Nerion stood frozen, staring at his mother's lifeless body. His hands trembled, still gripping the bloodied weapon that had ended her suffering. The room was silent—only his own heavy breathing filled the space. His heart pounded in his chest, his mind unable to process what he had just done.
Then, the door creaked open.
A chill ran down his spine as he felt it—an overwhelming aura, suffocating and dark. It was like a predator stepping into the room, radiating pure killing intent. His body refused to move, his muscles locking in place. And then, a voice—calm yet filled with something sinister.
"Hello, brother."
Nerion's breath caught in his throat. He turned his head slowly and saw him—Kaelen.
His older brother stood in the doorway, his golden eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. There was something different about him, something unnatural. Nerion had known Kaelen his whole life, but the person standing before him now felt like a stranger.
Kaelen took a step forward, his presence pressing down on Nerion like a crushing force.
"Where have you been, brother?" Kaelen asked, his voice eerily calm.
Nerion swallowed hard. "I... I was attacked by a vampire. I barely survived."
Kaelen let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head. "You still don't get it, do you?" His expression darkened. "You're the reason this happened."
Nerion's eyes widened. "What?"
Kaelen stepped closer, his golden eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "That vampire… it knew exactly where to find us. You led it here. It's all your fault."
Nerion's mind spun. That couldn't be true… could it? His hands clenched into fists. "No… I—"
Kaelen moved in a blur, faster than Nerion could react. A fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the air out of him. He gasped, stumbling back, but before he could recover, Kaelen's fist struck his face, sending him crashing to the floor.
Nerion groaned, holding his ribs as he tried to sit up. He looked up at Kaelen, confusion and anger mixing in his gaze. "You're doing this because our parents died?"
Kaelen smirked, crouching down to his level. "Not really. I never cared about them."
Nerion's blood ran cold.
Kaelen leaned in closer, his golden eyes burning with twisted excitement. "I just love being praised. Don't you understand? These people—this village—they're nothing but lowlives. The only reason I stayed was because of our parents. Now that they're dead… I have no limits. Nothing holding me back."
Nerion clenched his fists. "You… you're not my brother. Not anymore."
Kaelen tilted his head, then laughed. It wasn't a laugh of joy—it was mocking, condescending. "Then knock some sense into me, little brother."
Nerion roared and lunged at him, throwing a punch with all his strength. But Kaelen moved like a shadow, dodging effortlessly. Before Nerion could react, Kaelen's fist crashed into his face.
Pain exploded in his skull. Then, Kaelen grabbed him by the head and slammed him against the wall.
"Is that all you got?" Kaelen whispered.
Then, just as suddenly, he let go and took a step back.
"I'll be going now. There's nothing left for me in this village." He turned toward the door but stopped for a moment. "But don't forget my name, brother. Burn it into your soul. Because one day, you'll hear it again. Everyone will."
And with that, Kaelen walked out into the night.
Nerion slumped against the wall, his head pounding. He bit down so hard his teeth made an audible grinding noise. Then, he slammed his fist into the ground. Once. Twice. Again and again.
"WHY? WHY IS EVERYTHING AGAINST ME?! WHY?! WHY?!!"
His voice echoed in the empty house, but there was no one left to hear him. His body trembled as the rage faded, replaced by something else—despair. Tears burned in his eyes, but he refused to wipe them away. He curled up against the wall, shaking, his mind racing with questions that had no answers.
He had nothing left. His parents were gone. His brother had abandoned him.
What should he do?
What could he do?
For the first time in his life, he was truly alone.
The weight of everything that had happened pressed down on him like an invisible force, refusing to let him move. His brother's words lingered in his mind—sharp, undeniable.
"There's nothing left for you here."
Was that true? His father was gone. His brother had already left, disappearing into the night without a word. The village was quiet now, as if it had already forgotten the blood that had been spilled.
He looked down at himself—his clothes were stiff with dried blood, his hands stained dark red. His face felt heavy, caked with the remnants of the fight. He let out a slow breath. He should wash. He should change. But for now, he just sat there, feeling the last remnants of warmth from the afternoon sun fading away.
For days, he remained in the village, lost in thought. The villagers were kind enough to leave him be, offering food and quiet nods, but no one told him to stay. No one asked him what he would do next. They all seemed to know—just as he did—that he couldn't stay here forever.
And so, the decision came. Not in a moment of clarity, not in some grand realization, but in the slow, inevitable truth settling in his chest.
He packed what little food he could carry and tied his father's sword to his belt. It wasn't a legendary weapon, just a simple steel blade, well-worn but sturdy. His brother had taken nothing. Nerion, at least, would take this.
The morning he was set to leave, Nerion walked to the edge of the village alone. He had expected at least a few villagers to be there—perhaps a quiet farewell, a last word of parting. But no one came.
They all knew he was leaving. He had seen it in their eyes, the way they avoided looking at him these past days. Yet, not a single one had come to say goodbye.
Except for one.
The Elder stood waiting, his hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable.
Nerion stopped a few paces away, gripping the strap of his pack. He didn't know what to say, and the silence stretched between them, heavy and unbroken.
Then the Elder stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. His voice was steady, filled with a wisdom that had guided the village for decades. "Do not forget, my son—your destiny is yours to decide. No one else will shape your future. You alone walk the path ahead."
Nerion clenched his jaw and took a deep breath.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked.
His black cape swayed behind him, his boots pressing into the dirt with each step. He wore simple clothes—loose trousers, a dark tunic, nothing ornate, nothing remarkable. Yet, as he walked, the weight on his shoulders seemed lighter.
The village grew smaller behind him, fading into the distance.
And when it finally disappeared from sight, he let out a quiet breath.
"So it begins."