The days after Martha's passing felt unbearably quiet. The cottage, once filled with her calm presence and the sound of her voice humming softly as she worked, now echoed with emptiness. Rael remained there, unable to leave. Each morning, he would sit on the wooden porch where she used to sip her tea, staring at the horizon, waiting for a voice that would never come.
Villagers came and went, leaving offerings of food or words of condolence, but Rael barely spoke. His once-bright blue eyes, the color of the sky, seemed dulled with a weight far too heavy for someone his age.
One evening, as the sun bled crimson over the fields, an old villager named Edran came to visit. He was a weathered man, hunched with age, with hands calloused from decades of tending the earth. He had lived near Martha's cottage for years and had often watched Rael grow from afar, never interfering, never intruding.
"Boy," Edran's voice was rough, yet strangely warm. He sat beside Rael on the porch, placing a gnarled hand on his shoulder. "I've seen men bury their wives, children bury their parents, warriors bury their comrades. Loss is a cruel teacher, and you've been made its pupil too young."
Rael didn't respond. He only clenched his fists, his grey hair falling over his face as tears welled in his blue eyes.
Edran sighed, his gaze on the fading sun. "Thorne and Martha… they both carried burdens heavier than most. They fought to shield you from truths you were too young to bear. But boy—do not let their sacrifices chain you to grief. If you keep staring at the ground, you'll never see the road ahead."
Finally, Rael whispered, his voice trembling, "But what road? I don't even know who I truly am… or why everyone I love is taken from me."
The old man looked at him, his weathered eyes full of something sharp and steady. "Then find out. Walk until you have the answers. Mourn them, yes, but don't waste the life they gave you. If you stay here, you'll rot with your sorrow. If you leave, maybe—just maybe—you'll discover the truth, and carve a place where no boy ever has to endure what you did."
Rael looked up, his tears still streaming, but a flicker of light sparked in his eyes. Thorne's gruff voice echoed in his memory, Martha's gentle smile warmed his heart, and now Edran's words hammered a path into his resolve.
He stood slowly, looking toward the horizon. "I'll go," he whispered, more to himself than to the old man. "I'll find the truth. I'll find… who I really am."
Edran gave a faint, approving smile. "Good. Then take their memory with you, Rael Drakenhart. Let it be your sword and shield."
That night, Rael packed his few belongings. The sword Thorne had left him. Martha's small pendant of silver. A satchel of food from the villagers. When dawn broke, he stood at the edge of the forest, the weight of sorrow still lingering—but now bound together with a fragile, burning determination.
Rael stepped forward into the unknown. His journey had begun.