Rain fell gently, soaking the earth surrounding the freshly dug grave. The scent of damp soil mixed with the lingering fragrance of incense, accompanying the body now resting inside the ornately carved wooden coffin. Among the mourners dressed in black robes, a young boy stood still, his face pale and his eyes vacant. Alaric Eden, fourteen years old, stared at the soil that now covered his mother.
His fists clenched at his sides, his nails nearly digging into his palms. His heart felt hollow, as if part of him had been buried along with the woman who had been his only light in life. His mother was gone. He had known this would happen. He had watched her body weaken each day, her breathing grow heavier, her voice fade. Yet no amount of preparation could stop this moment from feeling like an unending nightmare.
A gentle hand patted his shoulder. "We have to go, Alaric," his uncle, Roderic, said in a heavy voice. "The rain is getting worse."
Alaric did not answer. He only stared at the tombstone now standing firm, its inscription clear. Eleanor Eden. A Loving Mother. A Light in the Darkness. Those words were meant to bring comfort, but to Alaric, they only served as a reminder that he was truly alone now.
He knelt down, his hand grasping a clump of damp earth mixed with snow. With trembling fingers, he let it fall onto the grave, listening to the faint sound of soil meeting the wooden coffin below. "I will become someone you can be proud of," he whispered, so softly that no one but himself could hear.
Then he stood up, wiping away the last of his tears before turning to Roderic. The emptiness in the boy's eyes was gone—replaced by something else. A determination. A promise. He would live, not just for himself, but for the mother who had left him.
"Gerard is gone, and now Eleanor. I don't know how, but you know I can't take you home," Roderic admitted. The man in his middle years had long lived in the shadow of his wife, who would never accept Alaric. Alaric remained silent for a moment before forcing a hollow, resigned smile. He had accepted it—his aunt would never welcome him, not after what had happened.
"I have a friend at the castle. He said scouts will be coming here soon. Maybe that's your chance to leave this place," Roderic added, ruffling Alaric's hair before leaving the boy alone in the rain.
Alaric let out a bitter smile before returning to the modest home where he once knew warmth and safety with his mother and father.
Silence greeted him as he stepped inside. The laughter and comforting conversations that once filled the space were now only memories—memories he would pay any price to relive. The house had deteriorated over the years, its wooden walls weakening, its door creaking with every movement, the cold air seeping through the cracks. The fireplace, though still burning, failed to provide true warmth. His green eyes scanned the empty room before he collapsed onto his simple bed, curling under a thin blanket that did little to shield him from the cold.
He stared at the ceiling, its wooden beams looking more unstable than ever, as if they could collapse at any moment. The longer he gazed, the more tears streamed down his face. The pain, the emptiness, the unbearable sorrow. Where could he turn now when his body ached and his stomach growled with hunger? Just days ago, he had complained about the difficulty of chopping wood, about Old Fox Markus's constant grumbling, about twisting his ankle under heavy loads. He still remembered his mother's final smile so vividly. Everything had happened too fast. Father, Mother.
The night grew darker. The howling of wolves, the rustling of trees colliding in the wind, and the vast emptiness of the frozen forest became his companions on his first night as an orphan. Yet at least he didn't have to worry about his stomach for now—the villagers had been kind enough to leave some food on his table, along with ingredients he could cook for the next few days. Perhaps three or four days.
Alaric moved swiftly, his steps as light as a feather. His hunger had become unbearable. It had been two days since he last ate the bread Markus had given him, and even then, he had barely touched it, too consumed by his mother's worsening condition.
His cold fingers, numb at the tips, quickly reached for the loaf. Though the scent of wheat was faint under the northern chill, he devoured it without hesitation, momentarily forgetting his misfortune.
The next morning, Alaric was already at the old workshop on the outskirts of the village, where Old Fox Markus worked. There was no sign of sorrow on his face. His hands moved with practiced precision as he cleaned the nearly broken wheel of a cart, while Markus observed him from behind with a look of quiet consideration.
"You're here early," Markus muttered, wiping his hands with a dirty cloth. "I thought you'd… rest."
Alaric merely shrugged. "This cart needs fixing. If not, it'll break on the road."
Markus sighed, then sat down on a wooden bench, watching the boy. "You don't have to pretend to be strong, kid."
"I'm not pretending," Alaric replied without stopping. He tightened a loose bolt with steady hands. "I'm just doing what I'm supposed to do."
Markus exhaled before giving a small smile. "Alright then. But don't forget to take a break."
Alaric didn't answer. He just kept working, as if nothing in the world had changed. Yet inside, he knew—nothing would ever be the same again. But for now, he chose to keep moving forward, one step at a time.
Just then, the workshop door creaked open, and a large man entered, his coat still damp from the remnants of last night's snow and rain. "Markus, I'm here to pick up my repaired tool and some firewood. Winter's getting closer, and I need to be ready."
Markus stood up, wiping his hands. "Ah, Rolf! Your tool's in the back. Alaric, help him with the firewood from the storage."
Alaric nodded wordlessly and walked to the back.
Meanwhile, Rolf leaned against the worktable. "I heard the scouts from Valtoria Castle will be arriving in the village soon. They're recruiting young men for soldier training."
Markus raised an eyebrow. "It's that time again, huh?"
Rolf nodded. "Yes, and it seems they're being more aggressive this year. Word is, the Lord wants to strengthen his forces."
Markus glanced toward the back, where Alaric was hauling firewood. "What are you thinking? That boy?"
Rolf sighed. "He has potential. But… would he be willing? More importantly, would you let him?"
Markus didn't answer immediately. He just watched as Alaric returned, carrying firewood with a calm yet determined expression. Deep inside, Markus knew—the boy would soon face a great choice in his life. And that day was fast approaching.
"If you think the way you do now, it will never happen," said Alaric as he tied the firewood.
Markus and Rolf exchanged glances. "I know this is too soon for you, but I'm saying this for your own good. There's no future here," Markus clenched his jaw, speaking the harsh truth. Rolf wiped his hands and nodded slowly. "Your future is too valuable to waste, kid!"
Alaric looked at them, bitter but knowing they were right. What would happen in five or ten years? Would he still be trapped in this frozen, unforgiving village? Out there, the world didn't promise safety or the same simplicity this village offered. But perhaps something bigger, more complex, and more fulfilling awaited—something that could fill the emptiness in his heart and give him a new purpose.
"I'm not sure," Alaric murmured.
"John wasn't sure either, just like you. He was a boy who worked for me longer than anyone else. But now? When he came back here, his gleaming boots and armor changed everything," Markus said, chuckling as he reminisced about the past.
"John?" Rolf tried to recall the name.
"Oh! Now I remember!" he exclaimed.
"That scrappy lad we used to knock around?" Rolf laughed, clearly recalling the young man—several years older than Alaric, tall and broad with a hairy body and a bald head. People often mistook him for being in his thirties because of his rough, aged face.
"Now he's a Sir," Markus interjected.
"A Sir?! Gods help me, I hope no one cuts my tongue out for what I just said," Rolf said nervously, realizing his words could be taken as an insult to a knight of Valtoria.
Alaric raised an eyebrow. "And why does it matter if he's a Sir?"
"You'd best not continue that foolish question," Markus said sharply, making Alaric regret asking.
"A knight is the highest rank and honor a commoner like us can achieve. If you reach that rank, despite being born a commoner, then you truly deserve it. Most knights come from noble bloodlines, their veins filled with wealth and privilege. If a commoner becomes a knight, they are either exceptionally strong or incredibly lucky. The title also brings honor to their place of birth," Markus explained at length. As a commoner, he was unusually knowledgeable—one of the few men in the village who could read, a rare privilege for someone like him.
"Brings honor to their place of birth? What do you mean?" Alaric asked, intrigued. He wasn't one to be easily swayed, his principles were as strong as the roots of a pine tree braving a storm. But this time, he was starting to waver, listening intently.
"Exactly. If you are a commoner and you achieve knighthood, your name must be tied to your village or place of birth because commoners don't carry the prestigious family names that nobles do."
"Like Sir John of Eager?" Rolf concluded, proving he wasn't as dim-witted as he seemed.
"That's how you should address him," Markus affirmed, ending the conversation before they each returned to their tasks. Meanwhile, Rolf carried the bundle of firewood back to his home by the frozen lake.
"Sir John will come along with a group of scouts since this place is where he comes from, make sure you are present at the village hall to listen to our lord's call." Markus added slightly
"I will"
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Scouts; are envoys of the Lords or Ladies who are tasked with finding new recruits who will serve as castle servants or warriors.
Sir; is an honorary title and knighthood for someone who undergoes a series of tests or missions and swears allegiance to serve, protect and even sacrifice their lives for the person they have sworn to serve.