The words of Eldrin's hidden journal entry burned in Kael's mind, a fiery brand searing away the last vestiges of his despair. Arcana Relics… Malakor seeks to destroy them… You are meant for this… The last hope. It was a heavy burden, a crushing weight of responsibility, but it was also a lifeline. For weeks, he had drifted, a rudderless boat on a sea of grief. Now, a storm had risen, but it carried him towards a destination.
He reread the small scroll, his eyes tracing every familiar curve of Eldrin's script. His mentor, wise and prescient to the very end, had known. He had prepared a path, a desperate, perilous path, but a path nonetheless. Kael clutched his ash-wood staff tighter. This wasn't just about vengeance anymore, though the image of Aethelgard's obliteration remained a raw wound. It was about fulfilling Eldrin's trust, honoring his mother's sacrifice, and fighting for a world that still had a chance.
Fear, cold and sharp, pricked at him. He was just Kael, a young, inexperienced mage whose most powerful spell had been a desperate, uncontrolled surge of energy. How could he, alone, face a being like Malakor, a creature of ancient, primordial darkness? Eldrin's words echoed: This path is fraught with peril… It will demand everything from you. He wasn't a hero. He was a survivor.
But then, another memory surfaced: his mother's fading eyes, filled with love and a silent command to live. He remembered the emerald-blue power, the raw force that had erupted from him, shattering a Shadow Lurker. Eldrin had called it a "resonance with the very essence of the Arcanum." It was a gift, a sign. He wasn't just Kael anymore. He was the one Eldrin had chosen, the one with the potential to wield the Arcanum. He had to believe that. He would believe that.
The decision solidified in his heart, hard and unyielding as granite. He would leave Oakhaven. He would embark on this impossible quest. He would find the Arcanum Relics.
His first step was practical: assess his resources. He had little. The clothes on his back, worn and dusty, his ash-wood staff, and a small pouch of coins the merchants had given him for his meager work. It wouldn't be enough for a journey across the world. He needed supplies, food, sturdy boots, perhaps even a cloak to ward off the elements.
He returned to his small room above the stable, the scent of hay and horses a comforting, earthy contrast to the dust of the library. He sat on his straw mattress, the map spread before him. The Prowling Peaks of the West. The Storm Ring. The Wind Keepers. That was his first destination.
He spent the rest of the afternoon meticulously planning. He remembered Eldrin's lessons on wilderness survival, lessons he'd often found tedious but now seemed invaluable. How to identify edible plants, how to purify water, how to make a basic shelter. He also recalled Eldrin's admonitions about conserving magical energy. He couldn't rely on that mysterious emerald-blue surge; he needed to master his basic spells, make them efficient.
His gaze fell upon a small, silver locket he wore around his neck, hidden beneath his tunic. It was his mother's. He had clutched it tightly through the entire ordeal, a small piece of her that remained. It was his most cherished possession, a tangible link to Aethelgard. He knew he couldn't part with it. It was his anchor.
He had to find another way to get funds. He thought about his limited magical abilities. He could mend. He could warm. He could create a small, harmless light. Nothing that would earn him much. But then, an idea sparked.
The next morning, Kael approached Borin, the merchant leader. "Borin," he began, his voice still a little hesitant, "I need to travel. Far. I need supplies, but I have little to offer."
Borin, who was inspecting a stack of leather hides, grunted. "Most folk do, lad. What can you do?"
"I… I can mend things," Kael said, holding up a small, cracked wooden carving of a bird. He'd found it discarded near the stables. He focused, channeling a small amount of his basic mending magic. A faint, golden glow enveloped the carving, and the crack slowly, almost imperceptibly, sealed itself. The wood looked as if it had never been broken.
Borin's eyes widened slightly. He picked up the carving, examining it closely. "Well, I'll be," he muttered. "That's… neat work, lad. Most mages charge a king's ransom for such a trick."
"It's simple magic," Kael admitted. "But it's precise. I can mend broken tools, torn fabrics, even small cracks in pottery. Nothing grand, but useful."
Borin stroked his beard, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Indeed. We get plenty of damaged goods on the road. And the smithy always has broken tools. Tell you what, lad. You mend what I bring you, and I'll pay you fairly. Enough for your travels, and a bit more."
And so, for the next few days, Kael worked tirelessly. He mended a broken wheelbarrow for the stable master, patched torn canvas tents for other merchants, and even delicately repaired a chipped porcelain doll for a child. It was tedious, repetitive work, but with each successful mend, he felt a small surge of satisfaction. It wasn't the glorious magic of his vision, but it was practical, and it was his. He was using his magic for something tangible, something productive. He was earning his way.
As he worked, he also practiced. In the quiet hours of the night, when Oakhaven slept, he would sit in his room, staff in hand. He would focus on the feel of his magic, trying to understand its flow, its nuances. He still couldn't summon that emerald-blue torrent at will, but he could feel its distant echo, a deep reservoir of power waiting to be tapped. He began to experiment with his basic spells, trying to make them stronger, faster, more efficient. He learned to project a light that was brighter, a warmth that was more intense, a mending spell that worked with greater speed. He was slowly, painstakingly, building a foundation.
By the end of the week, Kael had amassed a small but respectable sum of coins. Borin, true to his word, paid generously, clearly impressed by Kael's diligence and the quality of his work.
"You're a good lad, Kael," Borin said, counting out the last of the coins. "Wherever you're headed, I hope you find what you're looking for."
"Thank you, Borin," Kael replied, a genuine smile touching his lips for the first time in weeks. "For everything."
With the money, Kael went to the market. He bought a sturdy, dark green cloak that would blend into the wilderness and offer protection from the elements. He acquired a pair of tough leather boots, well-made and comfortable. He stocked up on dried meat, hardtack, and a small pouch of medicinal herbs. He also purchased a good quality waterskin and a sharp, compact knife. He felt a quiet sense of readiness, a practical preparedness that grounded him.
The night before his departure, Kael sat by the window in his room, the map spread out before him, illuminated by the soft glow of a single, magically conjured light. His ash-wood staff lay beside it. He traced the path to the Prowling Peaks, his first destination. It looked daunting, a long and arduous journey through unfamiliar lands, potentially crawling with Malakor's influence.
He thought of Aethelgard again. The vibrant colors, the gentle magic, the laughter. All gone. He thought of his mother's face, etched with love and desperation. He thought of Eldrin's faith in him, a faith that transcended death.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. When he opened them, they were clear, resolute. He picked up his staff, holding it vertically before him, its tip resting on the worn floorboards. He placed his left hand over his heart, over the silver locket hidden beneath his tunic.
And then, he spoke, his voice low but firm, a vow whispered into the quiet night.
"Malakor," he began, his voice filled with a cold, unwavering resolve, "you took everything from me. My home. My family. My peace. You think you have won. But you have only created a monster." He paused, the words heavy with conviction. "I will find the Arcanum Relics. All of them. I will master this power, whatever it is, that flows through me. I will face every trial, overcome every obstacle, and fight every one of your shadows."
He tightened his grip on the staff, his knuckles white. "And when I have gathered all the Arcanum, when I am strong enough, I will come for you. I will tear down your darkness. I will break your influence. I will free this world from your grasp. And I will make you pay for Aethelgard. This I swear. This is my promise."
The air in the small room seemed to hum, a faint echo of the emerald-blue power stirring within him, acknowledging his vow. It wasn't a desperate plea to the heavens; it was a declaration, a commitment forged in the crucible of loss and burning with the fire of purpose.
The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, Kael slipped out of Oakhaven. He didn't say goodbye to Borin, or to anyone. He simply walked, his new boots crunching softly on the dusty road. His cloak swirled around him, a dark silhouette against the pale dawn sky. He carried the map, the staff, and a heart filled with a fierce, unwavering resolve.
The road ahead was long, dangerous, and uncertain. But for the first time since the fall of Aethelgard, Kael wasn't looking back. He was looking forward. Towards the Prowling Peaks. Towards the Storm Ring. Towards his destiny.
And towards Malakor.