The Last Veldrath: The Exiled Swordsman’s Path

The fire had burned low, its dying embers casting wavering shadows against the crude walls of his shelter. Outside, dawn approached, the air still carrying the sharp chill of the night.

Eryndor sat cross-legged, the unfinished bow resting on his lap. His fingers traced the smooth, curved Fenrir bone—his first real creation, his first victory. His muscles ached, his body worn from the constant battle against hunger, exhaustion, and fear. Yet, for the first time in his life, none of it mattered.

Because right now, he wasn't failing.

A slow breath escaped his lips as he picked up a sharp rock and resumed his work.

His grip was firm, his movements deliberate as he scraped the surface of the bone. Tiny flakes drifted into the air, catching the firelight before settling onto his torn and bloodied hands. Each stroke was precise, removing imperfections, smoothing the surface.

This should feel difficult… but it doesn't.

The thought unsettled him. He had never been trained in crafting weapons. His family had never bothered to teach him anything beyond wielding a blade, yet each motion felt right. The way his fingers guided the bone, the instinctive knowledge of where to reinforce, how to shape—it was as if his body remembered something his mind did not.

His brows furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line as he tested the bow's curvature. He applied slow, measured pressure, feeling for weak points. A bow must bend, but never break.

Beside him, the Venric spider silk lay coiled like a serpent, its silver threads glinting in the dim firelight. He picked it up, testing its strength between his fingers. Lighter than air. Stronger than steel.

This alone could change everything.

Looping the string around the ends of the bow, he secured it with careful, deliberate knots. His muscles tensed as he pulled it taut, testing the tension. The string hummed under the strain, a whisper of deadly potential.

His fingers trembled, shoulders burning from exertion. But as he lifted the bow, staring down its length, a slow realization sank in.

It was done.

A quiet, shaky breath left him, his chest rising and falling with exhaustion. Then, without thinking, a small, tired grin tugged at his lips.

I made this.

His heart, once a frantic drum of fear and uncertainty, now beat steadily.

For the first time… something in my hands is mine.

But a bow was useless without arrows.

And so, he began again.

Pain had become an old companion, a dull ache that pulsed through his weary limbs. His body screamed for rest, but his mind refused. He stretched his stiff muscles before gathering his materials.

From his pile of remains, he selected several strong, straight ribs—lighter than expected, but sturdy. He snapped them into equal lengths, using a jagged stone to carve them into sharp points. The repetitive motion sent sharp stings through his fingers, reopening old cuts. Blood smeared across the bone, but he ignored it.

This pain is nothing. This pain means progress.

For the arrowheads, he pried loose the fangs of smaller beasts he had scavenged. Their curved, jagged edges were ideal for piercing. He bound them to the shafts with sinew and resin, wrapping them tightly until they felt like an extension of the bone itself.

His fingers trembled, aching from the delicate work. His breaths grew slow, controlled. Focus. Breathe.

The more he worked, the more effortless it became. His hands moved with certainty, each step flowing into the next. The sensation was eerie—like instinct, not knowledge.

Why does this feel so natural?

The question gnawed at him, but he pushed it aside.

His fingers throbbed from the delicate work, but he barely noticed. His focus sharpened the more he crafted.

One arrow.

Then another.

And another.

Hours passed, but time meant nothing. Creation consumed him.

His breath was steady. His mind was clear.

By the time the sun had fully risen, five arrows lay before him—sleek, lethal, ready. He ran his fingers over them, feeling their weight, their balance.

For now, he tested the weight of the arrows, rolling them between his fingers. They felt right. Balanced. Deadly.

He exhaled sharply, setting the finished arrows beside him. The bow lay at his side, his weapons lined neatly before him. His hands throbbed, shoulders burned, but something inside him stirred—a quiet, unfamiliar fire.

This wasn't just survival anymore.

This was something more.

He looked down at his work, a smirk playing at his lips.

"I'm not just surviving anymore," he whispered.

His grip tightened around the bow.

"I'm fighting back."

For the first time in his life, he wasn't powerless.

And that changed everything.

The crackling fire had burned down to glowing embers, and the scent of roasted fish lingered in the air. Eryndor sat cross-legged, the warmth of the meal spreading through his weary body. His fingers carefully pulled apart the delicate flesh, savoring every bite.

The taste was simple, but to him, it was a victory—his first true meal in days, earned by his own hands.

His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted another piece to his mouth. The past few days had been nothing but hunger, pain, and exhaustion. Now, for the first time, he felt full. He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes as he savored the feeling.

"I did this."

Not his father. Not his siblings. Not some noble-born warrior gifted with magic or strength. Him.

The hunger that had gnawed at his insides finally faded, replaced by a deep, grounding satisfaction. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he wasn't starving. He wasn't just surviving—he was living.

His eyelids grew heavy, his muscles relaxed, and without realizing it, he allowed himself to truly rest.

For the first time in years, there were no whispers of doubt. No harsh insults echoing in his mind. No looming shadow of failure.

Just the steady rhythm of his breath.

And sleep embraced him.

Eryndor's eyes fluttered open as the first light of dawn painted the sky in shades of amber and violet. He inhaled deeply, his lungs filling with the crisp morning air. His body still ached, but something inside him had changed.

The emptiness—the exhaustion that had clung to him like a curse—was gone.

Instead, a quiet energy pulsed through him, steady and sure.

He flexed his fingers, testing his grip. His body felt lighter. His movements, once sluggish from exhaustion, now held purpose.

"This is different."

He shifted, his gaze falling upon the bow resting beside him. It wasn't just a tool anymore. It was his weapon.

His fingers curled around its grip as he stood, his mind sharp, his heart steady.

"It's time to hunt."

He moved through the forest with careful steps, his senses heightened, his breath controlled. The sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting dappled shadows across the forest floor.

Everything felt… sharper.

The rustling of leaves. The distant calls of beasts. The whisper of the wind through the trees. He could hear it all.

His feet pressed lightly into the damp earth, careful not to disturb the undergrowth.

"Stay low. Step soft. Breathe slow."

His mind focused on only one thing.

A target.

Then, he spotted it.

Perched high on a gnarled tree branch, 30 meters away, was a raven.

But this was no ordinary bird.

Its feathers shimmered with an eerie, obsidian sheen, almost liquid in texture. Its eyes burned with faint violet light, a sign of its magical nature.

A Shadow Raven.

A beast known for its unnatural agility and ability to slip between light and darkness.

Killing it would not be easy.

But Eryndor felt no hesitation. No fear.

His feet planted firmly into the ground. His posture straightened. His breathing slowed.

"Stillness. Precision."

His fingers curled around the bowstring, drawing it back. The tension bit into his fingers, but he didn't waver.

Strength was never his weakness.

But this was about more than strength.

His mind emptied.

No thoughts. No distractions.

Only the target.

He exhaled.

And released.

The arrow vanished from the bow, a blur against the morning light.

The Shadow Raven reacted instantly—its violet eyes widening—

But it was too late.

The moment it saw the arrow, it was already an inch away from its skull.

The arrowhead struck true. A clean shot through the head.

The raven never even had the chance to move.

Eryndor didn't blink. He simply watched, expression unreadable, as the lifeless body tumbled from the branch, falling in slow spirals before hitting the forest floor with a soft thud.

Silence followed.

His fingers relaxed from the bowstring, his arms lowering slightly. His breath, which had been steady and controlled, now felt different.

He remained still, staring at the fallen beast.

Something stirred deep inside him—not excitement, not joy, but clarity.

He stepped forward, kneeling beside the raven's body. His fingers reached out, tracing the wound, feeling the warmth of life that had only just left it.

"This was me."

Not luck. Not chance. Him.

He clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening.

This wasn't the hesitation of an uncertain boy. This wasn't the weakness his family had scorned.

This was the beginning of something new.

And then, he realized.

This was the path he was meant to take.

Not as the weak, powerless boy his family had scorned.

But as a hunter.

A predator.

His grip tightened on his bow.

For the first time, the world no longer seemed so impossible to conquer.