
The old man looked up as Seth approached. He froze, startled by the figure before him. Seth, cloaked in black with faint red lines glowing along his skin, looked more like a wraith than a savior. His hair, streaked with silver, framed his sharp, angular features, and his eyes—eternally burning with a dim crimson light—seemed to peer straight into the old man's soul.
"Move," Seth said, his voice low and commanding.
The man blinked, startled, then stepped aside as Seth grabbed the edge of the carriage. With a single, effortless heave, he lifted it out of the mud and set it back onto solid ground.
"Get on," Seth said. "Ride. Now."
But the old man didn't move. Instead, he reached into the carriage and pulled out an ancient sword. His grip was firm despite his age, and he held it like a seasoned warrior. "I don't run," he said gruffly, his eyes scanning the forest. "They'll be here soon."
Seth frowned, glancing toward the treeline. The bandits were closer now, their voices louder, their weapons gleaming faintly in the dim light. He sighed. "Stay behind me," he ordered, stepping forward.
The old man hesitated but obeyed, watching as Seth positioned himself between the carriage and the approaching threat.
The first shot rang out—a crude bullet fired from an outdated firearm. It hit Seth square in the chest, the impact ripping through his cloak and sending a shower of crimson sparks flying from his skin. He didn't flinch.
The bandits emerged from the trees, a dozen of them, armed with swords, pistols, and crossbows. They stopped in their tracks when they saw Seth standing there, unmoving, the faint glow of his curse casting an eerie light around him.
"What the hell is that?" one of them muttered.
Seth answered by stepping forward.
The bandits fired again, a volley of bullets and bolts aimed directly at him. He didn't dodge. The projectiles struck him, shattering harmlessly against his cursed skin.
"What… what is he?" another bandit stammered, backing away.
Before they could retreat, Seth moved. In the blink of an eye, he was upon them. His movements were a blur, his strikes precise and devastating. A single wave of his hand sent tendrils of shadow spiraling out, wrapping around the bandits and yanking them from their horses.
The old man watched in awe as Seth cut through the attackers with terrifying efficiency. Blades of crimson energy extended from his hands, slicing through steel and flesh alike. One by one, the bandits fell, their screams echoing through the forest.
When the last of them hit the ground, Seth turned back to the old man. His glowing eyes dimmed slightly as he retracted the shadows into himself. The old man stepped forward hesitantly, his sword lowered.
"Thank you," the old man said, his voice trembling slightly. "Thank you, my lord."
Seth's expression hardened. "Don't call me that," he said. "I'm no one's lord."
The old man nodded but didn't look away. There was something in his eyes—something Seth hadn't seen in centuries. Not fear, but recognition. Understanding.
As Seth turned to leave, the old man called out, "Wait."
Seth stopped, his shoulders tense. He glanced back, his crimson eyes narrowing.
The old man reached into his bag and pulled out a rolled parchment. "Take this," he said, holding it out. "You'll need it."
Seth frowned. "What is it?"
The old man stepped closer, placing the map in Seth's hand. "A path," he said. "A chance to end your curse."
Seth's breath caught. He stared at the map, his fingers tightening around it. "How do you know about my curse?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
But when he looked up, the old man was gone.
Seth spun around, his eyes scanning the forest. The carriage, the horse, the man—everything had vanished as if it had never been there. All that remained was the map in his hand.
Seth unrolled the parchment slowly, his eyes scanning the faded lines and markings. It depicted a vast landscape, one that looked both familiar and foreign. At its center was a symbol he recognized—an ancient rune of immense power.
"A relic," he murmured. "Could it be…"
The rune marked the location of an artifact said to hold unparalleled power—power that could reshape the world or destroy it. Power that, perhaps, could break his curse.
Seth closed the map and looked toward the horizon. The forest stretched out before him, endless and dark. Somewhere beyond it lay the answer he had sought for centuries.
High above the forest, on a craggy peak overlooking the scene, a figure stood cloaked in shadow. The old man—no longer frail, no longer human—watched Seth disappear into the woods. His form shifted, his tattered clothes replaced by robes of deep indigo. His eyes glowed with a faint, otherworldly light, and his weathered face transformed into one of youthful vigor.
"Aeloria's last hope," he said to himself, his voice low and reverent. "You're going to need all the help you can get, Elrianon."
He turned, the wind whipping at his robes as he raised a hand. Magic flared to life around him, swirling in intricate patterns. "He's coming," the man muttered. "And this time, the world won't survive him."
With a crack of light, the figure vanished, leaving only the whisper of his words hanging in the air.
Seth stood at the edge of the forest, the map clutched tightly in his hand. He didn't know who the old man was, or why he had given him the map. But something deep within him stirred—a faint spark of hope, buried beneath centuries of despair.
He stepped forward, disappearing into the shadows of the trees.
And far above, the storm clouds began to gather.
The End… for now.