Alistair lay sprawled on the forest floor, tears blurring his vision. He watched ants crawl aimlessly on a leaf, a dragonfly flitting from flower to flower. The sounds of the forest, once filled with terror, now seemed distant and muted. Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, overwhelmed him. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and the ground seemed to tilt beneath him. The world shrank to a tiny pinprick of light before fading to black.

He awoke with a jolt, his body racked with pain from the soldiers' kicks. Groaning, he tried to move. The sun was setting, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange, red, and purple. As the light dimmed, the forest seemed to shrink in on itself, the cool air turning crisp and biting.

With trembling hands, Alistair picked up his sword and secured it to his waist using a piece of torn clothing. A wave of grief washed over him as he started to move, his face etched with sadness. Reaching the edge of the forest, he saw the magnificent sunset unfold before him. The sky was ablaze with color, a stark contrast to the emptiness he felt inside. Tears streamed down his face as he watched the colors bleed across the sky.

"What is the point?" he cried aloud, his voice hoarse. "Did my parents not survive? Am I the only one left? All are dead...my loving parents...my father, my mother...are they watching me from above?"

He pushed on, a vast plain stretching before him with a small lake shimmering in the distance. A wave of determination washed over him, replacing the despair that threatened to consume him.

"This is life," he whispered, a new resolve hardening his voice. "Loss is a part of it, and we must learn to grow on our own." He squinted skyward, a flicker of defiance replacing the fear in his eyes. "Is this some kind of test, a game the gods are playing? But I will survive! I will not let them break me."

His stomach growled, a sharp reminder of the long hours since he last ate. The once vibrant sun dipped below the horizon, and a chill wind swept across the land. The first snowflakes began to fall, swirling down in a silent dance.

Looking up at the falling snow, Alistair wiped his tears with a newfound resolve. "There's no time for weeping or complaining," he muttered, his voice strengthening with each word. "I will learn to survive, become a warrior one day. And I will avenge my parents! All the bad people on this earth who took them from me...they will pay!"

Anger flared in his eyes, a burning ember of defiance. But then reality set in, and the anger faded, replaced by a steely determination. He shivered, the cold biting through his thin clothes. His legs, heavy and aching from exertion and the cold, refused to carry him further.

Despite the pain, Alistair forced himself to his feet. He stumbled forward, his vision blurring at the edges. He had to find shelter, somewhere to rest and gather his strength. The coming night promised only bone-chilling cold, and he knew he wouldn't survive long exposed to the elements.

He pressed on, fueled by a burning desire to survive and a deep well of anger. Every step was a struggle, but he refused to give in. Images of his parents, their faces etched with love and pride, flashed in his mind. They would have wanted him to fight, to never give up. And fight he would.

As darkness descended, Alistair stumbled upon a rocky outcrop. It wasn't much, but it offered some protection from the wind and the falling snow. Huddling beneath the overhang, he tried to conserve his remaining body heat. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Fueled by anger and a desperate will to live, Alistair stumbled forward. His legs, heavy with exhaustion and numb from the cold, protested with every step. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but survival demanded all his focus. Images of his parents, their faces filled with love, fueled his determination. They would want him to fight on.

Shivering uncontrollably, he spotted a small cluster of trees in the distance. It wasn't much, but it offered a shred of hope. As he dragged himself closer, his boots, thin and soaked from the snow, offered little protection from the biting cold. The forest floor, once a welcoming carpet of pine needles and damp earth, had transformed into a treacherous mix of snow and ice. With every labored breath, a plume of white mist escaped his lips, a stark reminder of his dwindling energy. His legs, heavy and numb, buckled beneath him without warning, sending him crashing onto the unforgiving surface.

Pain shot through his hand, a sickening jolt that ripped through his arm and shoulder. He winced, his vision blurring with the sudden surge of agony. It wasn't just the cold anymore. The soldiers' brutal kicks throbbed with renewed intensity, a constant reminder of the violence he'd endured. Tears welled up in his eyes, hot and stinging against the icy wind. Despair threatened to engulf him, a suffocating wave that choked back his breath. "I can't… I can't move anymore," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. Defeat gnawed at him, whispering insidious lies of surrender. But a flicker of his parents' faces, their love and strength a beacon in his memory, pushed back the darkness. He had to keep going. For them. For himself. Just a little further. Just a little bit more.

The wind picked up, whistling through the trees and biting at his exposed skin. Alistair knew he couldn't stay there. With a groan, he forced himself onto his hands and knees. His vision swam, the world morphing into a dizzying blur. He crawled on, fueled by a primal instinct for survival.

Reaching the trees, he slumped against the rough bark, gasping for breath. His hands throbbed with pain, the wounds reopening with every movement. "I can't... I can't go any further," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

The wind howled, a mournful cry in the winter wilderness. Alistair closed his eyes, his body succumbing to exhaustion. Briefly, he drifted off, haunted by images of his parents with blurry vision and blurred faces.

Then, a faint spark of determination flickered within him. He lifted his head, his eyes scanning the snowy landscape. A faint wisp of smoke curled through the air in the distance. Hope surged through him, adrenaline coursing through his veins. There, nestled amidst the trees, stood a small cottage.

Gathering his remaining strength, Alistair pushed himself to his feet. Each step was a battle against the biting cold and his screaming muscles. The cottage grew larger with every agonizing step, a beacon of warmth and hope in the desolate landscape.

Just as he reached the edge of the clearing, his legs gave way once more. He fell backward, the snow swirling around him. Exhaustion and despair threatened to pull him into an abyss of sleep. "No… I can't sleep," he mumbled, his voice thick with fatigue. But his eyelids fluttered, betraying his will.

His vision blurred, the snow-covered world dissolving into a sea of white. Just before darkness consumed him.

A few minutes passed. The Darkness started to fade and the blurriness was Gone, Soon Alistair opened his eyes and wiped his eyes and tried to wake up A faint voice echoed in the distance."Are you awake already, Alistair?"

The voice cut through the fog clouding his mind. Alistair's eyes fluttered open. He found himself inside a warm room, dimly lit by a flickering fire. He lay on a bed of straw, his body covered with a rough cloth. Relief washed over him as he saw an elderly man tending the fire, his face etched with concern.

"Who… who are you?" he stammered, his voice raspy from disuse. The man turned, a gentle smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.

"Don't worry, Alistair," he replied. "You're safe now. But you gave me quite a scare, collapsing outside in this weather."

Alistair stared at him, his mind struggling to grasp the situation. He was no longer alone. He was safe. And for the first time since the soldiers attacked his village, a flicker of hope danced in his heart.

Alistair's hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword at his waist, even though he was swaddled in warm blankets. The weapon was nowhere to be seen under the thick duvet. A figure emerged from the shadows, an old man in simple village clothes. He had a kind face etched with wrinkles, a testament to a life spent working the land. His snow-white beard, neatly trimmed in a rounded style, contrasted sharply with his dark clothing. A half-moon mustache, equally white, sat above his lips, and his eyes, a warm hazel, crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

"Are you feeling any better now, Alistair?" the old man inquired, his gaze filled with concern.

Alistair, still disoriented, stammered, "Who? Who are you?"

The old man chuckled, a warm sound that filled the room. "Well, Alistair," he said, "you're Talthon Wilder's son, aren't you?"

A jolt of surprise ran through Alistair. "How do you know that?"

The old man straightened his posture, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "See, Alistair," he declared with a hearty laugh, "I'm a Farmer, who sell vegetables and has a big poultry farm for business and I'm your father's best friend. We've known each other since we were just boys ourselves, running around these very fields. Back then, your father was always the brave one, the one who stood up for the little guys. And that bravery never left him.

"I remember the day he saved me like it was yesterday. A band of soldiers, looking for trouble, rode into our village. They were ransacking houses, stealing food, and harassing the women. Your father, bless his heart, couldn't just stand by and watch. He rallied a group of us men, and we fought them off. It was a fierce battle, but your father's courage inspired us all. We drove those soldiers out of our village, and they never dared to bother us again.

"Ever since then, I've looked up to your father. He's a true hero, Alistair, and I know you must be proud to call him that." The old man's voice softened, a hint of sadness creeping in. "It pains me to see you here like this, all alone and hurt. But I promise you, I'll do everything in my power to help you get back on your feet."

Alistair still couldn't quite grasp the situation. He looked at the old man with a mix of suspicion and relief. "Thanks for saving me," he mumbled, the words scraping his dry throat.

"I know you're surprised, seeing me here for the first time," the old man said with a smile. "But I've seen you many times playing with your friends. I just haven't had the chance to meet you properly. I usually leave for work very early. But I've been watching you grow since the day you were born. You were a cute baby, and you still are in your way."

Alistair considered the old man's words, a swirl of emotions battling within him. Was this man a genuine ally, or could he be another enemy in disguise? He couldn't forget his objective; vengeance for his family fueled his resolve to keep moving forward.

"Are you alright, Alistair?" the old man gently repeated.

Alistair shook himself out of his thoughts. "Ah… Yes," he said, a plan forming in his mind. "Mister, thank you very much for the clothes, the warm blanket, and for helping me."

The old man boomed a hearty laugh. "Haha, no worries, young man! No need for thanks at all." He cast a concerned look at Alistair. "You seem troubled, Alistair. You have a heavy sadness in your eyes, and I noticed those nasty bruises on your back earlier. You were lying unconscious in the snow when I was on my way to collect firewood. Were you hurt? Is everything alright?"

Alistair stared back with a mix of suspicion and a flicker of hope. "My village…" he started, then stopped abruptly. Had the old man not witnessed the attack? Was he truly unaware of the devastation? Or was he playing some elaborate game?

"Oh no, no," Alistair stammered, backtracking. "I mean, no, nothing's wrong. Just a little tired, that's all. Thank you for everything, kind sir."

The old man's brow furrowed slightly. "Hey, Alistair! Are you with me?" he asked, his voice laced with a hint of concern.

Alistair, flustered by his near slip-up, stammered, "Ah, yes, yes… of course! Just... nothing, sir. Nothing at all. Thank you for everything, truly."

The old man studied Alistair for a moment, a flicker of suspicion crossing his eyes. But then he smiled. "Well, in that case, here's some food. Eat up!"

Alistair's stomach rumbled loudly, betraying his hesitation. The warm glow of the fire, the comfortable bed, and the kind face of the old man all argued for trusting him. But the events of the past few days were still fresh in his mind, a constant reminder of the dangers that lurked outside these walls.

With trembling hands, he picked up the spoon laid out on the table. The steaming bowl held a simple yet inviting dish - rice, fish, and mixed vegetables. Taking a hesitant bite, Alistair's eyes widened in surprise. The flavors exploded on his tongue, a welcome contrast to the bitter taste of fear and despair.

"Wow!" he exclaimed, a genuine smile breaking through his earlier tension. He devoured the food hungrily, the warmth spreading through him with each mouthful.

The old man watched with a smile of satisfaction. "Want some more?" he asked.

Alistair pushed away the empty bowl with a satisfied sigh. "No, thank you, sir," he said, his stomach pleasantly full. Gratitude warred with a deep-seated urgency within him.

He stood up, a determined glint in his eyes. "Thank you, mister," he said, his voice filled with sincerity. "I truly appreciate your hospitality. But I'm afraid I must be leaving. I have a… mission to complete."

The old man, taken aback by Alistair's sudden announcement, frowned. "Wait, Alistair!" he exclaimed. "It's freezing outside! Stay here for the night at least. And your mother and father…"

Alistair's face drained of color. The mention of his parents triggered a surge of grief and anger. He clenched his fists, his voice a low growl. "There's no point," he muttered, his head bowed.

"Nonsense!" the old man boomed, his voice filled with concern. "They're worried sick about you! I'll send word that you're safe, here with me. Let them know you're alright."

Alistair looked up, a flicker of hope battling with the despair in his eyes. But then he straightened his back, his gaze hardening with resolve. "Please, sir, I must go," he said, his voice firm. "I appreciate your kindness, the food, the warmth… you've shown me incredible generosity. But I can't stay. I have things to do."

The old man's brow furrowed even deeper. Alistair's demeanor, the raw grief and determination etched on his young face, sent a shiver down his spine. There was a story there, a story filled with pain and loss, a story the old man longed to understand. But something held Alistair back, a burning purpose that overshadowed everything else.

"But, hey! Listen!" the old man protested, his voice laced with worry. He reached out a hand as if to stop Alistair, but the young man was already moving towards the door.

Ignoring the old man's pleas, Alistair stepped outside. The harsh wind had died down, but a gentle snowfall painted the landscape in a soft, white blanket. He turned towards the forest, its dark depths leading in the opposite direction of his village.

"Alistair, wait!" the old man called out, desperation creeping into his voice. "It's cold out there! Where are you going? Your village is that way!"

But Alistair, his mind set on his path, continued his walk. "I said I'm on a mission!" he shouted back, his voice filled with a mixture of defiance and despair. "Just leave me alone!"

The old man, powerless to stop him, watched as Alistair disappeared into the forest. A deep worry settled in his stomach. Something about the young man, the pain in his eyes, the urgency in his voice, didn't sit right with him. Alistair wasn't just any lost boy seeking shelter from the snow. He was a boy burdened by a heavyweight, a weight that spoke of loss and a burning desire for vengeance.

He called out one last time, a desperate plea hanging in the cold air. "Hey, Alistair! Say hi to Mr. Talthon… and tell him Dravean was asking about you!"

Alistair vanished into the depths of the forest, the weight of Dravean's words echoing in his mind. The old man's kindness had sparked a flicker of hope, but the scars of betrayal ran deep. "Can't trust anyone," he muttered, his voice laced with suspicion. Perhaps Draven was an accomplice, a cunning pawn in King Thassalor's cruel game. But the mention of his father, Talthon, had planted a seed of doubt. Could Draven truly know his father?

 

 

 

 

He trudged through the snow, his black coat, a gift from Dravean, offering some protection from the biting cold. The wind howled through the trees, a lonely symphony that mirrored the turmoil within him. He finally reached a large oak tree and collapsed beneath its sturdy branches, exhaustion claiming him.

Curled up beneath the tree, Alistair wrestled with his thoughts. Dravean's kindness, the warmth of the fire, the delicious food… it all felt like a cruel trick. "Maybe he's just buying time," he thought, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword, hidden beneath his coat. "Waiting for the right moment to strike. But I trust him he is a nice guy no one bad person will ever give me shelter and food so I trust him..."

A shiver of coldness ran down his spine, and he reached out, instinctively touching his sword. An owl hooted in the distance, its mournful cry echoing through the silent forest. Alistair closed his eyes, the exhaustion finally winning over his suspicion.

Morning arrived, painting the snow-covered landscape in a soft, golden light. Alistair awoke, the events of the previous day feeling like a distant dream. He stretched, his muscles stiff from the cold, and then stood up, wiping the snow from his clothes. With a newfound determination, he continued his journey, his destination still unknown but his purpose clear - revenge.

Meanwhile, back in the ravaged village, chaos reigned. General Ecolier, a ruthless commander under King Thassalor, barked orders, his voice harsh and unforgiving. Soldiers scurried about, rounding up the villagers like cattle. Among them were Alistair's parents, their faces etched with despair and resignation.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted at the edge of the crowd. An old man, his face pale with shock, Continuously calling Talthon's Name and rushed towards Talthon, Alistair's father. It was Dravean.

"Mr. Talthon!" he wheezed, Gasping and taking a deep breath and collapsing next to him. "What… what is all this? Why are you and your wife… and all the villagers… tied up?"

Talthon recognized Dravean with a weary smile. "Dravean?" he said, his voice hoarse. "We've been captured by King Thassalor. Taken as slaves."

Dravean's eyes widened in disbelief. "But why?" he stammered. "I was… I was worried about Alistair when…"

Alistair's mother, gasped, her voice cracking with emotion. "Alistair? Is he… is he alive?"

Dravean, his own fear momentarily forgotten, looked at her with concern. "Ah, yes," he stammered, unsure how to explain the encounter with Alistair the previous night.

Just then, a soldier bellowed, his voice laced with suspicion. "Hey! All of you, and who are you? Are you a member of this village who escaped?" He drew his sword, its cold gleam a menacing threat.

The commotion at the edge of the crowd drew General Ecolier's attention. He strode forward, his imposing figure casting a long shadow. He squinted at the old man, recognition dawning on his face.

"Hold everything!" he boomed, his voice filled with authority. He approached Dravean, his gaze scrutinizing. "You there, are you Dravean? The one who supplies our kingdom with Foods, sheep, and other poultry items?"

Dravean, relieved for a moment's reprieve, straightened his posture. "Yes, that's me," he replied, a hint of defiance in his voice.

General Ecolier stroked his chin thoughtfully. "You're not from this village," he mused, "but a trusted seller of King Thassalor. Best be on your way then, and don't interfere with our business."

Dravean, desperate to speak with Talthon, pleaded, "I just have one request, General. May I speak with Talthon for a few minutes, please?"

The General considered his request for a moment, his eyes flitting between Draven and Talthon. Finally, with a dismissive scoff, he waved his hand. "Oh, alright! Talk, talk! Let him have his five minutes of life."

With a curt nod, the General turned and continued barking orders at his soldiers. Draven wasted no time. He leaned closer to Talthon, his voice dropping to a low whisper.

"Mr. Talthon," he said urgently, "I met Alistair last night."

Talthon's eyes widened with a flicker of hope. "Thank the gods!" he exclaimed, a wave of relief washing over him. "He's alive!"

Alistair's mother strained to hear their conversation, her voice laced with desperation. "Can I see him? Please! Where is my son? I need him!"

Draven hung his head, his heart heavy with guilt. "He said he was going on a mission," he explained softly. "He was found unconscious in the snow near my cottage last night. I offered him food and shelter, but he insisted on leaving. I tried to stop him, but he disappeared into the forest."

Alistair's shoulders slumped, tears welling up in her eyes. She let out a sob, the sound raw and heartbreaking. Talthon reached out, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Listen, Dravean," Talthon implored, his voice thick with emotion. "Please, find Alistair. Search everywhere you can! Just go, and listen…"

He paused, his gaze filled with a desperate plea. "Tell him that his entire family is waiting for him. His father, his mother, everyone. And tell him… to remember what I told him."

Dravean looked into Talthon's eyes, his own filled with understanding. He saw the pain, the fear, the unwavering love a father held for his son. "I will, Talthon," he promised, his voice firm. "I'll find him and tell him everything."

Talthon, with a faint smile, removed his iron bangle. It was a simple band, adorned with two dragons at either end, a symbol of their family. "Give this to him," Talthon said, his voice choked with emotion. "He'll know it's me."

Draven accepted the bangle, its weight a solemn reminder of the task at hand. He looked at Talthon and Elara, their faces etched with despair, and vowed to find their son. He would find Alistair, no matter the cost.

"Listen.." Dravean Said with Hope in his eyes, "I will talk with King Thassalor and request you to free you!!"

"No.." Talthon interfered and said, "You will not do such things...I dont want you to be in this trouble...so you better convey my message.."

"But.." Dravean With a sad Expression seeing to the eyes of the Talthon. Talthon was smiling and nodded.

General Ecolier's harsh voice boomed through the air, urging the villagers forward. Talthon, his gaze locked on Draven, managed a small, sad smile. Dravean returned the gesture, a silent promise hanging between them. Talthon then turned and joined the shuffling line of villagers, his hand gently clasped around Alistair's mother, offering her some comfort. His rope was loosened while talking to Dravean due to his strong body.

Dravean watched them go, a knot of worry tightening in his stomach. He had a mission now: to find Alistair and deliver Talthon's message. But the weight of the situation pressed down on him. King Thassalor's cruelty was legendary, and the fate that awaited Talthon and Alistair's Mother was shrouded in darkness.

The line finally reached a clearing, revealing a small yet imposing castle. Built with a mix of wood and concrete, the structure bristled with armed soldiers. Four fortified archer towers stood guard at the perimeter, a constant reminder of the oppressive regime. Talthon and Alistair's Mother, ushered inside by General Ecolier, felt a sense of dread wash over them as they entered the throne room.

King Thassalor, a man whose very presence exuded cruelty, sat upon a raised platform. A cruel smile contorted his lips as he addressed them.

"Ah, Mr. Talthon!" he boomed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Finally gracing your king with your presence. You wish to meet me..??"

Talthon knelt before the King, Alistair's mother mimicking his movement, tears streaming down her face. "Your Majesty," Talthon said, his voice laced with anger and confusion, "we demand to know why you have attacked our village. We have been free from your rule for forty years!"

The King's smile widened, revealing a glint of malice in his eyes. "Why, Mr. Talthon," he purred, his voice dripping with false sweetness, "you misunderstand. This isn't only about your village. But also is about you."

"What is the point of capturing our village...our village was free from rule for 40 years....why only attack our village??" said Talthon.

A sinister twist emerged as the King uttered, "Areakthan?"

Talthon, his face a mask of shock, stammered, "Yes! He was… my father! What does he have to do with this?"

The King's smile widened further, turning into a grotesque caricature of amusement. "Well, Mr. Talthon," he continued, his voice laced with a chilling joy, "your father was a great warrior, a brilliant leader… and a king!"

A flicker of understanding dawned on Talthon's face, replaced by a surge of anger. "My father?" he roared. "He was a peaceful man who hated violence!"

The King chuckled, a dark, humorless sound. "Oh, your father was against violence, that much is true," he conceded. "But there's a difference between wanting peace and being forced into it. Your father, a man of exceptional talent, used his skills to crush his enemies! Those who dared rise against him met a swift and brutal end."

Talthon's eyes narrowed. A terrible truth began to take shape. "And what does this have to do with me?" he demanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and fury.

King Thassalor laughed and smiled again. "So, he conquered the violent kings and their lands, right? Owning around two lakh acres of land?" He paused, a hint of mockery dripping from his voice. "And Arheathors killed him, wasn't he?"

"Yes! You know everything! Why are you asking these things and reminding me of my failures?" Talthon roared, his voice thick with rage.

"I need you to free all the villagers you brought here as slaves! Free everyone from this barbaric practice right now!" He strained against the ropes, which snapped with a loud crack.

The soldiers reacted instinctively, drawing their swords and charging towards Talthon. But Thassalor stopped them with a raised hand. "Stop! Everyone back down."

"You think you can threaten me with death?" King Thassalor came closer, his voice calm and collected, contrasting sharply with Talthon's fury.

"Yes! I won't hesitate to strike you down!" Talthon bellowed.

"You're a fool, Talthon," Thassalor chuckled. "I've anticipated this moment, this rebellion. I knew you would either reject my rule or fight against it." King Thassalor clapped his hands with a theatrical flourish.

The curtains behind the throne flew open with a dramatic flourish. General Ecolier stood there, revealed in the harsh light, his hand cruelly twisted in the hair of a screaming woman. Ecolier Holding A sword in one hand.

"Now," Thassalor said, his smile twisting into a cruel smirk, "want to kill me so much?" He threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed through the throne room.

Talthon said with rage, "Leave her!! She is an Innocent villager!!..."

"No..she will not be free..." Said with a smile king thassalor.

Talthon's face contorted with rage, a deep well of anger simmering within him. "What do you want?" he growled, his voice laced with barely contained fury.

King Thassalor's smile never faltered, his eyes glinting with cold calculation. "Ah, Talthon. If you truly desire the freedom of the slaves, the end of this barbaric practice, and a chance at peace for yourself and your people..."

"Then what? Spit it out!" Talthon demanded, his patience wearing thin.

"Then, Mr. Talthon," King Thassalor leaned in, his smile widening into a predator's grin, "you have two options..."

He left the sentence hanging, the weight of the ultimatum heavy in the air. The unspoken threat was clear: submit to his will or watch the woman suffer the consequences.

'''''
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