Chapter 4

  Training Day.

  Year 2898.

  Aeron stretched out on the coarse mattress, his limbs tangled in the flimsy sheets as rivulets of sweat dripped down his forehead. His breathing was shallow, ragged gasps, his face twisted with anguish. The nightmare recurred once more—foggy but vivid, drawing him back into the past like a merciless specter.

  The dream was always the same.

  His father, Orion, stood before him, his face hardly discernible under the shadows, but his voice—his pained, desperate voice—rang in Aeron's head.

  "Aeron… run."

  Blood. A crimson stain spreading across the ground. The abominable growls that devoured the air. A single red flower, its petals shimmering with something darker than dew. And then his mother—her hand light, her voice shaking, saying something he could never recall before everything melted into blackness.

  Aeron gasped, startling awake as his eyes burst open, his chest heaving with quick breaths. He blinked the rest of the nightmare away, his eyes adjusting to the faint light of dawn peeking through the wooden shutters. The sweet smell of old wood and burning candles filled his nostrils, bringing him back to reality. His muscles hurt from tension, his shirt clammily soaked with sweat. He rubbed his forehead, swiping away the dampness just as a voice found him.

  "You okay, lad?"

  Aeron winced slightly before turning his head. Edric was standing by the bed, his rough features eased with worry. The older man folded his arms, observing him intently.

  "I…" Aeron swallowed, his voice a little hoarse. "Yes, sir."

  Edric blew air out of his nostrils, not entirely persuaded, but he didn't push the issue. Instead, he set his hand firmly on Aeron's shoulder. "Well, come on now. You're gonna be late for your training. You don't wanna miss this day, do you? You've been preparing for this for years now."

  Aeron rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up hastily, the word training dispelling the final vestiges of his nightmare. He couldn't be distracted today. He kicked his legs over the side of the bed and started to dress, tugging on his tunic and fastening his boots with swift efficiency. He reached for his belt, buckling it on before collecting his gear.

  Just as he was leaving, Edric called out to stop him.

  "Hold on, lad… you can't go to training without this.”

  Aeron turned and saw Edric walk towards the wooden closet, pulling it open with a groan. From inside, he pulled out something that was long and cloth-covered. With gentle hands, he unwrapped it, showing a shining sword within its scabbard. It was an old but well-preserved weapon, its hilt wrapped in black leather, the blade glinting from the faint morning light.

  "I want you to have this," Edric held out, offering it. "Use it well."

  Aeron gazed at the sword, recognizing at once what it was. This wasn't an ordinary sword. It was Edric's sword—the very sword the old hunter had used in his prime.

  Aeron reached out hesitantly, his hand wrapping around the hilt. It was heavier than he had anticipated, but there was something reassuring in the weight. A sense of responsibility settled over him "Thank you…" he whispered, voice tinged with gratitude.

  Edric nodded, his hand slapping against Aeron's shoulder before moving away.

  Across the room, his arms folded across his chest, Rowan observed the interaction. His jaw clenched, his fingers balling into fists at his sides. His golden eyes, which had once been filled with a childlike awe for his brother, now burned with something else—something darker.

  Envy.

  He snorted in disgust, rolling his eyes and turning away, his heart seething with bitterness again. Always Aeron. Always the favorite. Always the warrior. Always the gentle one. The one everyone looked up to. And Edric—like everyone else in this cursed kingdom—had fallen into that same habit.

  Rowan clenched his teeth as he stormed off. Someday, he believed, Aeron wouldn't have it all. And on that day, Rowan would finally be able to show that he wasn't the weaker one.

  ---Three Months Ago---

  Edric's courtyard was ringing with the cacophony of wooden swords as they clashed against one another. The sun sank low in the sky. Aeron and Rowan stood distant, their roots firmly planted, ready to burst at each other again. Between them, a heavy tension crackled, and their muscles complained from hours on end of exhaustive training.

  "Again," Edric ordered, his arms folded as he watched the two boys with a sharp eye.

  With no hesitation, Aeron and Rowan charged. Their blades met with force, the ring of their wooden sword's collision echoing through the courtyard. Aeron was swift and accurate, his strikes were planned and calculated. Rowan, though fierce, fought with uncontrolled abandon, relying on his strength rather than skill.

  The battle didn't last long. Aeron dodged Rowan's swing and spun around behind him, hooking his leg and slamming Rowan to the ground. Rowan clenched his teeth, anger seething in his chest as he looked up at the sky.

  "Again," Rowan snarled, pushing himself to his feet. He would not remain down. He had worked just as hard as Aeron—perhaps harder. But no matter how many times they fought, he always lost.

  Edric smiled happily as he reached Aeron, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Well done, lad. You’re growing up so fast, you’re already seventeen… You have the instincts of a true hunter. Your mom and dad would be so proud of you."

  Aeron grinned, but he kept humble. "Thank you, sir."

  Rowan clenched his fists as he watched the scene, his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes burned with resentment. Always Aeron. Always him. The golden one. The one everyone in Eldorin admired.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  Rowan turned sharply and stormed toward the training dummy, his anger boiling over. He threw a punch at it, then another. Then another. His fists slammed against the straw-filled target with all the force he could muster. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t. So why was he always the one left behind?

  Edric sighed, watching Rowan’s display of frustration. “Aeron, go rest. You’ve earned it.”

  Aeron nodded, casting a look at Rowan before going in. Rowan just kept hammering his fists into the dummy, sweat rolling down his brow.

  "Rowan," Edric said, his tone softer now. He approached the boy, putting a firm hand on his shoulder. "We have to talk."

  Rowan turned, his breathing heavy, his face flushed from exertion. He saw the hesitation in Edric’s eyes before the man even spoke, and something inside him twisted.

  “You’re not ready to be a hunter yet.”

  Silence. Rowan’s world tilted for a moment. He blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly.

  “What?” His voice came out sharp, almost a whisper.

  Edric sighed. "Rowan… I've seen you train. You have the heart, the will, but you're not ready. Not yet."

  Rowan's hands shook. "But I've been training for years! How can you possibly say that?"

  "This isn't about hard work, Rowan. It's about technique. It's about mastery." Edric's voice was gentle, but unyielding. "I won't send you out there knowing you're not prepared to deal with what's on the other side of these walls. I won't risk your life."

  Rowan gritted his teeth, his whole body trembling with anger. He wanted to argue. He wanted to shout. But all he could do was look at Edric with angry eyes.

  "You will be ready someday," Edric went on. "I guarantee it. But not yet."

  He took a step, putting a calming hand on Rowan's shoulder. But Rowan pulled away, his breathing irregular. He did not want comforting. He did not want assurances. He needed to be understood.

  Without so much as a word, Rowan turned and strode off, leaving Edric standing alone, his chest weighed down with unsaid things.

  ---Present—

  The streets of Eldorin bustled with morning life. From here, people began their journey to work. Merchants called out their wares, children weaved through the crowds in playful games, and the scent of fresh bread drifted from a nearby bakery. Aeron walked down the cobblestone road, his boots tacking with purpose as he walked toward Hunter Training.

  As he passed, townsfolk greeted him with nods and smiles. Some knew him as the adopted son of Edric, while others just saw him as one of them.

  "Morning, lad!" said the old fruit vendor.

  Aeron gave a polite nod. "Morning, Miss Nara."

  He had grown accustomed to the warmth of Eldorin’s people. Life was cheerful inside despite the outside dangers. But he had his own goals, burdens, and pain that would not fade so easily.

  Ahead, he spotted the familiar figure of someone moving down the street at a slow pace. Felix.

  Felix was a year younger than Aeron. Everyone in Eldorin knew him as wimpy, clumsy, and bookish—definitely not a warrior.

  The boy has a messy brown hair. His oversized tunic hung loosely, and his cloak draped sloppily over his shoulders. His belt was packed with pouches full of strange trinkets. He was always busy scribbling notes, lost in thought, more fascinated by science than battle.

  Felix's father, a proud and strong blacksmith, had no interest in raising a scholar. He wanted a warrior. Word around town was that Felix had been forced into Hunter Training against his will.

  A group of kids ran past, laughing as they accidentally bumped into Felix. He stumbled slightly but caught himself, sighing as he ruffled his hair

  "Haa…I'm dead," Felix muttered under his breath

  Aeron smirked, stepping up beside him. "You look it.".

  Felix flinched, snapping his head up to see Aeron. "Oh, hey, Aeron," he sighed. "I guess you heard?"

  "Your dad finally shoved you into training? Yeah." Aeron crossed his arms. "Never thought you’d actually end up doing it”

  Felix groaned dramatically. "I had no choice! You, of all people, should know that! I spend my time working on alchemy, blueprints, and engineering! My brain is my best weapon, not my fists!" He raised his palm. "Look at these hands—delicate hands made for science!"

  Aeron chuckled. "Right. Delicate fingers. That’ll chase the monsters?away.”

  Felix dramatically threw his head back in surrender. "I don't belong there! I'll be dead in the first five minutes! Maybe I should fake an injury and get out of it."

  “Or,” Aeron smirked, “you could show your dad he’s wrong and actually give it a go."

  Felix gave?him a deadpan stare. "Hilarious. You should be a bard."

  Aeron shook his head in?amusement. "C'mon. If you have to go through with this, at least let me make sure you don’t embarrass yourself too badly."

  Felix sighed, glancing up at the sky before finally dragging his feet forward. "Ugh. Fine. But if I?die, I’m haunting you.”

  Aeron grinned. "Looking forward to it.”

  Aeron and Felix finally arrived at the training grounds. The sun blazed overhead, casting long shadows over the massive dirt field, where at least eighty recruits stood, forming a restless, murmuring crowd. The area was surrounded by tall wooden barricades, weathered and scarred from years of training exercises.

  Most of the recruits looked to be between sixteen and twenty years old, their faces a mix of excitement, nerves, and determination. Some were stretching, some adjusting their cheap leather armor, while others exchanged anxious glances, realizing the sheer number of people they would be competing against.

  Then, a sharp, commanding voice sliced through the noise.

  "LINE UP! NOW!"

  Aeron turned his head just in time to see a woman marching towards the crowd. She was dressed in a hunter’s uniform—black, fitted combat attire with streaks of dark blue, the standard for high-ranking officers. Her posture was rigid, authoritative, and her expression? Unforgiving.

  She stopped in front of them, hands clasped behind her back, her gaze sweeping across the recruits like a hawk scanning for weakness. Her presence alone demanded obedience.

  "I am Nyra. Obsidian Rank Hunter." She spoke with a controlled fierceness, her voice ringing loud and clear. "From this moment on, you are no longer just citizens. You are Iron Rank recruits—the lowest and weakest of the Hunters."

  A murmur rippled through the crowd, but no one dared to speak out.

  Nyra's piercing eyes locked onto them as she continued. "Some of you think you are strong. That you can wield a blade or swing an axe and call yourself warriors. Let me tell you now—" she stepped forward, her boots crunching against the gravel, "—you are nothing."

  The weight of her words hung in the air like a heavy fog.

  "Revenants will not care about your pride. They will tear you apart, limb by limb, while you beg for mercy. Out there, hesitation means death." She let those words settle before continuing.

  "That is why only twenty of you will become Hunters. The rest will be sent home."

  Aeron felt Felix tense beside him. He didn’t blame him—this wasn’t just about training. This was a test. Only twenty out of eighty would make it.

  "You have two choices." Nyra raised her chin. "Stay, fight for your kingdom, and EARN your place among the Hunters... or walk away now."

  Silence. No one moved.

  Aeron cast a side glance at Felix, who whispered, "Damn... They really aren’t messing around."

  "No kidding," Aeron muttered back.

  Nyra’s eyes snapped in their direction, and for a brief second, Aeron felt like she could hear them despite the quiet whisper. But she said nothing and continued.

  "You all want to be strong. You all want power. But let me tell you something—" she folded her arms, "power isn’t just given. It is earned."

  She paced before them.

  "There are ranks within the Hunters. Iron. Steel. Obsidian. Titan. And there are abilities—what we call Talents."

  That got the recruits’ attention. Some whispered amongst themselves, excitement flashing in their eyes.

  "Talents," Nyra continued, "are not something you are born with. They are something you unlock through training, discipline, and the sheer will to survive."

  Nyra let the tension settle before gripping the hilt of her sword. With a single, fluid motion, she unsheathed it and swung it through the air.

  FWOOSH!

  A sudden trail of fire erupted from the blade, carving a bright, flaming arc in the sky before vanishing into embers. The recruits gasped, their eyes wide with awe.

  Aeron felt the heat even from where he stood. This wasn’t magic. It was power—controlled, disciplined, deadly.

  Nyra lowered her sword, the metal still glowing faintly from the heat. Her expression remained cold, unreadable.

  "This is a Talent. And if you live long enough—if you train hard enough—you might awaken yours."

  Aeron felt something stir in his chest. This was what he needed. He had spent an entire year training, pushing himself to the limit just to get here. He clenched his fists, determination burning in his veins.

  He would not be one of the sixty who got sent home.

  Nyra let the last embers of her sword’s flame fade and stepped forward once more, scanning the crowd with a steely glare.

  "If you think you have what it takes to become a Hunter, then prove it. Training starts now."