The wolf never stood a chance.
It lunged, snarling, claws ripping into the air—but the boy was faster. A blinding flash of light erupted from his palm, searing the creature's vision. Before it could recover, he was on it—knees digging into its ribs, hands driving a sharpened bone dagger deep into its throat.
The villagers screamed, not in fear of the beast—but of the boy.
Eirik stood over the corpse, chest heaving, blood staining his patched shirt and his hands. The child he had saved whimpered behind a tree. The mother—stunned, trembling—could barely whisper a thank you.
He didn't stay for praise.
He turned to leave, like always.
But this time, someone stopped him.
The Mercenary
"A clean kill," a voice said. Rough, deep, like a whetstone scraping steel. "And fast. You didn't hesitate."
Eirik turned slowly, eyes narrowed.
The man who spoke wasn't a villager. He wore a travel-worn cloak, lined with bear fur, and his boots were caked with snow from distant roads. A scar ran down the side of his face, and his long beard was braided with copper rings. He leaned on a war-axe nearly as tall as Eirik.
"I've seen kings' guards take longer to kill a beast half that size," the old man said. "What's your name, boy?"
"Eirik."
"Just Eirik?"
"…That's all I need."
The man laughed, but it wasn't mocking. "I'm Varn the Hollow. Was a mercenary. Fought in the Siege of Narhelm, if that means anything to you."
It didn't.
Varn stepped closer, eyes studying Eirik's posture, the way he held the blade, the way his aura still shimmered faintly with light. "That glow... You're a Light wielder, aren't you?"
Eirik said nothing.
"Rare these days," Varn muttered. "Especially out here. You ever heard of Valdrskól?"
Eirik shook his head.
"It's a place for the gifted," Varn said. "Where warriors and mages are forged. Where boys like you learn to become something more. You've got strength—but it's raw. Wild. If you want to sharpen it... you go there."
He paused, his tone hardening.
"If you want revenge for something—whatever put that storm in your eyes—you'll find the tools you need there. Or you'll die trying."
Eirik's breath hitched.
He didn't ask how Varn knew. The old man had likely seen the look in many before.
"I can't stay," Varn said, turning back toward his horse. "But you can. Or you can follow."
He threw a crumpled piece of parchment to Eirik—stamped with the crest of the capital, and the seal of the academy.
The Road
That night, Eirik stared at the stars.
He thought of his father's blood. His mother's screams. The blade.
He clutched the parchment tight.
And in the morning, he walked.
No goodbyes. No belongings.
Just him.
His scars.
And the road to the capital.