I'll never forget the day my world shattered. One minute, I was laughing with my brother Leo, our pockets filled with stolen peaches from the old widow's orchard. The next, I was standing in our burning home, surrounded by the bodies of my loved ones.
The memories of that day still haunt me. The smell of smoke and blood, the sound of my brother's screams, the feeling of my heart shattering into a million pieces.
As I stood there, frozen in horror, I felt a spark ignite within me. A spark of hatred, of anger, of revenge. I knew, in that moment, that I would spend the rest of my life seeking justice for my family.
I remember running, my feet pounding the earth as I fled from the men who had destroyed my life. I remember hiding, my heart racing with fear as I waited for them to pass. And I remember the pain, the overwhelming grief that threatened to consume me.
Days passed, or maybe weeks. I lost count. All I knew was that I had to keep moving, had to keep pushing forward. And then, one day, I stumbled upon a small village. I was drawn to a man, tall and strong like my father, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through me.
He introduced himself as Killian, the village blacksmith. And for the first time since my family's death, I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, I had found a place to call home.
But even as I accepted Killian's offer to take me in, I knew that my journey was far from over. I had a score to settle, a debt to pay. And I was willing to do whatever it took to make sure that those responsible for my family's death paid the price.