The Last Veldrath: The Exiled Swordsman’s Path

Eryndor stood over the lifeless Shadow Raven, his bow still in his hand, but the victory felt distant. The raven's body was nothing more than a brief moment in his quest—a token, a symbol. What mattered was what came next. He felt the weight of his breath, slow and steady, filling his chest with determination.

This... is only the beginning.

His mind shifted away from the fleeting pride of his first successful hunt. A hunger, deeper than the gnawing ache in his stomach, took root within him. He needed more. He needed to be stronger, faster, better. So that he would never have to endure the life of disgrace he had left behind. The thought of returning to his family, to the insults and mockery—no. He'd never be weak again. He would train, like he had in the past, but now it would be different. His training here, in this wild, unforgiving forest, would bring results. He would make sure of it.

His gaze shifted toward the trees, their towering forms casting long shadows over the ground. The forest was alive, dangerous, but it was also a place where he could be reborn. It was harsh, unforgiving, but it would make him stronger.

First things first—this shelter is pathetic.

Eryndor turned to the makeshift shelter he had hastily thrown together on his first night here. The small lean-to was a meager attempt at protection, offering only minimal cover from the elements. But now, as he stood before it, he could see how inadequate it truly was. It would need to be more. Much more.

"I'll need better materials," he muttered under his breath, his gaze sweeping over the trees. Thick branches, sturdy bark, maybe something to line the walls. I'll need to reinforce it. This won't do for long-term survival.

His fingers twitched, the calluses on his palms a reminder of the hard work that lay ahead. There was no room for failure. Every aspect of this journey, every part of his new life in the forest, would be a reflection of his resolve. His face was set, hard, determined.

This forest, this place, it will be my training ground.

It wasn't like before. Back then, the idea of building anything had felt impossible, like another cruel reminder of his inadequacies. But now, it felt different. Maybe it was the lessons he had learned from years of trying and failing. Maybe it was the rawness of the challenge before him. But either way, the task ahead no longer seemed daunting.

"I can do this," he said quietly to himself, his words steady with purpose. No one is here to stop me. I'll build it the way I need.

Eryndor moved with confidence as he began his work. The trees around him were a resource—wood, stone, vines. He spent hours cutting down branches, breaking them into pieces with swift, practiced strikes. His hands were raw, his muscles aching, but there was no hesitation. Every swing of his arm was deliberate, calculated. He remembered the discipline his family had instilled in him during his early training, before the world had broken him down. Those lessons were still there, buried deep in his muscle memory.

He could feel his body's resistance, the aching pull of his tendons as they screamed for rest. But he ignored it. He pushed through, not because he had to, but because he chose to. This would make him stronger. This would prove to him that he could do it, that he could survive without the support of his family, without the weight of his name.

By midday, the shelter was beginning to take shape. The branches, thick and sturdy, formed a solid framework, and Eryndor had reinforced the walls with the bark from nearby trees. His movements were quicker, more fluid, like he was already anticipating the next step before his mind had fully grasped it. The work felt almost instinctual, as though his body had learned how to do it, not from teachings or instructions, but from sheer willpower.

It's almost done. And it's better than I expected.

Eryndor stepped back, eyeing his progress. The hut was far sturdier now, with thick walls that could handle the forest's worst winds and rains. It wasn't home, but it was protection. And that was all that mattered.

"I'm getting better at this," he murmured, the satisfaction of progress flowing through him. If I keep this up, it'll be just like before—only this time, it's on my terms.

The next task was food. He wasn't a skilled hunter, but his instincts were sharp. The bone bow he had crafted now felt like an extension of himself. He moved with purpose, slipping through the underbrush, keeping his senses sharp. Hours passed, and his body screamed for rest, but he pressed on. Finally, he managed to hunt a pair of smaller creatures—a pair of woodland hares. Their meat would keep him fed for a day.

As he skinned the animals, the sharp scent of blood filled the air. He worked quickly, his fingers slick with the slick warmth of fresh kill. No time for hesitation. His thoughts were sharp, almost cold. This was survival, and he was getting better at it with each passing moment. There was no room for failure now. There was only the next step forward.

When the rabbits were prepared and their meat roasted over the small fire he'd set, Eryndor sat back on a log, chewing thoughtfully. The meat was tough, the taste raw, but he didn't mind. He had no luxury to care for finer things. This was enough.

As he ate, his mind wandered. I'm not the same person I was before. That pathetic, weakling son of House Veldrath… I will never be him again. This is the only way forward.

With his stomach full, Eryndor stood and stretched his limbs. His body was exhausted—his muscles sore, his joints aching—but he had to push through. The forest was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs.

Tomorrow… I'll start training again. But this time, it will be different. I'll push myself farther than before. No more holding back. If I can endure this, I can endure anything.

His jaw tightened as he mentally prepared himself. I'll become strong enough so that I'll never be a disgrace again.

The night stretched on, and Eryndor's exhaustion finally overcame him. He lay on the hard ground inside his new hut, using the barest of materials to form a crude bed. It was uncomfortable, but it would do. The darkness of the forest pressed in around him, but he felt a strange calm. His eyes closed, his body tense from the day's labor, but his mind was focused. Tomorrow would be the start of a new chapter.

Tomorrow, I will train. And I will make sure that this life—this new life—will be the only one I'll ever need.

After a long, deep rest, Eryndor finally stirred from his slumber. The soreness that had plagued his body had faded, leaving him feeling lighter, more alert. His muscles no longer screamed in protest with every movement. He stretched his arms wide, feeling the pull in his shoulders, a reminder of how much work he had already put in.

The night had been calm, the air cool and still. There was no sign of any immediate danger, which had allowed him the first real sleep . It had been exactly what he needed.

This is the moment. I can feel it. I've rested enough. Time to get back to it.

Eryndor rose to his feet, stretching his legs and rolling his neck, the stiff joints loosening as he moved. His body felt like it had reset itself, ready for more. He glanced , where the last of the woodland hares' meat was . It wasn't much, but it would be enough for now.

His stomach growled, and without hesitation, he reached for a piece of the roasted meat. He chewed thoughtfully, his thoughts already turning inward.

It's strange, he thought, while tearing off another bite of meat. When I was in House Veldrath, all I ever did was train with a sword. Sword techniques. Mastery of form. I wasn't allowed to focus on anything else. Archery… this—this bow… it's foreign to me. I don't know any techniques, any principles to follow. What would a swordmaster know about archery?

His brow furrowed as he gazed down at the bone bow in his hands. He could feel the weight of it now, a part of him. But beyond that, there was no formal guidance. No legacy to follow, no elder to instruct him.

The Veldrath family's teachings... They've always been about the sword. Techniques, stances, power… They would laugh if they saw me holding this bow. But I'm not them anymore. I'm not the weakling they remember. I have to do this on my own. I'll have to build my own path.

He paused, letting the thought settle within him. His fingers traced the smooth surface of the bone, the lines that he had carved himself. The tension in the string, the weight of the bow—these things were starting to make sense to him. But what about the next step? How would he train? He couldn't simply rely on instincts and hope for the best. He needed a method, a plan.

I don't have sword techniques. I don't have magic. But this bow... this bow can be my weapon. If I learn it well enough, it could be just as powerful.

Eryndor stood, after finish eating. He walked a few paces away, his eyes scanning the environment, calculating. The air was still, but he knew that would change once he moved. He had to work quickly.

First things first—form. I need to learn how to hold the bow properly, how to position my body. The stance will be crucial. But... I'm not sure if I'm doing it right. This feels like... like I'm trying to mold myself into something I'm not. It's different from holding a sword. It's... lighter.

He raised the bow, an odd sense of awkwardness still lingering as he positioned himself. His posture wasn't as fluid as it needed to be, and he could feel the tension in his shoulders.

Am I supposed to stand like this? No, no... That's too stiff. The bow needs freedom, flexibility. If I'm too rigid, the shot won't be smooth. I need to be loose, like I've trained with a sword. But with the bow, I need to be more precise. Controlled.

He sighed, letting the bow drop for a moment as he massaged his shoulders. His thoughts swirled, full of self-doubt, but a quiet determination pushed him forward.

What's the point of using a bow if I can't even find the right stance? I need to make my body adjust to this. I need to learn. Every time I fail, it's another step forward. I've always told myself that. Even when my family laughed at me, I kept going. This is no different.

He tried again, raising the bow, his arms more relaxed now, his posture less rigid. It felt a little more natural this time, but it was still far from perfect. He adjusted his grip, imagining himself aiming at a target.

Breathe... steady my aim. Hold the string, focus on the release.

Eryndor narrowed his eyes, drawing the string back slowly, testing the resistance. His hand trembled slightly, the tension still unfamiliar to him. He released the string with a soft snap, the arrow sailing into the distance, but not nearly as far as he had hoped.

Not enough power. Damn it. I need to pull harder, focus more...

He repeated the process again and again, each shot imperfect in its own way. The strain in his arms was evident, but he kept going, refusing to let the failure discourage him.

It's not enough. The string... I need more tension. And my stance. I'm not balanced properly.

Eryndor testing different ways to stand, adjusting his grip, pulling the string tighter. The thought of his family, of the insults, drove him forward. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, the exhaustion building, but he didn't stop. His entire being was consumed with the idea of perfecting this new skill, of becoming strong enough to survive this world, to prove himself to everyone who had ever doubted him.

If I can endure this, if I can keep going, I will master this. I will become better, and this bow will be just as powerful as any sword.

The hours passed in a blur of trial and error, each failure making him more determined. The pain in his arms, his back, his fingers—they were all reminders of how far he had come. With each shot, he refined his technique, bit by bit, until the archery form that felt so foreign to him began to settle into place.

His bow arm felt steady now, his grip tighter, more confident. Each pull of the string brought him closer to mastery, the flow of energy more fluid than before.

This is how I'll train. I won't rely on anyone but myself. I'll learn everything from the ground up. Every shot will be a lesson. Every failure, a step toward mastery.

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, Eryndor stood taller, his muscles aching, but his resolve stronger than ever. He had no sword, no magic, but what he did have was this—his bow, his mind, and his will. He would keep going. He would survive. And one day, he would be the one everyone looked to for strength.