Exiled To Rule

Lucien moved through the underbrush like a ghost, boots silent against the forest floor.

The events of the past few days—nearly dying to the Alpha Direwolf, tricking it into a pit of black flame—still haunted his thoughts. His body ached with dull fatigue, and his bandaged arm pulsed with pain each time he moved it wrong.

But he was alive.

Barely.

And the forest wasn't giving him any time to rest.

A crow screeched overhead, taking off from a gnarled branch as he passed beneath it. The thick trees of the eastern Borderlands were denser here, their canopies forming jagged patterns against the pale afternoon sky. The air was damp, the scent of wet moss and decay clinging to everything.

He wasn't wandering without purpose.

Lucien was scouting. Cautiously. Deliberately.

Because if he remembered the novel correctly… he wasn't alone out here.

"The Borderlands," he recalled, "were more than just wilderness and monsters. Beyond the reach of the Aldrath Empire, in the deepest forests and craggy hills, there were people—descendants of those exiled long ago, who chose to live free of crowns and chains."

The Wildlings.

He remembered reading about them in Sword of the Last Sovereign. They were a loose network of clans that lived far from civilization. Barbaric, the Empire called them. Dangerous. Superstitious.

But Lucien remembered something else, too.

They had their own laws. Their own gods. Their own secrets.

The hero in the novel had only briefly encountered the Wildlings in Volume 3—when a powerful chieftain pledged aid during a campaign against a rogue noble. But Lucien had paid attention to those chapters.

Because one of those Wildling clans had once followed a "Priest of Ash."

And Lucien… had just earned the title Priest of Ember.

Was there a connection?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But after days of being hunted, bled dry, and left to scavenge like a desperate animal, Lucien was done surviving in silence.

He needed options.

He needed people.

Even if they were the kind that might stab first and ask questions never.

A broken footprint in the mud caught his attention.

Lucien crouched. The soil had been disturbed recently. The print was bare, toes wide and calloused, deeper toward the ball of the foot than the heel—someone used to walking barefoot over harsh terrain.

He touched the edge of the impression.

Still soft.

Not even half a day old.

There were more.

He followed them, eyes scanning every tree, every rustling branch.

After twenty minutes, he saw it.

A shard of red cloth, torn on a thorny bush. Faded but intact.

He pocketed it and kept moving.

Soon after, the trees thinned—and he spotted something between the gaps in the brush.

A wooden stake.

Then another.

He froze, crouching behind a fallen log.

Beyond the stakes was a clearing, and at its center, barely visible behind a screen of low-hanging leaves—

Smoke.

Thin. Rising in a spiral from behind a cluster of large stones.

Lucien crept forward, stepping lightly across roots and debris until he had a better view.

There, tucked between two ridges and camouflaged by makeshift walls, was a Wildling settlement.

It was crude but functional.

The huts were built from rough stone, moss, and bone. Animal hides were stretched across wooden frames, forming tents that sagged from weather and time. Several fire pits dotted the center, ringed by sharpened poles. Tall totems stood like silent guardians—each carved with snarling beast faces and runic marks.

Lucien's heart pounded.

He had found them.

People.

Real, living people.

After weeks alone in this hostile world, seeing the flicker of firelight and hearing muffled voices felt… surreal.

But also dangerous.

One wrong move, and he could be taken as a threat.

And unlike the Empire's soldiers, the Wildlings didn't follow formal codes of conduct. No court. No trial. Just action.

He slowly backed into the trees, finding a shaded overlook where he could safely watch.

He needed to observe first.

Understand their habits, routines, language if possible.

This wasn't a game.

This wasn't a cutscene where the protagonist walked into camp and became best friends with the natives.

He was Lucien Elvar—exiled, cursed, suspiciously marked by flame.

And these people might remember who carried that title in the past.

He settled into the crook of a tree, pulled out dried meat from his pouch, and chewed in silence as he studied the camp.

About two dozen people moved between the tents and fires. Most wore fur-lined tunics and leather belts adorned with bones or feathers. Some had paint on their faces—symbols that vaguely resembled fire, claws, or windswept paths.

Children played near a shallow stream, watched by older women with braided hair and beaded necklaces. Men sharpened weapons—mostly spears and axes—with practiced efficiency.

Lucien noted the presence of watchers on raised platforms near the perimeter. Their eyes scanned the forest regularly, but none spotted him.

He'd always been good at staying out of sight.

The Tactician's Instinct trait pulsed faintly in his mind, nudging him toward smarter positions to hide.

[Tactician's Instinct – Passive Triggered]You have identified a rotation pattern in the watch patrol.Optimal infiltration window: Late evening, one hour after moonrise.

He blinked.

"You're helping now?" he whispered sarcastically to the system.

Still, it was valuable intel.

He glanced at the sun.

Maybe two hours until moonrise.

He'd wait.

Time passed slowly.

The wind grew colder. The sky darkened.

Lucien stayed still, conserving energy, occasionally drinking from a leaf-filtered waterskin. He observed their rituals—how the Wildlings burned herbs near dusk, drawing sigils in the dirt before entering their tents. A spiritual practice?

Possibly.

Then, just after the moon climbed above the treetops, Lucien moved.

Carefully. Quietly.

He descended the ridge using a crumbling slope covered in vines. His hands were sure, his feet silent. He moved between blind spots, ducked beneath a log, and crept closer to the outer fence of the village.

There, he found something fascinating.

A mural.

Painted directly onto the stone wall that bordered part of the camp, faint and faded, but unmistakably ancient.

It showed a man cloaked in black flame, kneeling beneath a burning tree.

Above him—three symbols.

One was a flame.

One was a chain.

One was a sword.

Lucien stared, heart racing.

Was this the "Priest of Ash" from the novel? A forgotten tale of a Wildling leader who once tried to unify the clans?

Or…

A warning?

He didn't linger. The watchers would return soon.

But he had seen enough.

There was a connection between the Temple of Ember and this place.

His appearance, his flame, his title—it all meant something here.

Lucien retreated before dawn.

By the time the sun peeked through the trees again, he was camped safely on a ledge above the river, hidden beneath a pile of leaves and moss.

He didn't sleep.

His mind was racing.

If he could earn their trust… he could gain shelter. Food. Information.

But if they saw him as a threat…

He didn't like the odds.

Still, one thing was clear.

His journey was no longer one of solitude.

He had stepped onto a path shaped by legends, old flames, and forgotten gods.

And ahead, in the shadow of totems and fire, something waited.