The gates of Eldrin's Edge came into view as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the village in shades of amber and shadow. Alaric slowed his pace, his hand tightening on the hatchet at his side. He didn't know what kind of reception he'd get after leaving so suddenly, but he doubted it would be warm.
The village was quiet as he slipped through the gates, the usual buzz of activity muted. Smoke rose from the chimneys, and faint candlelight flickered in the windows, but the streets were deserted. He frowned, unease prickling at the back of his neck.
Then he saw them—the villagers gathered in the square, their faces pale and drawn. The headman stood at the center, flanked by Tarin and a handful of others, all armed with makeshift weapons.
Alaric stepped into the square, and the murmurs began immediately.
"He's back…"
"Look at him—those marks on his skin."
"I told you he was cursed."
The headman raised a hand, silencing the crowd. His sharp eyes fixed on Alaric, scrutinizing him like a predator sizing up its prey.
"Alaric," he said, his voice heavy with suspicion. "You left the village without a word. And now you return… different."
Alaric's golden scars pulsed faintly in the dim light, betraying the changes the system had wrought in him. He squared his shoulders, meeting the headman's gaze.
"I went to the Blackwood," he said simply. "I found answers."
"Answers?" Tarin sneered, stepping forward. "You look like a walking curse. What did you do?"
Alaric clenched his fists, forcing himself to stay calm. "I didn't bring the wolves, and I didn't summon whatever attacked me in the forest. But I fought them off. I've been fighting for this village while all of you hide behind your wards."
"You expect us to believe that?" Tarin snapped. "You disappear, and now these… things start showing up? You're the reason this is happening!"
"That's enough," the headman said, though his tone was anything but reassuring. He turned back to Alaric, his expression hard. "If you truly care about this village, you'll explain yourself."
Alaric hesitated. How could he explain something he didn't fully understand himself? The system, the bloodline, the harbingers—none of it would make sense to them. But before he could speak, the voice returned, its tone cold and commanding.
"Tell them nothing. They are not ready."
Alaric's jaw tightened. He hated the voice's cryptic instructions, but he couldn't deny the truth of its words. The villagers wouldn't believe him, and even if they did, they would only see him as a greater threat.
"I can't explain," he said finally. "But I can protect this place. That's all that matters."
The headman's eyes narrowed. "And what happens when you can't? Or when you become the threat?"
Alaric didn't answer. The silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive.
The meeting dispersed reluctantly, the villagers retreating to their homes with wary glances over their shoulders. Alaric stayed in the square, watching as the light faded and the shadows deepened. The air was thick with unease, the kind that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
"They'll never trust you," the voice said, breaking the silence.
"I know," Alaric replied quietly.
"Then why stay? Why fight for them?"
He didn't have an answer. Or maybe he didn't want to admit it, even to himself. He turned and headed back to the barn, his temporary refuge at the edge of the village. The night was eerily quiet, the usual sounds of the forest muted.
But as he reached the barn, a faint sound caught his attention—a low, guttural growl that sent a chill down his spine.
The harbinger stepped out of the shadows, its skeletal form illuminated by the faint glow of its runes. This one was larger than the last, its movements more deliberate, more menacing. It tilted its head, its glowing eyes fixed on Alaric.
"You again," Alaric muttered, raising the hatchet. "You really don't know when to quit, do you?"
The creature didn't respond. It lunged, faster than he expected, its claws raking through the air. Alaric barely managed to dodge, rolling to the side and swinging the hatchet in one fluid motion. The blade struck the creature's arm, but it didn't flinch. Instead, it twisted, knocking him off balance with a backhanded strike.
Alaric hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. The harbinger loomed over him, its blade raised for a killing blow.
But this time, he was ready.
The golden lines on his skin flared, and a surge of energy coursed through him. He rolled to his feet, his movements faster and sharper than before. The harbinger attacked again, but he met its blade with his hatchet, the clash sending sparks into the air.
"Not this time," Alaric growled, his voice low and determined.
The fight was brutal and relentless, each strike pushing him to his limits. But for the first time, he felt in control. The harbinger's movements were predictable, its attacks less coordinated. He sidestepped its final lunge, driving the hatchet into its chest with all his strength.
The creature let out a piercing screech, its form dissolving into ash as it fell.
Alaric leaned against the barn, his chest heaving. The golden lines on his skin dimmed, their light fading as the energy within him subsided. He stared at the pile of ash, his mind racing.
They were getting stronger. Each harbinger was more powerful than the last. And if the voice was right, they were only the beginning.
The text appeared before him, glowing faintly in the darkness:
System Update: Combat Proficiency Level 2 Unlocked.
New Ability: Energy Projection.
Alaric stared at the words, his grip tightening on the hatchet. He didn't know how much more he could take, but one thing was clear: the storm was closer than ever.