The Aielind Chronicles: Journey

Chapter Three: Edrahil

Chapter Three: Edrahil

Edrahil's hands trembled as he stared down at them. His fingers were slick with sweat, the palms clammy and unsteady. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat like a drum urging him to flee. I can't do this. I'm just a stable boy. The thought echoed through his mind, louder than the ringing in his ears. His mouth felt dry, as though someone had stuffed it with wool. The walls of his small room seemed to close in, suffocating him. There's only one way out. I have to run away. The idea took root in his mind, and before he could second-guess himself, he turned and bolted for the stables.

His feet pounded the dirt floor as he ran, each step driven by a panic that clawed at his chest. The dim light from the lamp swayed above him, casting long, flickering shadows across the room. The stable was quiet, save for the soft rustle of straw and the occasional snort from one of the horses.

Edrahil’s room was humble—small, cluttered, and simple—but it was all he had. The dirt beneath his feet crunched with each step, a reminder of the life he had known. A bed sat in the corner, small and unadorned, its thin blanket barely enough to keep the chill of the night at bay. A nightstand beside it held a few trinkets, the remnants of his childhood, but it was the sword on the opposite wall that drew his attention now.

He walked over to it, his breath shallow. The sword was an extension of his father’s legacy—his most prized possession. With a careful hand, he reached for it, the cold steel smooth under his touch. He pulled it from its scabbard, watching as the faint light from the lamp glinted off its edge. The etched words on the blade were familiar, the code of the High Clan Knights: Honesty, Respect, Virtue, Patience, and Temperance.

Edrahil ran his fingers over the engraving, his mind drifting back to a time when those words had meant something more—when they had been a promise from his father, Braa’Ven, the Chief’s greatest knight.

His father had given him the sword before leaving for battle. The memory of that moment was as clear as if it had happened only yesterday. He could still hear his father’s voice, warm and reassuring: “Here, lad. Keep this safe. When I get back, I’ll teach you to fight like a true soldier.”

Edrahil closed his eyes, the memory playing in his mind like a reel of film. He remembered the sound of his father’s Lycan’s hooves against the cobblestones, the way his father had looked back one last time before riding off into the horizon. Edrahil had followed him to the gates, wanting to hold onto those final moments. He had stopped just short of the gates, fear creeping up his spine. Silently, he had whispered a prayer to the Goddess, asking for his father’s safe return.

Days turned into weeks, and still, Edrahil waited. Each morning, he stood at the gates, watching for the familiar sight of his father’s returning party. Each evening, he returned to the same spot, hoping for the impossible.

Finally, after a month of waiting, his wish had been granted—but not in the way he had hoped. The knights had returned, but their armor was battered, their faces grim. Blood and dirt stained their once-glorious attire. Edrahil had scanned the faces of every knight, looking for his father. But none of them met his gaze. The dread that had settled in his chest grew heavier, and then, he had seen it: his father, lying motionless on a cart, a sword clasped in his hands. The world had tilted on its axis in that moment.

No. No, not him. Edrahil’s heart had shattered as he watched the cart roll past him, the weight of loss sinking into his bones.

The sound of a knock pulled Edrahil from his reverie, the memory fading like mist in the morning sun. He blinked, disoriented, and listened again.

Knock, knock.

He sighed, setting the sword down on the nightstand, and called out without thinking, “Come in.”