The morning sun rose reluctantly, its pale light fighting through the mist that clung to Eldrin's Edge like an unshakable curse. The village bustled with life—farmers tending to their enchanted plows, weavers spinning threads imbued with protective charms, and children playing games that sent sparks of magic dancing through the air.
But Alaric stayed on the outskirts, where the shadows were longer and the work was harder.
"Boy!" the butcher's gruff voice shattered the stillness. Alaric, crouched by the woodpile outside the butcher's shop, straightened. His arms ached from hours of chopping, but he didn't dare show weakness.
"Yes, sir?" he replied, wiping sweat from his brow.
The butcher emerged, his broad frame blocking the doorway. He tossed a sack of meat scraps at Alaric's feet. "Take this to Old Marek. And don't linger. He doesn't need your bad luck stinking up his house."
Alaric nodded, swallowing the retort that bubbled in his throat. The butcher, like most of the villagers, believed Alaric's lack of magic was a curse that could spread. He stooped to pick up the sack, its foul stench assaulting his senses.
"Freak," one of the butcher's apprentices muttered as Alaric passed. He ignored it, as he always did, and set off toward the edge of the village.
The path to Old Marek's hut wound through a patch of gnarled woods. As Alaric walked, the village noise faded, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the occasional caw of a raven. He didn't mind the solitude. Out here, away from judging eyes, he could almost pretend he wasn't an outcast.
Reaching Marek's hut, he knocked lightly on the weathered door. It creaked open a moment later to reveal the old man, his one good eye squinting at Alaric.
"Meat?" Marek rasped, his voice like gravel.
Alaric held up the sack. "From the butcher."
Marek grunted, took the sack, and started to close the door, but paused. His milky white eye seemed to fix on something over Alaric's shoulder.
"Strange shadows follow you, boy," Marek muttered. "I'd watch my back if I were you."
Before Alaric could ask what he meant, the door slammed shut, leaving him alone with the whispering wind.
On his way back, the whispers grew louder.
At first, he thought it was just the wind, but the cadence was too deliberate, the words just beyond comprehension. He froze, scanning the trees. Nothing moved, yet the whispers persisted, like a hundred voices murmuring secrets just out of reach.
"Who's there?" he called, his voice trembling.
The forest fell silent.
Alaric quickened his pace, his heart pounding. The strange encounter at the altar the night before was still fresh in his mind, and now this… He shook his head. He was probably imagining things. Stress could do that, couldn't it?
But when he reached the village, he found the whispers waiting for him.
That evening, as Alaric sat by the crumbling fire pit behind the barn where he slept, the whispers returned. Louder this time, clearer.
"Initiate protocol."
He shot to his feet. The voice wasn't coming from the forest, nor the village. It was inside his head.
"What do you mean? What protocol?" he demanded aloud, but no one answered.
Instead, his vision blurred, and a faint glow materialized in front of him. Letters, strange and shifting, arranged themselves into words:
Welcome, Alaric. Your trial begins now.
System calibration in progress.
Potential detected: Divine Bloodline. Unawakened.
He staggered back, his legs colliding with the fire pit. The glowing text followed him, hovering in the air like a phantom.
"What… what is this?" he whispered.
The words shifted again:
Trial One: Survival.
Objective: Endure the night.
Failure: Termination.
The glow faded, leaving only the cold darkness. For a long moment, Alaric stood frozen, his mind racing. Endure the night? Termination? What did it mean?
A low growl shattered his thoughts. From the shadows beyond the barn, a pair of glowing eyes emerged. Then another. And another.
The beasts from the forest
The trial had begun.