The Last Veldrath: The Exiled Swordsman’s Path

Chapter 6: A New Path

Eryndor awoke to the harsh light of the sun filtering through the crude shelter he had built. His muscles screamed in protest as he sat up, the soreness from his previous day's efforts gnawing at him. But there was no time to linger. The hunger in his stomach was more pressing.

His hands stiffly pushed against the ground, dragging himself to his feet. The trap, still set by the water's edge, was the only thing that could provide him with something to eat. He stepped carefully, the ground beneath his boots soft and uneven, making every movement a challenge. His body was used to comfort, luxury even, back at the estate, but here—here, there was nothing but survival.

The trap. Right. It would have to do.

He crouched down, inspecting the makeshift device. His stomach growled again, louder this time, the raw hunger almost unbearable. The fish were his only option for sustenance.

One hour. That's all it would take.

As he waited, his mind began to wander. The long, empty silence of the forest pressing in on him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, restless. His hands moved almost of their own accord, fidgeting with the raw bark of the trees nearby, trying to distract himself.

A sword.

The thought struck him like a physical blow.

The memory flashed vividly—his father's scornful words echoing in his ears, his brothers' laughter as they effortlessly wielded their blades in practice. How many times had he stood there, trembling with failure, his hands too weak to grasp the hilt properly? His father's disappointed gaze, the cold words of rejection.

"You are no longer a son of House Veldrath."

The words burned, sharper than any sword.

A surge of rage boiled in his chest, hot and suffocating. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. He could still see the sword. The steel glinting in the sunlight. The weight of it, the expectation to wield it like the Veldrath lineage demanded.

I will never wield a sword again.

The anger churned in his gut, but with it, there was sadness—a deep, sorrowful ache that he couldn't shake. His body tensed, his face contorting into a grimace as he tried to push the memories aside.

No. He wasn't going to go down that path. Not again.

The soft clink of the trap's mechanism brought him back to the present. He didn't have time for this.

He knelt, pulling the fish from the trap, grateful for the small victory. He managed to get a fire going with the last of his dry wood, using the small knife he had salvaged from his previous pack. It wasn't much, but it was enough to cook the fish.

For the first time since leaving Aetheria, Eryndor ate something warm, something other than raw scraps. It was small, but it filled him, if only for a moment.

With a deep breath, he sat back on his heels, staring into the fire. His mind raced.

What next?

A weapon. He needed a weapon. If this world was going to swallow him whole, he needed to have something, anything, to defend himself.

A wooden sword, maybe?

No.

His lips curled into a bitter smile. The thought of holding a sword again twisted his insides. Even if it were made of wood, even if it was just for survival… the memories clung to the very idea of it, suffocating him.

I won't fall into that trap. I'll never—never hold a sword again.

He looked at his hands, still trembling from the thoughts. They were the hands of failure, of someone who was never meant to carry a sword. And he would never allow them to carry one again.

Magic. Maybe magic could be the answer.

The thought lingered, but just as quickly, it faded.

Mana. His body lacked the capacity for it, the ability to even begin.

I'm not like them. I'll never be like them.

He slumped back, staring at the sky. There had to be something. His fingers clenched the ground as he tried to find the answer.

Then, it hit him.

A bow. A bow and arrow.

His mind immediately seized on the idea, an almost primal pull toward it, as if something deep inside him recognized its potential. It wasn't just the idea of a weapon—it felt… different. The image of a bow formed so clearly in his mind that it almost felt like instinct, as though his body had long yearned for something like this.

But even as the thought formed, doubts followed.

A bow… No one uses a bow. Not here. Not in Aetheria. Not among the great families.

He frowned, tapping his fingers on the ground in a nervous rhythm.

A bow required something more than a sword. More than magic. It demanded focus. Consistent focus. Every shot had to be perfect. There was no room for error, no easy victories. And arrows—they could only be as strong as the arm that drew them. The bow itself, too, needed to be of the highest quality, and even then, it wouldn't be enough.

Could he ever become good enough to wield a bow with the same mastery he saw in the swords of his family?

But then, an odd memory surfaced.

A party trick. The last extravagant gathering at the Veldrath estate. He'd been young, maybe thirteen or fourteen, and they had invited some wandering performers to entertain the guests. One of them had shown off a bow and arrow as part of the show—simple, exaggerated tricks meant to amuse the highborn crowd. It wasn't a battle-hardened weapon; it was a novelty. A joke, really.

No one in the kingdom used bows. It was always the sword, the magic. The Veldraths were renowned for their mastery of the blade, and the kingdom revered those who wielded power through magic. No Savant, no Titan, not even a Grandmaster would be seen wielding a bow. It was a weapon of the past, discarded, forgotten—something that belonged to simpler times.

The thought stung as the strange pull to the bow persisted. He could almost see it—his hands gripping the string, drawing back, releasing an arrow with purpose.

But the doubts kept rising.

Could he ever be that good? Could a bow even be enough?

His body stiffened. Maybe this wasn't about power. Maybe it wasn't about mastering something so… foolish.

But even as he tried to silence it, the idea of the bow lingered. The way it felt, the way it called to him, even though his reason told him otherwise.

I'll never be a master, he thought bitterly. Not like them. Not like Father or Kaelen or Darius. Never. But... it could be different. Maybe. Just maybe, this wasn't about mastery. Maybe it was about something else—something I can control.

The possibility lingered in his chest, uncertain but tantalizing. His eyes glinted with a dangerous flicker of resolve.

"Focus, Eryndor. Focus," he muttered under his breath, his voice low but determined. He needed to make this work. Something had to work.

His hands were trembling again, but this time, it was different. It wasn't the tremor of weakness. It was the anticipation of something new, something that could change everything.

Maybe the bow wouldn't be the answer. Maybe there was no answer at all.

But then again, maybe this time, this time, he would make it work. He had to.

He stood, resolute, his heart pounding with a strange combination of hope and dread.

Survival came with a price. And if he was going to survive, he would do whatever it took.

Even if that meant trying something no one else had ever dared before.

Here's the revised version with added self-talk from Eryndor to further deepen his emotional state and internal conflict:0

Eryndor's gaze was fixed on the flickering flames, their dancing light casting long, wavering shadows across the walls of his makeshift shelter. The fish he had caught earlier had done little to ease the gnawing hunger within him. His stomach was full for now, but the weight of his situation, the weight of survival, pressed harder on his chest. His mind, restless and fraying, churned with an inescapable realization.

There was no other choice.

The sword—he couldn't wield it. Magic—utterly foreign to him. Even the thought of a simple wooden bow felt naive, a child's fantasy. No, if he wanted to endure this, he needed to think differently, to find something that could survive the brutality of this place.

His eyes narrowed as a new idea started to take root.

A bow. A real bow.

His mind raced ahead, the thought almost too absurd to entertain at first. A bow? But why not? If he could create something that would endure, something that could stand up to the beasts here, something that could keep him alive—then it was worth trying.

He clenched his fists tightly, the heat from the fire causing a bead of sweat to run down his brow. The weight of the Veldrath legacy was heavy on his mind. A weapon fit for someone of that name. But it couldn't be a weak thing—no wooden toy. He needed something strong. Strong enough to endure.

Wood would break.

His thoughts shifted to the beasts of this cursed forest, their ferocity unmatched. The remnants they left behind—the bones, the twisted remains of their hunts. Bones.

He could almost hear the sound of bone cracking under pressure, see the remains of beasts, their bodies rotting in the harshness of nature. Bones could work.

The teeth, the ribs, the spine—all these remnants of death would serve a higher purpose now. They could form a weapon that could rival any crafted by those who had magic or sword skill. The bones of the magical beasts that roamed the forest—sturdy, resilient, and strong—could be shaped into a bow. The ribs could form arrows. The teeth could be sharpened into deadly tips.

His pulse quickened as his thoughts gathered speed, his face setting into an intense expression. Yes.

Bones.

But then the reality of the situation struck him like a cold slap. Killing a beast for this? He couldn't afford that. Not yet. Not while he was so vulnerable, so weak, and without a proper weapon. The thought of facing one of those beasts head-on, armed only with his fists or his wit, made his skin crawl.

Wait. He stopped himself. This isn't a game. If I try to take down one of those monsters now, I'll die. Simple as that. The thought stung.

He needed to find another way.

His hand ran through his disheveled hair, frustration and helplessness threatening to cloud his clarity. But then, as if by some cruel twist of fate, an idea pierced through the fog.

Venric spiders.

They were monstrous creatures, their legs thick as tree trunks, their webs impossibly strong, capable of withstanding the fury of even the largest predators. Their webs glistened in the light like silver strands, deadly and all-encompassing. And the silk? It was perfect. Stronger than steel, flexible enough to stretch with tension.

A weapon that could endure.

His stomach churned with unease at the thought of facing those spiders. The Venrics were territorial and vicious, each step they took causing the ground to tremble. He could still see their menacing forms moving in the distance—their spindly legs twitching with unsettling precision.

This is madness. What am I thinking? A spider's silk? I'm a fool. I can't survive facing them.

The self-doubt crept in like a sickness, gnawing at him. But then came his own voice, cold and harsh in his mind:

You don't have a choice.

He exhaled slowly, forcing the fear from his chest. He knew the truth. It's either this or die. I can't wait around, hoping for something better. I've wasted too much time already.

His hands trembled with anxiety, but now they shook with something else—a deeper resolve. He couldn't afford to be afraid. If I fail, I die. If I succeed, I survive.

The air in the shelter seemed to grow heavy with his resolve. His hands, which had been trembling with doubt moments before, now clenched into fists of determination. He would face the fear. He had no other choice.

I can't wait any longer.

The realization hit him like a thunderclap. Every instinct screamed at him to stay within the relative safety of his hut, to keep hiding, to wait for a better opportunity. But the clock was ticking. The forest had no mercy.

And so, he rose to his feet, muscles taut and stiff with the weight of what lay ahead. His eyes lingered for a moment on the flowers near his hut, their soft petals glowing faintly in the moonlight. He had noticed them the first time he ventured out here—their fragrance unique, almost ethereal. He'd also learned, through trial and error, that the flowers' scent could mask his presence, confuse the magical beasts.

It wasn't a perfect solution, but it would have to do. He couldn't risk getting caught by something he couldn't fight. He needed an edge.

Focus. The word reverberated in his mind like a mantra. He would gather the flowers. He would extract the essence, and he would survive long enough to reach the Venric spiders. There was no room for hesitation.

His hand hovered over the flowers as he crouched to gather them. His movements were methodical, almost instinctive. Time was of the essence. He could hear his heartbeat drumming in his ears, and his mind raced, flicking between the task at hand and the danger ahead. No time for mistakes.

The flowers' essence—he crushed the petals between his fingers, their fragrance thick and overpowering, as if to remind him that he was gambling everything on this plan. His hand trembled slightly, but he forced himself to focus. It took a few moments to grind them into a paste, extracting their potent oils. With his remaining strength, he soaked a cloth in the mixture and began applying it to his arms, his face, his neck. The scent clung to him like a second skin, sweet and almost suffocating.

It's done. Now it's just me and the forest.

Once prepared, he stood. His muscles tensed, his chest tight as his mind sharpened. His thoughts cut through the fog, leaving only one undeniable truth:

I can't turn back.

He moved toward the edge of the forest, each step calculated, deliberate. The night air was cool against his skin, a reminder of the dangers lurking just beyond the treeline. His heart pounded in his chest as his thoughts flitted between the spiders and the bow he would need to craft.

If I fail, I die.

His expression was hard now, his jaw clenched, but his eyes remained focused, burning with a cold fire. He was no longer the boy who cowered at the table, who shrank before his family's derision. No. This is different.

With a final glance back at his hut—his temporary refuge—he took a deep breath and plunged into the unknown.

It wasn't just survival anymore.

It was his last chance.