The air was thick with the scent of blood and earth, the last rays of the setting sun casting an orange glow over the carnage. The men who had fallen, their bodies and horses wracked with arrows and life's final breath, lay scattered across the rugged path. The grim scene was silent save for the quiet rustle of the wind.
Ieuan, the defiant son of Glyndŵr, lay still, an arrow buried deep in his chest, its cruel steel pierced through his heart. His face, half-hidden by the shadow of his long, golden hair, held peace and his eyes stared into the heavens, seeing nothing.
As the last breath left him, a low, gravelly laugh broke the stillness.
Out of the shadows, ten men emerged, their faces grim and weathered, their clothes tattered and patched. They were bandits, but not just any bandits—they were survivors, hardened by years of raiding and scheming in the hills and valleys. Their leader, a short, wiry man with one eye, stepped forward, his gaze falling on the fallen Ieuan. His lips curled in disgust as he noted the arrow that had killed the boy.
"You killed him!" the short man growled, his voice raspy with frustration. He turned to his men, his eyes flicking between them, then back to the body of Ieuan. "I told you—don't kill the pretty blonde. We could've ransomed him! Look at his clothing he's probably a noble...."
The bandits exchanged uneasy glances. They knew their leader had a point. A noble, possibly—someone who could fetch a pretty price from his family. But now, the boy was dead, and the opportunity was lost.
"We're not in the business of keeping corpses," one of the men muttered. He was tall, with a long, crooked nose and a thick beard that obscured most of his face. He crouched beside Ieuan, rifling through his pockets. "He's got silver—good silver. We'll make something off this mess."
The leader snapped, his voice low and commanding. "Check them all."
The men scattered, looting the fallen. One of them, a squat man with a balding scalp and a bow slung across his back, tugged at the tunic of Caradoc, pulling a handful of coins from the man's pocket.
The short leader cursed under his breath, muttering more to himself than anyone else. "Well, we're rich for the day, at least," he muttered, eyeing the bodies.
"We should leave before a patrol comes sniffing around," one of the younger bandits said, his voice shaking with nervous excitement.
"Wait," the leader ordered, his eyes narrowing. He crouched low to the ground, his fingers running along the edge of Caradoc's bloodstained clothing. "Make sure they're all dead."
The men didn't hesitate. With practiced violence, they turned their knives on the bodies, stabbing into the hearts of their victims to ensure the life had truly been snuffed out. Gawain, the man closest to Ieuan, had been feigning death, his breaths shallow but controlled. But before he could take action, one of the bandits—an older man —lunged forward and drove his dagger into Gawain's side. The scream that tore from Gawain's throat was cut short as the blade slid deeper, silencing him forever.
The short leader nodded with satisfaction. "Good. Now let's go."
---
Owain Glyndŵr stood at the edge of the tower, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but there was nothing there to meet his eyes. The elder oak, the mighty tree was absent.
The wind howled around him, carrying the weight of his mounting dread. His stomach twisted in unease, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. This is no mere coincidence. This is an omen.
He turned away, his mind racing, heart pounding. He couldn't understand it. No one knew who had done it, or why, but the sacred tree was gone, and the silence left in its wake was deafening. His hands tightened around the stone battlement as he fought to control the panic rising in his chest.
"Summon Tarwyn!" he snapped to a nearby guard, his voice sharp, cutting through the panic in his chest. "Now."
Moments later, Tarwyn appeared, his brow furrowed, his face tense with concern. "My lord," he said, bowing slightly, but Owain's cold, unblinking stare stopped him in his tracks.
"I need answers," Owain demanded, his voice low and rough, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. "Who did this!? Who dares to cut down the oak?"
Tarwyn hesitated, then spoke carefully, as though weighing every word. "I... I do not know, my lord. We have heard no reports, no word of it."
Owain's hand clenched, and for a moment, he fought the urge to lash out. "I want answers! Found out who did it." he asked, his voice barely a whisper, a mix of disbelief and fury.
Tarwyn shifted uneasily. "Yes lord, tommo—"
"No. Now," Owain interrupted, his fury building like a storm.
He turned away, his eyes drifting back to the place where the tree had once stood. The absence of it felt like a wound, a betrayal from the land itself. What does this mean? he thought, his mind spinning.
Is it a bad omen?
The thought hit him like a hammer. His heart clenched, and for the first time in a long while, doubt crept into his thoughts. What if this is the beginning of the end? What if God is turning against us?
Tarwyn nodded and hurried away, but Owain remained on the battlements, his mind racing, his heart heavy.
----
It was now nightfall and something strange happened. A faint glimmer of light began to emerge from the chest of a dead Ieuan. It was faint at first, a soft pulse of light beneath his, but it quickly grew stronger, more intense.
The metallic relic that had been hidden within Ieuan's chest, unnoticed by the bandits, began to hum. Its silver surface, once dull, now shone with an eerie glow. The blood from Ieuan's wound pooled around the relic, and the metal seemed to respond, drawn to the warm flow of life.
Then, without warning, the relic sank deeper into the wound. The light flared brilliantly, as if it had absorbed all the energy it could from Ieuan's blood. The ground beneath his body trembled slightly, a low vibration that reverberated through the air.
The transformation was slow, agonizing. The first to stir were the nanobots embedded in Ieuan's bloodstream. In the wake of the blood that had spilled over them, they awakened, alive once more.
They coursed through his veins and began to repair the damage to his body, stitching torn tissue together, knitting his heart with precision. The arrow wound, once fatal, began to close, the blood around it thickening and coagulating.
In darkness, Ethan—still trapped in the cycle of his endless regrets—felt a shift. The dream that had repeated for so long, the dream of his childrens deaths, his son and daughter both victims of an explosion caused by his experiments, his wife leaving him, and the failure of his work, began to change. It was as if the dream itself was falling apart, the fragments of his guilt crashing to the floor like shards of broken glass.
For the first time in centuries, Ethan woke. He gasped, his breath ragged and heavy. His eyes blinked rapidly, struggling to adjust to the new reality. His body—alive again—felt strange, foreign, like a shell that had not belonged to him in years.