Forsaken Legacy: The Exiled Swordsman’s Path

Fenrir.

A beast of nightmares, its obsidian fur blending into the shadows, only its eerie blue eyes cutting through the darkness. Its breath fogged the air, thick with the stench of decay.

It knew he was here.

His fingers curled against the dirt, his heartbeat a war drum in his chest.

Run?

Pointless.

Fight?

A joke.

His body trembled, exhaustion weighing him down like iron chains.

Maybe it was better this way.

Maybe this was where it ended.

No more fighting. No more struggling. No more proving himself to a family that had already erased his name.

He closed his eyes.

Then—the beast hesitated.

Its ears flicked. Its nose twitched.

Confusion rippled through its stance.

And then, to his utter disbelief, it turned away, vanishing into the night.

His breath came in shuddering gasps as he collapsed against a tree.

His gaze fell to the ground—to the small, pale-blue flowers at his feet.

The beast couldn't sense him.

His mind raced. These flowers… are they masking my presence?

A miracle. An accident. A stroke of luck.

But luck was enough.

The First Shelter

When the Fenrir disappeared, the last of his strength crumbled.

His knees hit the earth. His breath shuddered. His entire body screamed for rest.

He wasn't dead.

Somehow, despite every damn thing that should have killed him—he was still alive.

His eyes flicked toward the clearing. More of those flowers. A whole cluster of them.

This place—it was safe.

Eryndor forced himself to move. His fingers tore at branches, stacking them into something—anything—that resembled a shelter. His body ached, his vision blurred, but he didn't stop.

Because for the first time since leaving Aetheria, he had something real.

A sanctuary.

A place where magic couldn't reach him. Where beasts wouldn't hunt him.

It was crude. It was weak.

But it was his.

Lying inside, staring at the tangled ceiling of his own making, a quiet thought took root.

I will survive.

Even if no one believed in him.

Even if the world had already cast him aside.

Eryndor clenched his fists, his eyes burning.

This is only the beginning.

Eryndor's breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling in exhausted gasps. The forest had fallen into a deathly silence once again, the haunting growl of Fenrir still echoing in his mind. He had survived. For now. But the forest was relentless, and the night was closing in fast.

His body screamed for rest, but he could not afford it.

The cold would kill him first.

His gaze drifted back to the dim outline of the trees, their branches like twisted fingers clawing at the moonlit sky. He needed shelter. A way to survive the night.

Shelter.

He rubbed his hands together, wincing at the dull ache that ran through his arms.

Focus. I need to focus.

A soft sigh escaped him, a futile attempt to shake off the chill creeping deeper into his bones. His eyes scanned the forest floor, searching for anything that could help him. Fallen branches, large rocks, vines—anything.

The forest was generous with its materials, but his mind was too clouded with fatigue to feel grateful. He picked up a sturdy branch, feeling the weight of it in his hand. He knew it would be too thin to make a frame.

No. I need thicker wood.

He let the branch drop, moving further into the forest, each step more sluggish than the last. His eyes felt heavy, and his legs were beginning to tremble.

How long has it been? Hours? Days? I don't know anymore.

His stomach growled again, a reminder of the fish he had eaten raw, and the gnawing emptiness that still lingered. But hunger was an afterthought now. His instincts told him that if he didn't build shelter, the elements would finish him off before anything else.

His hand grazed against the rough bark of a nearby tree, and his fingers twitched.

I can't think straight. Focus. Just focus on the task at hand.

He began with a few branches, snapping them into pieces, gathering them into a loose pile. His back was hunched, the weight of exhaustion dragging his movements down. His fingers bled where he gripped the rough bark, but the pain was a dull echo in the face of his greater need.

I need four sturdy posts for the frame. Four straight branches.

He scanned the forest. His eyes strained in the dim light, but he finally found a small cluster of oak trees with thick, straight trunks. He staggered toward them, his steps unsure as he fought the dizziness that clouded his vision.

Every movement felt like a battle.

He grabbed one of the trunks and began hacking at it with the edge of the broken branch, the sharpness of the pain in his shoulders barely registering.

Keep swinging. Just keep swinging. Don't stop.

The task was grueling. Each strike of the branch against the tree felt like it was draining his very life force. His body screamed for him to stop, to lie down and let the darkness take him.

But the darkness was not his ally.

Stop thinking. Just keep going. Don't give in.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he felled one of the oak trunks. His body shuddered with relief as he bent to drag it across the forest floor. The weight was unbearable, but he refused to let it stop him.

His mind began to wander, despite his best efforts to keep it focused on the task.

The memory of his father's cold rejection hit him like a thunderclap, the sharp sting of Valdric's words still raw in his mind.

You are no longer a son of House Veldrath.

He clenched his jaw, shaking off the memory.

Not now. Not here.

But the memories continued to creep in, uninvited.

His younger self, watching his brothers train with the sword, their laughter ringing in the air, their confidence palpable.

Why couldn't I do it?

Why couldn't I be like them?

The question echoed, unanswered. His hands shook, the weight of the memories pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket.

No more. I can't think about them now. I can't.

He dropped the first trunk onto the ground, his legs giving out beneath him. He sat heavily, eyes closed, breathing deeply to calm the pounding in his chest.

His hands were shaking as he set to work. He used the thick trunks to create the base of the hut, leaning them against the boughs of nearby trees. The framework was crude, uneven, but it would hold—at least for the night.

The simple, steady motion of gathering more branches and setting them into place became a rhythm. It was a small comfort, something to focus on other than the emptiness that seemed to seep into his soul.

I can do this. I can survive. I've done harder things. I've endured worse.

His fingers scraped against the rough bark, and a flash of memory hit him—training with his father, holding the sword wrong, the way Valdric had gripped his wrist and twisted it painfully, forcing him to drop the blade.

Weak. You're weak, Eryndor. You'll never be worthy of the Veldrath name.

He gritted his teeth, pushing the memory aside.

It's not important anymore. What's important is surviving.

The hut slowly began to take form, the crude frame reinforced with vines and leaves. It wasn't much—just enough to protect him from the biting wind and the threat of wild animals.

His hands were raw, his muscles screaming in protest, but he couldn't stop. He had nothing else.

The shelter was finished at last. It wasn't much to look at—just a small, primitive structure, but it would do. He could feel the faintest sense of accomplishment stir within him.

But as he settled into the space, pulling leaves and branches over him as makeshift bedding, the silence of the forest crept in once again. The loneliness settled in his bones like an illness.

He lay still, listening to the distant sounds of the night. The howling wind. The rustling of unseen creatures. His heartbeat, steady and slow.

But there was no comfort in the quiet. No peace.

Why am I doing this?

The question slipped out, quiet and fragile.

What's the point?

He stared up at the crude roof above him, his body aching from the demands of the day.

I don't know how long I'll last out here. I don't know what tomorrow holds.

The thought of the forest swallowing him whole, of dying alone, gnawed at him. But there was no room for fear. Not anymore.

I'll make it through. Somehow. I have to. I refuse to die like this.