Blood and Redemption_Demo 1

Chapter One: Lost Son

Delore rode through the northern gate, his enormous sword strapped across his back, the thick blade still dripping with the blood of his enemies. The horse beneath him was weary, and so was he, his body aching under the weight of years spent fighting. His body was worn, his mind numb, yet his reputation preceded him. The strongest mercenary in the kingdom, a man of unmatched skill and ferocity, Delore was both feared and admired.

As he entered the city, something caught his eye. A boy, no older than twelve, sat slumped against the inner wall, crying. His clothes were ragged, his face dirty, but it was the look of pure despair that arrested Delore's attention.

Delore dismounted his horse, his heavy boots making the ground tremble as he approached. The boy looked up, startled by the looming figure. His gaze met Delore's, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

Delore knelt, his shadow casting over the boy, making him look up. For a moment, their eyes met, and something stirred within Delore, a faint memory of a night long past, a woman's face-his son's mother. The woman he whom he loves.

In that moment, Delore knew the truth. This boy was his son.

The boy didn't recognize him, of course. How could he? Delore had never let him know of his existence. Guilt twisted in his chest, but he pushed it aside.

"What's wrong, boy?" Delore asked, his voice rough but not unkind.

The boy looked at him, distrust clear in his tear-filled eyes. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. "My mother... she's gone," he said in a choked whisper. "She... she died."

Delore's heart sank. He knew it was coming, but hadn't known it would have been this and hadn't been there. The weight of his absence crushed him, but he kept his emotions locked behind the stony facade of a warrior.

"You're alone now?" Delore asked, his voice softer.

The boy nodded.

"Come with me," Delore said, his tone softer now, while extending a hand. "You shouldn't be out here alone."

The boy hesitated, wiping his tears on his sleeve. He looked up at Delore, who was a towering figure, covered in blood and dirt, his face as grim and foreboding as the sword he carried. Yet, there was something in the mercenary's eyes, a hint of kindness that the boy had not expected.
The boy took Delore's hand afterall there was no one else now. He didn't know that this mercenary, this blood-stained man, was his father.

As the days passed, the boy-Joran-began to open up. They traveled far from the city, moving through dense forests and along rocky paths. Delore protected him, fed him, and taught him how to survive the wilds.

But at night, the past haunted them both.

"My mother used to say that being a mercenary would only bring hate and suffering," Joran said one evening, staring into the campfire. His voice was small, as if speaking the words made the pain resurface. "But I always wanted to be strong, like the mercenaries I heard about. I wanted to fight... to be something more."

Delore, staring into the flames, said nothing.

Joran continued, his voice breaking. "She told me that if I hated anyone, I should hate her, not my father. But... how could I not hate him? He left us. He left me. I still remember the words she said with her dieing breath he wasn't a bad person...that he loved me and loved her too- . But he wasn't there."

"I hate my father," Joran continued, bitterness creeping into his tone. "He abandoned us, left my mother to die. She was sick, and he never came back. He's probably dead, and I hope he is."

"You shouldn't speak ill of the dead," Delore said, his voice barely audible.
With his eyes closed, remembering the woman's face, her last words echoing in his mind. He hadn't been there for her final breath, but her voice seemed to reach across time and space, pleading for Joran to understand.