Forsaken Legacy: The Exiled Swordsman’s Path

As Eryndor exited the grand gates of the Academy, the weight of his failure pressing down on him with every step, a sudden rustling noise interrupted his spiral of self-doubt. He looked up, his eyes barely able to focus through the blur of tears threatening to spill over, when he saw a sleek, silver-feathered bird—its wings shimmering with a faint aura of magic—soar down toward him.

The bird was unlike anything he had ever seen before. It was a carrier bird, a magical creature trained to deliver letters across great distances, its eyes gleaming with intelligence as it landed gently on the stone path before him.

Before he could react, the bird flapped its wings once more, causing a small scroll tied to its leg to unfurl and hover before him. Eryndor hesitated, his hands trembling slightly as he took the letter, recognizing the wax seal embossed with the Veldrath family crest.

His breath caught in his throat.

He found a quiet spot beneath an old oak tree, its branches stretching like twisted arms toward the sky. He slumped down onto the stone bench, his body numb, his heart a hollow pit.

It was from his father.

No... His stomach churned, and for a moment, he considered throwing it away, but he knew—he had to read it. He had to know what his father had to say.

The seal on the envelope was unmistakable, the Veldrath family crest. His hand gripped the paper, ripping it open with unsteady fingers, the words blurring before his eyes.

Eryndor,

I am deeply disappointed in you. Your disgraceful failure at the academy is a direct reflection of the mockery you bring upon the Veldrath name. You are not worthy of carrying this family's legacy.

I never wanted to believe the rumors about you, but your actions today have proven them true. You are nothing more than a burden to this family. I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to represent the Veldrath blood any longer.

As of today, you are disowned. You will no longer be a Veldrath. You will no longer bear the privilege of our name. Do not contact us again.

Valdric Veldrath.

The words burned as they sank in, searing through his thoughts. His eyes blurred with the weight of them. His chest tightened, the letter crumpling in his shaking hands. He could almost hear his father's cold, unforgiving voice echoing in his mind.

I never wanted to believe the rumors about you...

Eryndor's breath came in shallow gasps, and for a moment, everything around him seemed to fade. The world blurred. The sounds of the wind, the rustling of the leaves—everything became distant, as if he were trapped in a vacuum of silence.

I am not good enough. I never will be.

His father's face burned into his memory, the expression one of utter contempt. The cold, harsh gaze of Valdric Veldrath—his father, the man he had tried so hard to prove himself to, the man who had never once believed in him.

For the first time in his life, Eryndor felt as if his heart had shattered into pieces. It was a soundless break, but the pain was unbearable. His hands trembled uncontrollably, his breath erratic, as he slowly stood up. His mind was a chaotic storm, spinning, drowning in the flood of mockery, failure, and now... the disownment.

He could feel it now—the crushing weight of isolation. His entire life, his entire purpose, had been tied to the Veldrath name. He had lived under its shadow, forever seeking approval that would never come. His strength, his worth, had always been measured by that name.

But now? Now, he had nothing.

Eryndor's hand went to his chest, clutching at the empty space where his heart should have been. His eyes burned, but no tears came. Instead, a cold emptiness spread through him, like ice creeping through his veins, numbing everything it touched.

For the first time, he understood the true meaning of abandonment. Not just by his family, but by the world itself.

And then, something inside him snapped.

His gaze turned cold, his expression hollow. The last remaining glow of life within him dimmed, as if it had been extinguished all at once. The spark that had kept him fighting—kept him hoping—faded, leaving only an empty void where his spirit once resided.

His eyes, once full of fire and determination, now looked like the empty pits of a dead soul. No light. No warmth. Only the hollow reflection of a broken man.

Eryndor could almost hear the voices again—weak, failure, disgrace—but now, it was different. He didn't care anymore.

The Veldrath name? It meant nothing to him. His father's approval? It was a hollow thing, one he would never reach, no matter how hard he tried. The fight in him, the desperate need to prove himself, had died with that letter.

And just like that, the once proud heir of the Veldrath family was no more.

The torn edges of the letter crumpled in Eryndor's trembling fist. His eyes traced over the ink-stained words one last time, his breath slow, measured—empty.

There was no anger. No grief. No shock.

Just silence.

"You are no longer a son of House Veldrath."

The words were burned into his mind, echoing in the void where his family's warmth should have been. His fingers loosened, and the letter drifted to the ground.

There was nothing left for him here.

No home.

No purpose.

No name.

And so, he turned away from the towering estate that had never been his. His footsteps were quiet, deliberate, as he moved toward the one place where expectations could no longer strangle him.

The Veilwood.

Eryndor's steps dragged, his legs burning with exhaustion as he forced himself forward into the abyss of Forest the Veilwood . The world around him was an endless maze of twisted trees, their skeletal branches clawing at his clothes like unseen hands trying to pull him back. Thick mist coiled around his ankles, swirling as he disturbed the damp forest floor with every unsteady step.

The canopy above was a solid wall of darkness, allowing only thin, fractured beams of moonlight to pierce through. It wasn't enough to see clearly. It wasn't enough to offer comfort. The deeper he ventured, the more suffocating the air became—thick with moisture, decay, and something more sinister.

Something is watching me.

He could feel it.

The weight of unseen eyes pressing into his back, hidden figures lurking in the shadows between the trees. The silence was unnatural. No rustling of birds, no distant chirping of insects. Just the eerie whisper of the wind threading through the dense foliage.

Eryndor swallowed hard, but his throat was dry. His stomach had long since stopped growling, the hunger dulling into an empty, gnawing ache. His body begged for rest, for warmth, for something to fill the void clawing at his insides.

Two days.

Two days without proper sleep.

Two days without real food.

How much longer can I last?

He forced that thought away. He had no choice but to keep moving.

Because in this place, to stop was to die.

The faint gurgling of water jolted him out of his daze. His head snapped up, his weary eyes landing on a small stream winding through the underbrush, its dark waters shimmering under the moonlight.

Relief hit him like a wave.

Stumbling forward, he fell to his knees at the bank, scooping up handfuls of water with shaking fingers. The cold liquid slid down his throat, metallic and earthy, but he didn't care. It was something.

But the water only worsened his hunger.

A sharp pang shot through his stomach, twisting like a dagger. The dizziness that had clouded his mind intensified, his limbs feeling heavier, slower. He needed food. Now.

That's when he saw them—small, silver fish darting beneath the surface.

He exhaled sharply, his mind scrambling for a way to catch them. He had no net, no spear—his hands were too weak to grab them outright.

Then, a memory surfaced. A faint, distant echo from childhood.

He remembered watching the city's hunters weave simple fish traps from branches and vines. If they could do it…

His fingers, numb and trembling, reached for a fallen branch. He stripped away the excess twigs, twisting thin vines together with clumsy, shaking hands. His arms ached, his head throbbed, but he forced himself to keep going.

He couldn't fail. Not here. Not now.

Minutes stretched into eternity as he struggled to tie knots, his grip slipping, his vision blurring. His own exhaustion fought against him, every moment threatening to pull him under.

But then, finally, the crude trap was done.

He set it into the shallows, barely able to keep his focus steady. His breath came slow and controlled, his body unmoving as he waited.

Ten minutes.

Thirty.

An hour.

A flicker of movement.

His grip tightened as he saw it—a small fish, flailing inside the trap. His heart pounded against his ribs as he yanked it from the water, his fingers closing around the wriggling body.

For the first time in two days, he had food.

A victory.

A small one. But a victory nonetheless.

His fingers trembled as he gathered twigs, stacking them together in a rough circle.

Fire.

I need fire.

His hands instinctively reached for his pocket—then froze.

His stomach dropped.

No flint.

A dry, bitter laugh escaped his cracked lips.

Of course. He had no fire, no magic, no way to cook the fish. His hunger blurred his thoughts, his mind slipping into dark places.

He stared at the fish in his hands, its gills still twitching slightly.

I have no choice.

His grip tightened, his breathing shallow. The idea made his stomach turn, but the hunger—the hunger was worse.

His mind blanked as he took a sharp stone, dragging it across the fish's body. He barely registered the metallic tang of blood on his tongue as he forced himself to eat.

It was raw. It was disgusting.

But it was food.

A means to survive.

His throat clenched, but he forced himself to swallow. Because he had no other options.

Because he refused to die here.

The first sign of danger was the stillness.

The air shifted—thicker, heavier. The scent of decay flooded his senses, replacing the crisp bite of pine and moss.

Then came the sound.

A low, guttural growl.

His blood turned to ice.

His breath caught as he slowly turned.

And then—he saw it.

Fenrir.