The road stretched out before him, a winding path through the wilds of Rotana, with fields and trees coated in the early morning mist. Aric rode in silence, his thoughts heavy and scattered, though he tried to focus. The rhythmic clop of Storm's hooves on the dirt road was the only sound breaking the stillness of dawn. The village was long behind him now, though the weight of its destruction remained, pressing down on his chest.
His mother's voice echoed in his mind: Get up, Aric. The words had pushed him from the depths of his grief, but they couldn't erase the guilt. He could still hear the villagers' screams, see their faces twisted in terror. He could still feel Lord Veltrin's lifeless body beneath his hands. He could have saved them. If only he hadn't been drunk. If only he had taken the threat seriously.
Aric clenched his jaw, trying to shake off the memories, but they clung to him like the acrid scent of smoke that still lingered on his clothes. The early morning sun offered little warmth, and the cold seeping into his bones felt like the cold of his failure. He wasn't just riding away from the village—he was riding away from the last remnants of the life he'd known.
As the sun rose higher in the sky, Aric spotted a figure in the distance, slumped by the side of the road. Instinctively, he slowed Storm to a halt, scanning the horizon for signs of danger. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, still stained with orc blood, as he urged the horse forward cautiously.
As he drew closer, the figure became clearer—a man, bloodied and barely clinging to life. He was a villager, likely one who had tried to escape the attack. Aric dismounted quickly and knelt beside him. The man's breath was shallow, his eyes unfocused, his body limp. Blood stained his tattered clothes, and his skin was ashen, but the flicker of life in his eyes showed he was still conscious.
"Help… them…" the man rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Aric leaned in closer, his heart racing. "Who did this? Was it the orcs?" he asked, desperate for answers.
The man coughed weakly, blood bubbling up from his mouth. "No... something... worse... came from the shadows... darkness... swallowed them whole…" His words trailed off as his eyes fluttered shut, his chest rising and falling with slow, labored breaths. Then, with a final shudder, he went still.
Aric's stomach twisted. Orcs had ravaged the village, that much was certain—but what had come afterward? Something worse? He glanced back down the road in the direction of the burning village, dread pooling in his gut. The bloodshed he'd witnessed had only been part of the horror. What else had been unleashed?
Aric stood and stared down at the villager's body, his mind racing with the implications. His family had once been hunters of monsters, protectors of the realm, yet now he was chasing phantoms—creatures of the dark that he barely understood. What could be worse than the orcs? His ancestors would have known, but their teachings were lost to him, buried under years of disgrace and failure.
The last Davorian. Once, his family's name had meant something, carried weight, but now it was a shadow of its former glory. Even his father's journals, the ones he had read before he left the estate, had been fragmented and incomplete, filled with half-told stories of ancient monsters and battles fought long before Aric had been born. There was so much he didn't know, so much he had yet to understand about the dangers lurking in the world.
As Aric mounted Storm again, he thought about the path ahead. He had no clear destination, no leads except vague clues and whispered horrors. But the growing sense of urgency gnawed at him—something dark was spreading, and he could no longer afford to ignore it.
He urged Storm into a slow trot, the decision already made. He would head to the nearest town and gather more information. Someone had to know why the monsters were growing bolder, why the darkness seemed to be creeping closer to the surface of the world. And if there were more attacks like the one on his village, he needed to be ready. He needed to know what he was fighting.
As he rode deeper into the countryside, the once-familiar landscapes of Rotana now seemed shrouded in uncertainty. The forests that lined the road felt darker, the shadows longer, as if the very land had been touched by the evil he'd encountered.
Aric's mind turned to the Frozen Wastes, the distant land he had only heard of in the legends passed down through generations. His ancestors had fought to keep that evil sealed, but the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that something from the Frozen Wastes was beginning to stir.
"Gulgareth…" he muttered the name under his breath, though he barely believed the possibility himself. It was just a name in old stories, a shadowy figure that had once threatened to consume the world. Could the orc attacks, the dark magic, and the strange behavior of the monsters be signs of something greater?
For now, he had no answers. Only questions that gnawed at his mind.
As the sun began to set once again, casting long shadows over the land, Aric spotted something on the horizon—smoke, faint but unmistakable, curling into the evening sky. His heart sank. Another village? Another attack?
He urged Storm forward, pushing the horse into a gallop as he raced toward the source of the smoke. The memory of his own village burning flashed before his eyes, and his grip on the reins tightened. He wouldn't be too late this time. He wouldn't fail again.
But as he neared the rising smoke, he realized with a cold certainty that this was no village. It was something else—an ominous presence that sent chills down his spine. The land itself seemed to darken as he approached, the air growing colder, more oppressive. And then he saw it—figures moving in the shadows, too large to be human, their armor reflecting the dying light of the sun.
Orcs.
His blood ran cold. The orcs were spreading, moving faster than he had anticipated. But what were they doing out here, so far from the villages? He slowed Storm to a halt and crouched low in the saddle, watching from a distance as the orcs gathered around something—a pillar of black stone, ancient and weathered, etched with strange, glowing runes.
Aric's breath caught in his throat. This was no ordinary raid. The orcs were performing some kind of ritual, their guttural chants filling the air as they circled the pillar.
His instincts screamed at him to retreat, to stay hidden, but he knew he had to get closer. Whatever they were doing, it was dangerous, and it could be the key to understanding the growing darkness. His hand went to the hilt of his sword as he dismounted and crept forward, staying low to the ground, his eyes fixed on the ritual unfolding before him.
Aric crouched behind a large boulder, his breath shallow as he watched the orcs gathered around the black stone pillar. Their deep, guttural chants filled the evening sky, sending chills down his spine. Each word felt like it vibrated through the earth, unsettling the very ground he crouched upon. The orcs moved methodically around the stone, their armor clinking in rhythm with their ominous incantations.
The pillar itself was ancient, black as night and covered in glowing green runes that pulsed like a sickly heartbeat. Aric's brow furrowed as he watched the scene unfold before him. He couldn't decipher the meaning of the runes, but the energy emanating from the stone felt malevolent. His instincts screamed at him to intervene, but he hesitated. A frontal assault was dangerous. The orcs were heavily armored, and though they were brutish, they were strong, and their numbers made them overwhelming.
Taking a deep breath, he readied his sword, trying to clear his mind of the lingering pain and fatigue. I can't let this happen. He edged forward, every step calculated, his boots silent against the forest floor.
The orc leader stepped forward, larger and more imposing than the others. His horned helmet gleamed in the fading light, and in his hand, he clutched a curved dagger. Aric's heart raced as the orc lifted the blade high, slashing his palm. Dark blood oozed from the wound, dripping onto the runes. The stone reacted immediately, the green light intensifying, flaring brightly as the ground beneath them trembled. Whatever dark magic they were tapping into was growing stronger.
The orc leader let out a triumphant roar, raising his blood-soaked hand toward the pillar as the other orcs chanted louder, their voices swelling into a fevered crescendo.
Aric's time was running out. If he waited any longer, it might be too late.
Without further hesitation, Aric sprinted from the shadows, his long sword glinting in the faint light. He was on the orcs before they could react, his blade slicing through the air with practiced precision. The first orc, caught off guard, barely had time to turn before Aric's blade cleaved into the gap between its neck and shoulder. Dark blood sprayed as the creature let out a guttural gasp, collapsing to the ground.
The other orcs snarled, turning their attention toward him. Aric pivoted smoothly, ducking beneath a wild swing from a massive orc wielding a spiked mace. The creature's movements were brutish and heavy, but Aric's were fluid and quick. He spun on his heel, his sword flashing upward in a quick arc, aiming for the orc's exposed leg. The blade bit deep into the creature's knee, severing tendons. The orc roared in agony, falling forward as Aric quickly stepped back, narrowly avoiding the mace as it crashed into the ground.
The orc stumbled, and before it could recover, Aric plunged his sword into its exposed back, twisting the blade before pulling it free. The orc's body crumpled to the ground, motionless.
Another orc charged him, this one faster than the others, wielding a broad axe with alarming agility. Aric sidestepped its initial swing, then stepped in close, inside the orc's guard. He used the momentum of his sidestep to slam his elbow into the orc's face, stunning it. Without pausing, he brought his sword down in a diagonal slash, severing the orc's wrist before following up with a thrust through its chest.
The orc staggered, gurgling as blood poured from its mouth, and collapsed with a heavy thud.
Aric breathed heavily, his eyes scanning the remaining orcs. They were enraged now, but he knew that anger could make them sloppy. He had to stay calm, to keep his movements deliberate. The training he had undergone as a monster hunter, though long dormant, was still in his bones, his muscles. He could feel the rhythm of the fight, the way each movement flowed into the next.
An orc with a spear lunged at him from the side, its weapon thrusting forward like a battering ram. Aric deflected the spear's shaft with a quick parry, using the force of the strike to spin to the side. He then brought his sword down in a vicious riposte, slicing through the orc's outstretched arm. The creature howled in pain, dropping its spear, but Aric didn't let up. He stepped forward, pivoting on his heel, and slashed across the orc's abdomen, the blade biting deep into flesh and armor alike.
The orc fell, clutching its stomach, but Aric's attention had already shifted to the next threat. Two more orcs were advancing on him, their weapons raised, their eyes burning with fury. One carried a massive war hammer, the other a curved sword. Aric backed up, letting them come to him. He couldn't fight them head-on, not both at once. He needed to create an opening.
The orc with the hammer swung first, the massive weapon coming down like a boulder. Aric dodged to the side, but the sheer force of the impact sent shockwaves through the ground, nearly throwing him off balance. The orc with the curved sword took advantage, slashing at Aric's exposed side. Aric twisted his body just in time, deflecting the blow with his sword, but the impact jarred his arm.
With a grunt, he reversed his grip and delivered a quick upward slash, catching the orc off-guard. The blade sliced through the orc's sword arm, sending the weapon clattering to the ground. Aric wasted no time—he stepped forward and rammed his sword into the orc's chest, twisting it before pulling the blade free.
The orc with the war hammer roared in fury, raising its weapon for another devastating strike. But Aric was ready this time. As the hammer came down, he stepped into the orc's reach, parrying the strike by angling his sword against the shaft of the hammer. Using the orc's own momentum, he pushed upward, knocking the hammer aside. Before the orc could recover, Aric slashed his sword across its exposed neck in a clean, swift motion.
Blood sprayed across the ground as the orc fell, clutching at its throat.
The ground trembled beneath him as the ritual reached its climax. The runes on the black stone pillar pulsed with a violent light, casting long shadows across the battlefield. Aric could feel the energy surging, the dark magic building toward something catastrophic. He didn't have time to deal with the remaining orcs—the pillar had to be destroyed.
Without hesitation, he turned his back on the orcs and sprinted toward the stone. He could hear them shouting behind him, their heavy footsteps pounding the earth as they gave chase. But Aric didn't slow down. He knew that if the ritual was completed, the consequences would be far worse than anything he could face from the orcs.
With a desperate shout, he leaped toward the pillar, his sword raised high. The blade connected with the glowing runes, and the impact sent a shockwave through his arms, rattling his bones. The runes flickered wildly, the green light flashing brighter and brighter as cracks formed along the surface of the stone.
Aric pulled his sword free and struck again, this time with all his strength. The pillar groaned under the force of the blow, the runes distorting and flaring as the ground beneath him trembled. He could hear the orcs closing in, their roars growing louder, but he didn't stop.
With one final strike, the stone shattered, sending shards of black rock flying in all directions. A deafening crack echoed through the air, and the ground buckled beneath him. The orcs behind him howled in rage as the dark magic exploded outward, knocking them off their feet.
Aric was thrown backward by the blast, his body hitting the ground hard. His vision blurred, the world spinning as the sound of the orcs' roars faded into the distance.
When Aric regained his senses, the battlefield was silent. The pillar was gone, reduced to rubble, and the orcs lay scattered across the clearing, dead or dying. The dark magic that had filled the air was gone, leaving only a strange stillness in its wake.
Aric groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, his body aching from the fight and the blast. He wiped the blood from his brow, surveying the scene. The ritual had been stopped. Whatever the orcs had been trying to summon was no more.
But the questions remained.
Why had the orcs been performing the ritual? What had they hoped to achieve? And most importantly, what had driven them to attack his village in the first place?
Aric sheathed his sword and mounted Storm, who had been waiting patiently nearby. His mind swirled with thoughts of the darkness that seemed to be spreading across the land. This was only the beginning.
He spurred his horse onward, leaving the shattered stone and the dead orcs behind him. The answers he sought were still out there, somewhere in the growing shadows.