The morning sun filtered through the thick curtains, casting warm streaks of light across Aric's room. Yet the warmth felt distant, almost unreal. His body ached from the relentless battles, and every muscle still throbbed with fatigue. He drifted into a restless sleep, his mind unwilling to release the tension of the past days.
And then the world shifted.
He found himself standing in a smaller, sunlit courtyard, far from the chaos of the stronghold. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of grass and wood smoke. A younger figure approached—a man tall and strong, with eyes like steel and hands calloused from years of labor and combat. Aric blinked. The memories came rushing back.
"Father," he whispered, barely able to contain his awe.
The man turned, smiling warmly. "Aric… you've grown." His voice carried a weight of authority, yet a softness reserved for his son.
Little Aric, perhaps seven or eight, hesitated. His small hands fidgeted nervously. "Father… I… I want to know about… her," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "My mother… who is she?"
The older man's expression shifted subtly, a shadow passing across his eyes. He knelt to Aric's height, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Your mother… is someone important. More than you can understand now. But know this, Aric—you carry something of her blood, something unique. It runs through your veins, shaping the strength you already possess."
Aric tilted his head, confused. "Blood? What does that mean?"
His father's eyes softened, but there was a flicker of something guarded—wisdom mingled with caution. "It means your lineage… is not ordinary. There are gifts in our blood, powers that have been honed over generations. Strength, resilience, and the ability to endure… but also burdens you may not yet understand."
Little Aric's eyes widened, heart pounding. "Burdens? But I want to be strong, Father! I want to fight like you, to protect everyone!"
A proud smile crept across his father's face. "And you will. But strength is not only in the body or in magic. It is in the mind, the heart… and the will to act even when fear grips you. Watch carefully, Aric. The way you fight is as much about the choices you make as it is about your skill."
Aric's father rose, drawing a practice sword. Its metal glinted in the sunlight. "Come, show me how you defend. Even the smallest gestures, the tiniest shift in stance, can change the tide of a battle. Focus, patience, and observation—these are your greatest allies."
Little Aric mimicked his father's movements, sword trembling in his small hands. The elder man circled him slowly, correcting stances, adjusting grips, and demonstrating parries. Each motion, each correction, taught Aric more than brute strength ever could. He learned the rhythm of combat, how to read an opponent, how to turn their momentum against them.
As they practiced, Aric began to notice something else. A subtle pulse of energy ran through his father's veins—a faint, steady glow that seemed to echo in his own blood. "Father… why do you glow like that?" he asked, curiosity mingling with awe.
His father paused, looking down at him. "It is part of our bloodline. It carries resilience, the spark of endurance… but it is also a mystery. One day, you may understand why it exists—and what it demands from you."
Little Aric nodded solemnly, absorbing every word. He felt a mixture of pride, fear, and excitement—an unspoken promise that he was meant for something greater, though he could not yet grasp its magnitude.
The sun was high in the sky when the memory began to twist. A sudden chill cut through the warmth, the courtyard shifting around him. Shadows crept unnaturally, seeping from the edges like ink in water. Aric's father's hand went to his chest, eyes widening in shock.
"Father?" Aric called, his voice trembling.
The man stumbled, clutching his sword. "Aric… no—stay back!" His tone was urgent, laced with panic he had never shown before.
Before Aric could react, figures emerged from the shadows. Dark, indistinct, yet radiating menace. They moved swiftly, and before he could blink, a blade struck true. His father fell to the ground, blood staining the courtyard's sunlit stones.
"No!" Aric shouted, heart breaking. He lunged forward, sword in hand, but the world seemed to distort, the shadow figures overwhelming him. Panic, fear, and grief surged like a storm inside him.
His father's hand reached out, brushing against his arm, whispering a final command, a final lesson. "Remember… your strength… your will… endure…"
And then everything shifted again.
Aric awoke with a gasp, his body drenched in sweat, the stronghold's dim candlelight flickering across his room. The echoes of the past clung to him—the lesson, the warmth, and the terror of loss. His chest heaved, and his hands shook as he clenched them into fists.
Outside his window, the stronghold was quiet for the moment. Soldiers were tending fires and repairing walls. But in Aric's mind, the memory of his father's fall remained vivid, a wound that refused to heal, and a mystery of his bloodline that had only deepened.
He rose slowly, muscles stiff, eyes dark with resolve. The lessons, the strength, the lineage—all of it mattered now more than ever.
And somewhere deep in the shadows beyond the stronghold, the monsters that had retreated lingered, patient, watching, waiting for the moment to strike again.
Aric clenched his jaw. "I will be ready. I have to be."
The candle flickered, the shadows stretched, and the weight of both the past and the coming battles pressed down upon him.