I can no longer feel my hand or my left foot.
I know they're broken. And I know that if I try to escape… I'll die.
My blood was boiling, seeping from my body as I lay among piles of corpses… goblins and friends alike.
We never understood what we'd been thinking, or where our boyish recklessness had led us.
All I could do was bite my lip until it bled… and despise myself in regret for what happened.
We thought no, we believed it was just a simple job.
When the man offered us the task on a silver platter, forty coins meant a whole winter of bread, cheese, and warmth combined.
We accepted the job and agreed on the split. My party consented.
It didn't seem hard just goblins.
The task was to eliminate a savage goblin pack that had appeared on the outskirts of a remote western village, where ten men had reportedly been killed.
Yet we weren't worried.
We were a small hunting party: five C+ ranks, three B ranks.
That should've been enough—or so we thought—to face a horde of beasts.
With us were:
Marlene, stronger than all of us, with her cropped hair and sharp voice.
Branke, the fool who laughed while sharpening his sword.
Veslavar… no one dared argue with him, not even the leaders.
Zorina, who prayed constantly, even during rest.
But they weren't ready.
We didn't know the goblins numbered over a hundred,
nor that they'd laid an ambush… a clever one.
We were the ones who thought them dumb beasts.
They were the ones who trapped us in the maze.
Inside the forest…
The moment we rushed in—before I could grasp my role or act as a support witch—
everyone began falling, one after another, in a gruesome blend of blood and guts shredded by crude daggers.
I saw Marlene die first. I don't know how… All I saw was a shadow dart past, a blade gleaming, and blood spraying my face.
Then Branke screamed and charged like a madman toward their leader—that green giant with a skull hanging on his chest.
Then he vanished from my sight.
Veslavar yelled: "Retreat!" But before he finished, a spear pierced his back, hoisting his body into the air like a flesh banner.
Zorina? I don't know.
The last thing I saw was her head spinning skyward.
As for me… I only ran.
I hid beneath a mountain of corpses, trembling like a rat trapped in a wolf's den.
Time passed… whether minutes or hours, I couldn't tell.
I stayed curled among the bodies of comrades and goblins, powerless to do anything but hide, shake, and pray to the Old Goddess.
I could no longer help anyone. Everyone died, and I'm certain my turn is near.
I don't know why I thought of home… my distant village, despite the searing despair, the stench of blood, and my fallen comrades being slaughtered. My staff was out of reach, and I couldn't cast even a simple spell without it. There's no point, I told myself. My feet are pinned, exhausted by fear, terror, and inevitable death.
Goblin shrieks echoed from afar beneath the clang of iron and the heavy trembling of earth between the forest's edge and the village. I truly believed I was the only one left.
But… one remained.
I saw him brandishing a sword taller than half his kin—a blade impossibly long… wretched… and terrifying. When I spotted the runic symbols—ancient spellwork—etched along its center, dulled as if asleep or long-since spent, I whispered to myself: No adventurer among us wore plate armor… not that heavy, head-to-toe shell.
I remembered every hunter on this "simple" mission. They were strangers to me, save Marlene, my longtime companion.
The knight swung his sword, cleaving through goblin swarms like dry wood before a seasoned axe. Swing… strike… kill. His armor, covering even his face, had lost its luster over years, now dull… light-devouring.
He stood alone in the carnage—amid friends' corpses and scattered goblins bearing expressions of dread and revulsion, too terrified to approach. Perhaps they'll flee, I thought.
Then everything changed.
The chieftain's roar shook the air—a massive, green-skinned abomination resembling a festering orc, not a goblin—raising its axe in challenge.
Within seconds, they clashed: the knight with his longsword, the beast with its axe and flying spittle.
The knight gained ground through sheer grip and brutal strikes. I cheered for him silently, hidden beneath corpses.
What rank is he? I wondered. C+? We had higher ranks, but numbers and traps doomed us. He must be B—
He fought… and I believed what I saw. Though wordless since he appeared, his iron helmet heaved with battle-breaths. Unstoppable.
The monster slammed him into a tree with brutal force—its cackling roar filled the air—but the knight rose, drove his sword into the earth, and charged anew…
This scene tore an old village tale from my memory: a crone who gathered us farmer-children at dusk, whispering,
"When the Tyrant returns from the North, winds fall silent, skies freeze, and ancient dragons weep."
Blood, mud, and guttural cries resurrected her words. The hulking goblin staggered, coughing blood until it drowned in its own pool.
Dead.
The knight had won. The few surviving goblins fled deep into the woods.
He approached me—armor clanking, longsword dragging through blood-soaked earth.
When he raised his blade, I lay still, eyes shut, awaiting death. Warm droplets splattered my face.
My blood?
No. A goblin had lurked behind me, dagger drawn. The knight slew it before I could scream.
He noticed me then. Didn't help me up. Didn't move closer. Just stood frozen as I stared. He stepped forward… hesitated… stepped back.
Why?
Then he neared again, slowly… sheathed his sword, and knelt.
His first words stumbled—ragged, breathless. Trembling. Nervous.
Only when he saw I was unhurt (I'd risen by then) did he speak, keeping his distance:
"Are you alright?"
Then he turned away. Infuriating… yet kind.
After standing, I tried tending my wounds—binding a shallow cut on my leg. I stood tall… then collapsed. My legs betrayed me. Tears fell. Everyone's gone. Friends. Strangers. All lost.
I wept. But the knight… didn't idle.
He began digging graves.
First Marlene—my friend who envied my long gold hair but loved me fiercely (and I, her).
I joined him. The labor was grueling. My tears dried; his silence deepened. Each time I glanced at him, his armor quaked violently.
By sunset, we'd buried them all. I offered a silent prayer to the Old Gods—though I doubted they cared.
After more tears, I thanked him profusely, though nameless.
"Where are you headed?" I asked.
"Perhaps a nearby city," he murmured.
Relief washed over me.
"I'm Alruna!" I announced loudly.
His armor rattled—a visible flinch—as I spoke.
It aligned with my path: west, toward The Platinum Keystone. I decided to accompany him.
He led. An unnerving silence. I filled the void, asking, "Where are you from?"
He walked on, ignoring me. Does he despise talk?
Then he halted. The clanking faded.
"The North."
Northern villages? Where few humans and many monsters dwell?
His voice deepened—slow, heavy, final:
"The Far North."
I froze.
Every soul in this land knows: The Far North holds nothing. No people. No villages. No life.
Yet… he claimed it.