The stench of burnt timber and spilled blood still clung to Elara's Point like a shroud, even three winters after the flames had devoured it. Kaelen knelt in the ash, his fingers tracing the outline of what was once the hearth, now a cold, hollow cavity. The wind, sharp as a whetted blade, whistled through the skeletal remains of his home, carrying with it the phantom screams that still haunted his nights.
He was no longer the boy who had scrambled through these woods, carefree and bright-eyed. That Kaelen had died with his family. The new Kaelen was forged in fire and grief, a living embodiment of the chill that now permeated this cursed ground. His face, once soft, was now a canvas of sharp angles and haunted shadows, his eyes the color of storm clouds, holding an ancient, terrible resolve.
It had been Lord Valerius, the self-proclaimed "Lion of the North," and his retinue of arrogant, entitled sons and their boorish knights. They had come to Elara's Point not for conquest, but for cruelty. Kaelen's father, a quiet scholar who had dared to question Valerius's unjust land claims, had been dragged from his home, his pleas for reason met with laughter and the flat of a blade. Kaelen, hidden in the root cellar, had heard it all. He'd heard his father's last, gurgling gasp, the sickening thud of his body hitting the dirt.
Then came the sounds that would forever be seared into his soul, sounds that tore through the fabric of his childhood like jagged claws. The crude jests, the terrified whimpers of his mother, Lyra, and his younger sister, Elara. The agonizing, guttural cries that ended too soon, replaced by the chilling silence of pure, unadulterated horror. He didn't need to see it to know. The images played out in his mind, vivid and grotesque, every single night.
He had stayed hidden for hours, long after the drunken shouts had faded, long after the last ember had died in the hearth. When he finally dared to crawl out, the smoke still burned his eyes, but the true torment was the sight that greeted him. His mother, her face contorted in a final, silent scream, lay amidst the rubble, her dress torn, her life extinguished by more than just fire. Beside her, his sweet, innocent sister, Elara, named after this very point, lay still, her small form broken, her childhood stolen, her spirit shattered beyond repair. Both gone. Not just murdered, but desecrated. The trauma, the sheer violation, had stolen their last breaths.
Kaelen hadn't wept then. The tears had been burned away by the inferno within him. All that remained was a cold, unwavering purpose. He spent the next few days like a ghost, wandering the ash-strewn ruins, burying what he could, his hands raw, his heart a lump of ice. He lived on roots and rainwater, fueled by a nascent, unholy thirst for retribution.
He knew their faces. Valerius, with his booming laugh and cruel eyes. His eldest son, Gareth, a sneering brute with a penchant for torment. The younger twins, Tristan and Rowan, arrogant and eager to impress their father. And then there were the knights, particularly a man named Dagran, whose brutal chuckle Kaelen remembered distinctly from the screams.
For three years, Kaelen had honed himself into a weapon. He didn't seek justice; justice was too clean, too civilized. He sought annihilation. He had trained relentlessly, first with the grizzled hermit who lived deep in the Whisperwood, learning the silent ways of the hunter, the precise strike of a hidden blade. Later, he sought out the shadowed enclaves of the Blackhand brotherhood, paying their steep price in stolen gold and silent promises, learning the arts of infiltration, poison, and the chilling patience required for a truly devastating strike. He learned to move like a shadow, to strike like lightning, and to feel nothing but the burning ember of his purpose.
His hair, once the color of autumn leaves, was now a stark, bleached white from the shock and the harshness of his solitary existence. His frame, once slender, had hardened into corded muscle. He carried a long hunting bow, its string often humming with deadly intent, and a wickedly curved dagger that felt like an extension of his own will. On his left forearm, beneath the worn leather of his bracer, was a crudely carved tally mark for each of them. Valerius and his sons, and the knights. The list was long, but it would grow shorter.
He stood up, kicking a loose stone into the desolate landscape. Elara's Point was a scar on the earth, a monument to his suffering. But it was also his crucible, the place where his resolve had been forged. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath of the cold, dead air. He wouldn't weep. He wouldn't falter.
His quest began with the lowest of them, the ones who had reveled in their cruelty, the foot soldiers of Valerius's malice. Dagran, the leering knight, was the first name on his ledger of death. Kaelen had spent months tracking him, meticulously charting his movements, his habits, his weaknesses. Dagran was now the captain of the guard in a small, provincial town called Oakhaven, far from the grand halls of Valerius's keep. He thought himself safe, beyond retribution. He was wrong.
Kaelen turned his back on the ashes, the ghosts of his past urging him forward. He pulled his hood low, blending into the encroaching twilight. The road to Oakhaven was long, but every step was a step closer to settling the debt. The first taste of vengeance would be bitter, but he knew, with chilling certainty, it would be satisfying.