The village of Garmok was alive with the echoes of war training—grunts, clanging metal, and the crack of wooden spears splintering on hardened shields. The rising sun painted the sky in amber hues as orc warriors tested their mettle against one another, exchanging blows that sent tremors through the ground. The scent of sweat, iron, and the earth filled the air.
Drakar Vorn stood at the edge of the training grounds, his heart pounding not from fear, but from longing. He watched as his kin battled fiercely, their towering forms a blur of muscle and steel. Every strike, every roar of triumph, stoked the fire in his chest. And yet, the memory of the laughter still lingered.
"You? Here?" a familiar sneer pierced the clamor. Drakar turned to see Roghar, the village elder's eldest son. Towering over him, Roghar's presence cast a shadow that seemed to dim the morning sun.
"You'll never belong among warriors," Roghar continued, his voice dripping with mockery. "Weaklings like you belong by the forge, shaping weapons for the real fighters."
A chorus of laughter erupted from nearby onlookers. Drakar clenched his fists until his knuckles turned pale beneath his emerald skin. The urge to retaliate surged within him, but his body betrayed him—a reminder of the gap between them.
Roghar leaned in closer, his eyes filled with disdain. "You're not a warrior, Drakar. You're a shadow—a ghost of what an orc should be."
Drakar's jaw tightened. He felt the weight of every insult, every reminder of his perceived weakness. But beneath that weight, something unbreakable stirred.
"Enjoy your place in the shadows," Roghar said with a final smirk before turning back to the sparring pit. The crowd followed, leaving Drakar alone.
The laughter faded into the distance, but the fire within Drakar only burned brighter.
That night, the village slept soundly beneath a sky adorned with silver stars. The cool breeze whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scents of ash and pine. But Drakar's mind was restless. The echoes of the day's humiliation played over and over, each memory fueling his determination.
He found himself drawn to the outskirts of the village, where the old Shrine of Elaria lay hidden among wildflowers and ancient stones. The shrine was simple—a stone archway weathered by time, surrounded by blooming petals that swayed in the wind. To the villagers, it was a forgotten relic, but to Drakar, it was a place where dreams were whispered.
He knelt before the arch, his hands resting on the cool earth. His breath formed mist in the moonlight.
"Why do you seek this path, Drakar?" he whispered aloud, as if asking the shrine itself. His voice trembled, not with doubt, but with the weight of his conviction. "I seek strength—not for vengeance, but for purpose. I want to prove that fate doesn't define us."
The air grew still. For a moment, silence reigned, and Drakar felt foolish for expecting an answer. But then, the breeze shifted, carrying a melodic hum that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
"Why do you resist fate?" a soft, ethereal voice asked.
Drakar's eyes widened. He looked around, but there was no one in sight. Instead, a faint shimmer appeared before the arch, coalescing into the form of a woman wreathed in starlight. Her hair flowed like the night sky, her eyes twin pools of silver.
"I do not resist," Drakar replied, his voice steady despite the awe coursing through him. "I defy."
The spirit—Elaria, the guardian of forgotten dreams—regarded him with an expression that was equal parts sorrow and admiration.
"Many have sought strength," Elaria murmured, her voice like a song carried by the wind. "Few have embraced the suffering that strength demands."
Drakar's fists tightened. "I will endure whatever it takes."
The spirit drifted closer, the air around her shimmering like moonlight on water. "Beyond the Ashen Woods lies your path. Seek General Taronis, the Blade Monk. He will not offer mercy—only the truth that strength is carved from sacrifice."
The weight of her words settled over him, yet it did not crush him—it uplifted him.
Elaria's form began to fade, her voice lingering in the air. "Remember, Drakar... the path of strength is not walked with pride alone. It is carried by will."
The glow vanished, leaving behind only the soft rustling of leaves.
Drakar rose slowly, his heart steady, his resolve sharpened like the edge of a blade. He cast one final glance at the archway before turning toward the woods.
"The Ashen Woods," he murmured, tasting the name like a challenge.
With nothing but a small pack and the clothes on his back, Drakar began his journey. The path was treacherous, veiled in shadows and thick with ancient roots that seemed eager to trip him. The night pressed in on all sides, but his steps never faltered.
As dawn broke, the towering trees gave way to a vast clearing. In the center stood a lone waterfall cascading over jagged rocks. Beneath it sat a figure clad in simple robes, meditating amidst the roar of water.
Drakar approached cautiously, his footsteps soft against the dewy grass. The figure opened one eye, revealing a gaze that pierced through Drakar like a blade.
"You seek me," the figure said, his voice calm yet commanding.
"I seek strength," Drakar replied.
The figure stood, water cascading from his broad shoulders. "I am General Taronis, the Blade Monk. And you are an ember in the wind, untempered and fragile."
Drakar met his gaze without flinching. "Then temper me."
A silence passed between them—heavy, unyielding. Then, Taronis smiled faintly. "Prepare yourself. You will not survive this lightly."
Drakar nodded. He had not come to survive lightly—he had come to become unbreakable.
The training had begun.