The morning sun filtered weakly through the forest canopy, casting pale light over the sanctuary. Eldric sat alone by the stream, his reflection rippling on the water's surface. His hands trembled as he traced the patterns of the smooth stone in his palm. The events of the previous day haunted him—the screams, the spray of blood, the raw finality of death.
He glanced down at his hands. They had not shed blood, but they had wielded power, and that power had stopped a man from killing. Or had it simply scared him into running? The faint warmth of the sapling tattoo on his back lingered, as if the forest itself were alive within him.
"Eldric."
Ailsa's voice broke his thoughts. She approached quietly, her green cloak brushing against the mossy ground. "Come with me."
The sanctuary's heart buzzed with an uneasy energy. Thorolf sat on a fallen log, sharpening his sword with deliberate care. Each scrape of the whetstone against the blade rang out, sharp and metallic.
"You shouldn't have killed them," Ailsa said, her voice taut as she placed a hand against a wounded tree.
Thorolf didn't look up. "And if I hadn't, they'd have killed us."
"They were scared men, desperate," Ailsa retorted. "There was another way."
Thorolf stood, his imposing frame casting a long shadow. "You think I enjoy this?" he growled. "You think I want him"—he gestured toward Eldric, who stood at the grove's edge—"to see this kind of world? I don't. But it's the world we live in."
Ailsa turned to face him fully, her emerald eyes blazing. "And you think the solution is to teach him to meet violence with more violence?"
Thorolf's jaw tightened. "I'm teaching him to survive. The world doesn't care about ideals, Ailsa. It cares about power. About who's left standing when the dust settles."
Eldric shifted uncomfortably. He had seen his father's power, the brutal efficiency with which he had ended lives. It terrified him, but a part of him couldn't deny the truth in Thorolf's words.
"I won't let him become like you," Ailsa said, her voice quieter but no less firm.
Thorolf's hand fell to his side, his expression softening. "And I won't let him become a victim."
The tension between them was palpable, their opposing philosophies clashing in the air like unseen weapons. Eldric stepped forward, his voice small but steady. "I don't want to kill anyone," he said. "But... I don't want to die either."
His parents fell silent, their gazes meeting briefly before turning to him.
Needing space to think, Eldric wandered into a secluded grove, its air heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth. He sat beneath a towering oak, his back pressing against its rough bark.
A faint rustling drew his attention. A small bird lay on the ground nearby, its wing bent at an unnatural angle. Eldric knelt beside it, his heart aching at the sight of its pain.
"Easy," he murmured, placing his hand gently over the injured wing.
The warmth of his tattoo flared, spreading through his arm and into the bird. He felt the energy of the forest flow through him, a quiet hum of life that bound them all together. The bird twitched, its wing straightening beneath his touch.
Eldric smiled as the bird hopped to its feet, testing its wings before fluttering into the branches above.
"You're learning."
He turned to see Ailsa standing at the grove's edge, her expression soft. "The forest responds to you because you listen. That's a gift many lack."
Eldric hesitated. "But what about the men we fought? The ones who didn't listen?"
Ailsa approached, kneeling beside him. "That's why balance is so important," she said. "The forest doesn't only give life—it takes it too. But it never does so lightly."
That night, Eldric lay on his cot in the sanctuary, the flickering firelight casting shadows on the walls. His thoughts churned like a restless sea, the events of the day refusing to settle.
When sleep finally claimed him, it was not the peaceful reprieve he had hoped for.
In his dream, the sky was blackened by storm clouds, their edges crackling with eerie blue light. The trees of the forest swayed violently, their branches clawing at the air.
A distant rumble grew louder, like thunder or the pounding of hooves. Then he saw them: spectral riders on ghostly steeds, their armor gleaming with a cold, otherworldly light. The Wild Hunt.
Their leader, a towering figure shrouded in darkness, turned toward him. Eldric felt a chill seep into his bones as the figure raised a hand and pointed.
"Eldric," a voice whispered, hollow and relentless.
He jolted awake, his chest heaving. The sanctuary was silent, the fire reduced to glowing embers. He touched the sapling tattoo on his back, its warmth a small comfort in the darkness.