Dreisterne

PROLOGUE

The village of Windhill was in chaos. Shouts of alarm echoed through the night as villagers scrambled to defend their homes from a sudden raid. A band of ruthless thieves had descended upon the village, pillaging and burning everything in their path, thickening the air with the acrid scent of smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

"Mr. Eriksson! What do we do!?" a villager cried.

"We do what we must, Walt: hold the line!" the old man rasped. "We can't let these scum take our homes!"

Mr. Eriksson, the village head, stood at the forefront of the defence, with a weathered yet well-maintained sword clutched in his hand. Beside him were a handful of brave villagers, hastily armed with whatever they could find, be they pitchforks, axes, or even kitchen knives. They fought valiantly, desperately trying to repel the invaders, but they were outnumbered and outmatched, and the chaos only grew with every passing second as the terrified cries of villagers continued to resound in the night.

The villagers' screams grew louder as another home was set ablaze. Mr. Eriksson's heart clenched. He knew that house; the Festivus family lived there, and the raiders whooped as flames devoured their home. The family; father, mother, and son, knelt forlorn before their burning home. They were paralysed by shock, unable to comprehend the horror unfolding before them. The boy, only five years old, clung to his mother for support, his wide eyes reflecting the raging inferno before him.

"Poppa, what's happening? Why did they burn our house?" the boy's voice trembled with fear.

His father, Mr. Festivus, looked down at his son, his heart breaking. He could only place an assuring hand on the boy's cheek.

"That's it, boys! Take everything you like, burn down anything you don't! Let everyone know that we, the Burning Wyverns, mean business!"

The source of the shout emerged from the shadows a second later. He was the raid leader, a tower of a man whose very presence exuded malice. His cruel eyes gleamed in the firelight as they were fixed upon the family. He grinned at the sight of them cowering before him, and his grin grew wider when he drew his sword, taking a moment to admire the blade catching the flickering light of the fire from the burning house before him.

"Well, I suppose this was touching, and all..." the raid leader sneered, raising his sword. "The snivelling brat goes first."

Nathan's mother let out a desperate scream, clutching her son against her chest. "No! Please, not my boy!"

But before the leader could bring his sword down, Mr. Festivus surged forward, his paternal instinct overriding his fear. "No!" he cried out, throwing himself in front of his family. The sword cut a deep gash down Mr. Festivus' back, and the force of the blow sent him to the ground with a loud thud.

"Poppa!" the boy screamed, his small voice piercing the night.

Even with her heart shattered from her husband's cruel death, the woman tried to shield Nathan with her body. But the raid leader's cruel blade found her as well. She fell beside her husband summoning the last of her energies to caress her son's terrified face. "Be strong, Nathan..." was the last thing she said as she breathed her last.

The boy, Nathan, stood frozen in shock as his mind struggled to process what had just happened to his parents. The world around him blurred, the flames and screams merging into a nightmare he couldn't escape. The raid leader sneered, his blade poised to carve the boy open.

Then, from beyond the burning homes, a desperate cry rang out: "Adventurers! Adventurers are here!"

The shout carried over the chaos, rippling through the battlefield like a shockwave. The villagers who still fought found renewed hope, their despair momentarily pushed aside. The raiders, once confident in their rampage, hesitated for the first time that night.