Welcome to this world. Don't get too comfortable. It's massive. Ten continents, a ton of kingdoms, thousands of towns, and billions of individuals who are either rich assholes, poor fools, or somewhere in the middle pretending to be safe. And believe me… no one is safe.
Kings? They're lazy. They sit on thrones like giant turds in fancy chairs. They wave to peasants while soldiers stab people in alleys. They smile when gold accumulates, and they snore through famine. Some believe they're gods. Some believe they're wise. All of them are idiots with swords.
Nobles? A tad less stupid, but otherwise assholes. They plot, cheat, bribe, cheat some more, and occasionally dine while watching a peasant burn for something they didn't do. They possess castles, servants, magic, armies are essentially anything you'd want if your aspiration was to be an outright bastard.
Merchants? Don't even get me started. Every transaction has a lie in it somewhere. Rare herbs? Might heal you. Might poison you. Spices? Worth a fortune to someone who doesn't care about your life. Weapons? They'll sell a sword that can cut flesh or a cursed dagger that eats the owner's soul—just depends who pays more.
Slavery? Ha. Half the kingdoms are established on that. Chains, mines, fields, sweat, blood, tears. Born as a slave? Congratulations, your existence is essentially a sandwich—eat, work, sleep, repeat until you die or get sold again. Kings don't care. Soldiers don't care. Merchants don't care. If you are lucky, you die soon. If not… you curse your life for decades. And yes, the wealthy laugh while you suffer. It's a hobby.
Magic exists. Of course it does. But the only people allowed to touch it are kings, nobles, and a few greedy bastards hiding behind runes and books in towers. Try magic as a peasant? Congratulations, now you're toast. Mages are assholes anyway, always arguing over who is smarter while people starve outside.
Trade? Slavery? War? Poison? Magic? Politics? Yeah. All of them. Each kingdom has its own small dirty scheme. Each king believes that his issue is the largest. Each peasant believes the world is bad—because it is. And sometimes, if a soldier gets lazy, they'll just burn a town for the fun of it. Nobody does anything about it. That's life here.
Food? If you own it, someone is likely cheating you out of it. Water? Potentially poisoned, potentially cursed, potentially safe. Roads? Lined with bandits, rats, or worse—king's men extorting "taxes." Peace? Ha. Peace is a joke.
Even animals are assholes. Dragons? Rare, but when they do appear, they burn towns down because… dragons. Wolves? They hunt in packs. Birds? Loud, useless crap, and always shitting on your head. The universe is cruel, and it doesn't care.
Cities? Huge, dirty, noisy. Merchants screaming, children thieving, guards pummeling someone, nobles gazing down, soldiers looking occupied. To witness misery, walk through Eldridge Market early in the morning. And if you wish for death, venture towards the borderlands. Nothing will prevent it.
Religion? Haha, amusing. Temples aplenty. Priests aplenty. Gods? Most likely dead, most likely don't care. They constructed churches and cathedrals to appear grand. Mortals struggle; gods imbibe wine.
War? Ongoing. Here and there it's out in the open, banners and marching. In others, it's covert—poisons, assassins, spies. Kings adore war. It's like a board game, though with human lives lost instead of counters. Armies march, castles are besieged, villages burn, peasants shriek. And someone always gains.
People? Most are short-sighted, afraid, and dumb. Some are smart, greedy, or cold-hearted—but even smart individuals get destroyed if they make a mistake. Few live long. Fewer ascend. Only the individuals who are willing to steal, lie, kill, and think ten moves ahead succeed somewhere. And even then, luck—or treachery—can destroy them.
Magic items, herbs, spices, slaves, potions, enchanted weapons—they all come with a cost. Not money. Sometimes your life. Sometimes your soul. Sometimes a favor you won't realize until years after the fact. Everything is attached to strings. Every present has a trap.
Kings possess armies, but armies possess problems with loyalty. Generals conspire, captains lie, soldiers steal. Rebellions are the norm. Assassinations are a norm. Even weddings are political time bombs waiting to go off. Everybody desires power, everybody desires gold, and everybody will kill for both.
And within the chaos, there is survival. Humans get by, scrapping along the streets, faking toughness, cunning, speed. Some of them use magic. Some use swords. Some simply use brains. Brains are not given enough credit, really. You can't swing a sword on intellect, but you can last ten times longer if you know how to manipulate.
And cities are not clean. The stench? Blood and urine and rotting meat and smoke and the odd magical residue that brings tears to your eyes. People live on rooftops, in sewers, or in small rooms just to keep away from taxes, soldiers, or killers. Rats are more intelligent than half the nobles.
Each kingdom keeps a secret. Half are horrible—slaves, murders, corrupt judges. The other half? Slightly less horrible. But even then… if the wind blows wrong way, your head rolls. No mercy. No warning. Just death, debt, or servitude.
And the worst of them? The ones who smile. They are polite. "Oh, I am your king, I care for my people." Lying. Utterly lying. Behind each smile is a knife or a debt. They quantify loyalty in debt and blood. The powerful live. The manipulative lie. The fortunate die anyway.
And here it is. This is the world aron awakens to. Not sunshine and fairy tales. No friendly ghosts in castles. No safe families or comforting streets. Simply ten continents of people fucking each other, kings playing god, merchants tallying cash while blood runs, and magic that slays quicker than starvation.
This is the stage. And in the other room, a boy is going to wake up. Twelve years old. Innocent. Happy. For now.
Because the world is going to teach him one thing: nothing's free. And everyone dies if you made a mistake.
Aron tossed under the thin blanket, the morning sun a small needle poking at his eyelids. He didn't want to get up. The air in his small room had the scent of aged wood, candles burned halfway down, and the lingering smell of his father's leather gloves. Maps covered the walls, some torn, some with scratch marks evidencing past errors of generals and adventurers who never returned. Aron looked at them, acting like he knew about the borders and rivers, but actually he just enjoyed tracing his finger over them and dreaming of escaping. Someday, he thought, he'd pass beyond all those mountains and seas. But today, the only trip was down the stairs.
Someone called out in the stillness, a sharp and warm voice, but somehow weighted with familiarity:
"Aron! Downstairs with the lazy ass of yours! Breakfast ain't going to wait for some entitled brat of a noble dreaming too much!"
His mother. Lady Elara. Her voice was firm, but there was a creak of softness beneath it—like honey in a glass of whiskey. She didn't scream because she enjoyed it; she screamed because life was always screaming at you, and she wanted her son to learn that early enough.
Aron groaned, turned over, and kicked off the blanket. The floor was cold against his bare feet, and he detested it. He detested mornings. He detested walking. He detested that warm scent of bread and eggs calling him like some sadistic siren. But he rose from bed. If he did not, Mother would torment him with that tone that said, do it or regret it.
Below, the kitchen tasted like life ought to taste: bread, porridge, and some sizzling bacon radiating joy that could not possibly last. His father, Lord Harlan, was already seated, watching the ledger as if it might bite him if he shifted his gaze. Harlan was not an imposing figure, but he did have presence. You felt him in rooms, not because he roared, but because the air was thicker when he breathed. A blend of respect, fear, and the acrid whiff of iron sweat.
"Good morning, Father," Aron grunted, collapsing into his chair. He consumed a piece of bread, hardly remembering to chew. The day was light. Birds sang outrageously cheerful songs outside, and the world felt… wrong. Too cheerful.
You slept like a rock," Harlan stated, looking up from the ledger. "Master Thorne awaits this afternoon. Sword, mind, body. If you don't work, you only receive pain and hunger. Remember that."
Aron swallowed. Pain and hunger were old friends. He nodded.
Lady Elara entered, bearing a jug of cider, her hair in its customary tight bun. She smiled at him, but a smile that was actually a warning. "Finish up, little fool. Roads come alive today. King Eldric's inspectors are likely to pass by. I wouldn't want them to catch trouble you don't even know exists."
Aron scarcely had a moment to reflect that the world was pleasant today when the first disquiet came—a loud thump at the front door. It wasn't businesslike. It wasn't polite. It was come in and destroy everything thump.
The servants froze. Even the cook let a spoon clatter to the ground as if she was afraid it might bite her. Lady Elara tensed, but attempted to remain calm. Harlan's brow furrowed, a line forming deep enough to give his face the appearance of carved stone. "Who is here at this hour?" he growled.
Aron's stomach did a flip. There was something about that knock—it wasn't right. Not at this time of day. Not today. He looked out the windows. Sunlight. Birds. Fine. Everything should be fine. But it wasn't. He could sense it, that tiny creeping panic that shouldn't be there at breakfast.
The knock came once more, more forceful. A drum of doom. Aron could all but hear the soldiers behind it laughing—laughing at him for being born lucky to have eaten breakfast in peace.
Elara's fists were knotted on the table. "Harlan… it's them. The king's men."
Harlan's face hardened. "Calm. Let's play dumb. Nothing can go wrong if we are cautious. Keep your heads."
The front doors burst open. Clanging armor, boots ringing like thunder. Six men, big, hard-looking, red cloaks and black insignia. One advanced—a scarred brat with the sort of eyes that make you pray he dies before he gets a good look at you.
"Lord Harlan Voss," he growled. "At the command of His Majesty King Eldric, we are here to search your manor. Open your doors and your lips. Every chest. Every drawer. Every secret."
Aron's heart almost pounded its way out of his chest. Search? Secret? King's men? He had heard tales. Families massacred overnight. Nobles hung for debts. Merchants nailed to crosses for spices. And here they were, offering polite smiles—or not smiling at all, displaying teeth that could gnaw his family to death.
"Sir… you must be mistaken," Harlan attempted to steady his voice. "We have done nothing wrong. Taxes paid. Goods declared. Our business is clean.
The captain, that scar-faced son of a—sneered. "Misguided? Hardly. Your riches accumulate too quickly. Your tiny shipments of herbs, your spices… rumors reach the capital. And rumors kill. You will comply."
Elara grasped Aron's arm. "Harlan! Please, don't fight—just remain calm." Her voice trembled. Her hands were trembling, Aron saw. That alone caused his chest to constrict.
The soldiers didn't hesitate. Two of them seized Harlan, turning him, slamming him into the wall. Aron wanted to scream. Wanted to make them stop. But his feet stuck. The world had shrunk to thudding, yelling, don't die yet.
"Father!" he cried.
The captain snapped. "Shut up the brat. He'll learn a lesson soon enough.
Aron's lips parted, but the thug pushed him towards a side door and locked it. He flattened his small hands against the wood, pounding, shouting muted words. Out there, pandemonium—furniture crashed, servants shrieked, his mother wailed, and the insane clanging of metal on flesh froze Aron's blood.
He flattened his ear against the door. "Mother… Father…"
He listened to the captain's voice as cold as ice. "Justice is swift. The king's law does not care for sentiment."
Aron fell to the floor, the wood of the door imprinting on his face, tears scalding. He was alone, imprisoned. The scent of smoke from the torches combined with blood wafted in from the corridor. His stomach churned.
The world had come, boisterous, savage, and unescapable. And Aron, little shit, twelve years old, discovered for the first time that breakfast might culminate in screams.
And that was only the start.
The world had arrived, raucous, brutal, and unavoidable. And Aron, little asshole, twelve years old, learned for the first time that breakfast could end in screams.
And that was just the beginning.
He stumbled out of the study, hands shaking, eyes wide. The hallway reeked of iron and smoke, the trace of fire's faint crackle still in the air from torches the soldiers had tossed about. His parents. his parents had vanished. Nothing but stains on the floor and the lingering sound of their final screams.
Aron did not cry. Not yet. Not because he didn't want to—oh, he wanted to wail, wanted to roll into a ball and vanish—but the world did not permit that. Not here. Not in Eldridge. Not when men with steel and ill will came and tore your life in two.
The soldiers were gone. The captain's boots were gone, echo sounding along the path. Aron waited a few heartbeats, counting them in silence, waiting for footsteps that weren't arriving. He put his hands over his mouth, his chest straining. No one was returning.
It wasn't about fleeing to a relative, or begging some lord for mercy. That was fairy tale. That was crap. Fairy tales did not endure in a world where kings and soldiers did whatever the hell they pleased and referred to it as law.
Aron's gaze dropped to the shattered chest where his father stored the family gold and accounts. His hands trembled as he opened it, anticipating nothing. But there it was—coin, gold and silver, little pouches of gemstones, scrolls full of names and bargains that made the eyes of grown men water. He snatched what he could, filling pouches into his tunic, looking about at anything which could possibly aid him in staying alive: a dagger, a diminutive crossbow, a bit of healing herbs. Any coin, any bit of paper, any bauble might be the gap between life and death.
The house, which had been filled with laughter and warmth, now was like a graveyard. Walls that had been filled with love now towered above him like prisons. The gardens his mom tended, the stable his dad took such pride in—all tainted by the scent of blood and betrayal. Aron forced back a swallow, the boulder lodged in his throat. He had no parents. No safety. No rules. Just survival.
And with survival, choices. Cruel, dark choices. The world had bared its teeth, and Aron understood one thing for sure: if he desired peace, he could not look to anyone for kindness. Not strangers, not neighbors, not gods, not even himself.
He threw a small pack over his shoulder. In the street, the cobblestones awakened. The merchants calling out prices, the rolling carts, children racing with the scent of bread and sunlight—but Aron didn't notice any of it. He noticed potential. Goodness weakened. Means to get by. Means to strike back, even in minor, cautious actions.
Each corner might be where a knife lay in wait. Each generous smile might conceal betrayal. And each gold coin in his pocket was a sword, a shield, or a trap. Aron had learned the hard way that power wasn't handed to you. It was stolen. And if you weren't willing to fight for it, you died.
That day, Aron left the remains of his home behind. He never looked back. Not because he was a hero, but because tears took precious time. He had to think. Plot. Act. The streets of the city were harsh enough, but the wide world outside of Eldridge? Harsher still. Kingdoms riddled with corruption, slaves, and constant warfare. Bandits who'd slit a child's throat for a silver piece. Nobles who'd play him like a pawn in games he hadn't even learned to play.
Aron navigated to his father's business, working his way past boarded shops and carts. He collected every gold piece, every valuable scroll, every symbol of power his family had stockpiled over the years. If he was going to live, he needed tools. Weapons, money, knowledge—all of it.
By evening, he had stuffed a small bag and buried it under the roots of an ancient elm tree on the outskirts of town. He did not eat. He did not sleep. Sleep would have to wait. Hunger would have to wait. Blood was spilled, and now it was time for him to begin taking notice.
The world had taught him his first lesson: that cruelty was ubiquitous. Mercy was scarce. Errors were lethal. And the road to come? It was not straight. It was not just. It was a maze of teeth and flames, where only the smart lived.
Aron clasped the dagger he'd found in the workshop more tightly. Tomorrow, he would start. Tomorrow, he would walk streets where thieves and beggars were shadow kings. Tomorrow, he would be taught the first rule for getting by alone: distrust everyone, fear everything, and grab what you can before someone else does.
For now, the world was his master, and it called for blood and wits in equal proportions.
A ruthless, blood-soaked path lay ahead. And Aron? He was willing to tread it.
He pulled his heavy pack to his room, back hurting, arms shaking. The candle flames danced on the walls, and each shadow resembled a hand stretching to him. His parents—his mother, his father—lost. Just lost. The laughter, the warmth, the still mornings sipping honeyed tea together—all of it taken away in a moment. Aron's chest was constricted, as if the world had crushed him, and inside there was a vacancy, a void that no bread, no heat, no slumber could fill.
He gazed at the splashes of blood on the ground, at shattered chairs and spilled cutlery, and swallowed. He could not scream. He could not cry. Not yet. Not until he took what he had to do.
Aron carried his parents' bodies. Cold, heavy, dead. His hands trembled as he covered them with the whitest blankets he could find. He walked them out to the garden. The moonlight made the grass silver, and the still air both cruel and kind. The birds remained silent. Even the wind hesitated, as if aware of the burden of the night.
He buried. His tiny hands, red and bleeding, ripped into the chilly ground. Dirt splattered, piling at his knees, making his clothes dirty. Every shovel full was heavier than the previous one. His fingers hurt, his back howled, and his arm muscles burned. But he kept digging. He dug because that was the only manner in which he could bid farewell. Because even if the world was cruel, even if he didn't have anyone left, he could leave them this—peace, at least in death.
When graves were shallow but sufficient, he placed his parents within. He whispered their names, time and time again. He didn't pray; he couldn't pray. Gods did not assist people like them. But he spoke. "Mother… Father… I won't forget. I'll get it right. I promise." Dirt dropped upon them in clumps, coarse and heavy, and Aron pushed it down with his hands until the ground levelled.
And then he stepped away. His eyes seared with tears he would not release. His belly twisted with hunger, with fear, with rage. He gazed at the home he had known—the walls, the furnishings, the gardens, the memories—and saw it all for the first time as tenuous. Everything could be lost in an instant, and it was. His parents' lives, their aspirations, gone.
Aron went back inside and set to work cleaning. He cleaned the floors, tidied up the overturned chairs, and swept the traces of violence as well as he was able. Not for the soldiers who were coming, not for the king who deployed them, but for him. He wanted to remember his parents' home, not as a place of violence, but as it was. He lit the candles and put them on the windowsills. A tiny rebellion, a small spark in the shadows.
Hours went by, but he didn't even realize. Time no longer mattered—not that it ever truly had. He eventually fell onto his bed, exhausted, his arms and legs throbbing, his head reeling. Sleep wrapped around him like a warm, unwanted blanket. It was only a few hours of rest, but it felt like an eternity.
Then there was the noise.
A creak. A rustle of the leather boots on the floorboards below. Aron's eyes shot open. His heart pounded against his ribs as if it needed to get out. Not a dream. Not fantasy. Real boots, heavy and slow-moving. Intruders. Soldiers. The same king's guards who had killed his parents.
Fear and adrenaline ravaged him. No time to think, no time to hesitate. He snatched his sack, heavier now with coins, ledgers, and small treasures. Every coin was a memory, every scrap of parchment a small spark of his parents' lives, a legacy he would not allow to die in another's hands.
He edged towards the window, listening. The soldiers came with intent. Orders were exchanged in low, cruel tones. They took their time. They were thorough. They would take everything. And they wouldn't mind a twelve-year-old boy darting through their way.
He flung the window wide. First floor. Thank God. First floor. It would have been too high if. death would have taken him before reaching the ground. He leaned on the sill, feeling the cold of the night air on his exposed arms. His stomach knotted. His legs trembled. And then—leap.
Pain slashed across his side and rubbed against his arms and legs when he hit the dewy grass. He staggered, his ankle turning sharply, but he remained on his feet. He ran. Branches slapped into his face, roots clutched at his boots, and the sack pressed into his shoulder, but he ran. Fear was the power, his parents' faces seared into his memory, and he couldn't be stopped now.
The woods greeted him with its black hug. Shadow danced, or perhaps it was his mind. He heard the leaves whispering in the wind, echoes of the darkness. It could have been the wind, or the voices of the fallen here before. Aron continued on. Each noise sent him leaping, but he trudged forward.
For almost an hour, his body complained. He tripped over roots and stones, his chest heaving, his legs burning. Hunger and fatigue clawed at him, but he would not fall. Not yet. It was easy to survive: move on, breathe on, and recall. Recall where food was to be had, where water ran, where berries were. He saw black, fat berries hanging from a bush. He made a mental note on the gnarled bark beside it. If he ever got back, he'd recognize this as a spot to feed. Wild pears, little apples, edible mushrooms—he learned them all, noting signs on trees, scratches on the ground, anything that might lead him through this heartless woods.
The darkness went on forever. Cold nipped at him. Each twig snap was a gunshot in his head, each leaf rustle a signal. And yet, in this never-ending blackness, there were tiny miracles. Moonlight poured through the trees, casting silvered patches of moss so bright they seemed like green fire. Tiny streams babbled close by, with the promise of water. Birds were quiet, but in their stillness, Aron felt… nearly safe. Nearly.
Finally, he fell into a tiny clearing. The ground was softer here, and the canopy parted just enough to pour moonlight in like silver dust. His body finally collapsed. He fell, the sack slipping off his shoulders, coins and parchment spilling softly into the ground. Pain, sorrow, terror—they all blended into one heavy burden. But through it all, a spark of resolve still glowed. The world had been unforgiving, yes. It had taken his family, his home, his childhood away. But Aron lived. And alive meant hope.
Even if just a little.
And there, in the cold, still woods, Aron allowed himself to breathe. He allowed the tears to threaten, though he did not allow them to fall. The first night of his travels concluded not with victory, not with security, but with comprehension: the world was cruel, and nothing—absolutely nothing—was free. Mistakes could kill. Weakness could kill. But he lived. And living, for the moment, was enough.