The rhythmic clatter of hooves against the damp earth echoed softly in the stillness of the night. Alcard rode forward, his black steed cutting through the mist-covered path like a shadow slipping through the darkness. The towering trees lining the road cast elongated silhouettes under the pale glow of the moon, their twisted branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, as if attempting to seize him in their grasp. The wind whispered through the leaves, creating a sorrowful melody that merged with the silence that stretched across the empty road.
Yet, despite the quiet that enveloped him, Alcard felt the weight of something far heavier pressing down on his chest. The journey across Middle Earth had given him ample time to prepare for what was to come, but no amount of preparation could quell the storm brewing inside him. No matter how much distance he placed between himself and the past, it always found a way to slither back into his mind.
"Jovalian," he muttered under his breath, the name alone summoning a flood of emotions—anger, pain, longing, and an unbearable sorrow that refused to fade.
That place had once been his home. The city where he had stood tall, where his name had commanded respect, where his loyalty had been unwavering. He had fought for its people, bled for its king, and sworn his life to protect its borders. He could still remember the countless battles he had waged in its name, standing at the helm of an army that followed his command without question. He had led them into the heat of war, securing victories that should have solidified his legacy.
One memory surfaced clearer than the rest—the mission at the border between Jovalian and the Elven Empire. A joint operation, a rare moment of alliance between humans and elves, to eliminate the growing threat of bandits disrupting the trade routes. Alcard had been at the forefront, his blade carving through the enemy ranks while the elves moved like phantoms, striking with inhuman precision.
"They were like death itself moving through the battlefield," he murmured to himself, recalling the way the elves had danced through the chaos with unparalleled grace. Their arrows never missed, their blades never hesitated. And yet, they had respected him, not as a mere human commander, but as a warrior worthy of standing beside them.
But that was the past. A time when Jovalian had still been a land he would have given his life to protect. A time when he had something far more precious than his sword, something worth more than any victory or title.
His family.
A sharp ache tore through his chest as another memory surfaced—one that he had spent years trying to bury. The sight of his home after returning from a long campaign, the warmth of a small pair of arms wrapping around his leg before he could even dismount his horse. His daughter, her tiny feet pattering against the ground as she ran to him, her laughter filling the air like the sweetest melody he had ever heard.
"Father is the strongest!" her little voice echoed in his mind, so vivid it nearly felt real. He could almost feel the weight of her small body as he lifted her into the air, twirling her around while she giggled uncontrollably.
And then there was his wife—the woman who had always been waiting for him, standing in the doorway with a gentle smile. She never complained about his long absences, never voiced her worries, but he had always known. She had been his anchor, the only thing that reminded him that there was more to life than war.
"You always make us proud, Alcard," her voice whispered in his mind, so soft, so full of love.
But they were gone.
Alcard pulled on the reins, bringing his horse to a stop. The night wind howled around him, wrapping his body in a cold embrace, but he did not move. His gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, though he did not truly see it. Instead, his eyes stared into the abyss of his past, into the memories that refused to be forgotten.
"This world…" he murmured, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves. "It took everything from me."
His hands clenched around the reins, the leather biting into his palms as he fought the wave of emotions threatening to overtake him. He had lost too much, and there was no way to get it back. No justice, no retribution would ever bring them home.
"I have to forget," he said, as if speaking the words aloud would make them true. But he knew it was a lie. He could never forget. No matter how far he ran, no matter how many battles he fought, the ghosts of his past would always be there, waiting in the shadows.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to move. The road ahead would not wait for him, and neither would the mission that now rested upon his shoulders. Whatever emotions he carried, whatever torment clawed at his soul, none of it mattered. Not now. Not when something far greater loomed in the distance.
He adjusted his grip on the reins and urged his horse forward once more. The trees loomed taller as the night stretched on, their darkened trunks standing like silent sentinels watching his journey unfold. Somewhere beyond the horizon, Jovalian awaited—a land that had cast him aside, a land that had destroyed him.
But this time, he would not return as the same man who had been betrayed.
This time, he would return as the storm.