Alversdale was a quiet town tucked deep in the woodlands of the Wolften Peninsula. It lay thirty days’ walk east of Dranmouth, a bustling port city where merchants traded in goods from across the continent. The land around Alversdale was rich—teeming with game, dense forests, and flowing rivers. The town thrived off the abundance of natural resources, supplying larger settlements nearby with lumber, stone, and fresh meat.


    But its isolation had a cost. The woods surrounding the town were untamed, prowled by wolves, bears, and worse. Protection fell under the rule of a governor in Clearspring, a larger town an hour’s ride away. Still, Alversdale had carved out a life for itself. The town square bustled with butchers, bakers, blacksmiths, and bowyers. It was a place where families like the Cruxes came to seek their fortune—or at least, their freedom.


    Jonas and Helena Crux arrived when Alversdale was little more than a settlement on the edge of the world. Leaving behind the crowded streets of Dranmouth, they built a home on the outskirts, surrounded by open fields and thick trees. It was a home meant to last generations. They were fortunate enough to have two sons: Warrick and Matthias.


    But fortune is fleeting. A sickness swept through the house, claiming Jonas and Helena before their boys had fully come of age.


    Matthias left soon after, unwilling to remain in the place that had taken his family. He sought adventure, boasting of joining the Hunters’ Guild or an adventuring company in Dranmouth. He begged Warrick to come with him, but his brother refused. Warrick wanted to rebuild what was lost, to fill their empty home with life again.


    When Matthias left, Warrick was a decent man. A fair hunter, a skilled trapper—nothing remarkable, but good-hearted. That was years ago.


    Warrick Crux had not been a good man in a long time.


    Once, he had dreams. He had married the love of his life, Adomina Mason—Andi, as he called her. She was gentle and kind, the only person to soften the sharp edges of his temper. They had two sons. Ronin, the eldest, was born a year after their wedding. For a time, the Crux family was happy.


    Warrick worked hard. He hunted, trapped, tanned hides, and cut timber. He was no wealthy man, but they had what they needed. He spent time with Andi, teaching Ronin the ways of the forest. When their second son was born, they named him Dominick, after one of Andi’s uncles—a hunter, long passed. Dominick was a large baby, broad-shouldered even then, and Warrick swelled with pride at the boy’s strength.


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    Then came the lean year.


    The woods grew silent. Small game vanished, and the larger prey—deer, elk—were ghosts, leaving only tracks that faded before Warrick could follow them. His traps were empty more often than not. He earned what little he could by logging, trading firewood to the smith, the baker, and the bowyer. They survived on eggs from their chickens, scraps of meat, whatever he could barter.


    It wasn’t enough.


    The stress of an empty table and an empty purse pushed Warrick to drink. At first, it was only a flask in his coat, a small comfort against the cold nights. But soon, the flask became a bottle, and the bottle became his constant companion.


    With every sip, Warrick changed. The warmth of whiskey turned to fire, and the fire turned to rage. He spent more time in the woods, stumbling through the underbrush, returning only to lash out at the family that waited for him. Andi tried to pull him back, but his temper flared at every question.


    Then came the injury. A bad step on wet stones, a slip in the mud, and a sharp crack to his knee. He never healed right after that. The pain made hunting harder, and he turned to his sons for help.


    At first, it was just small tasks—fetching firewood, carrying his kills. But soon, he had them trailing behind him on long treks through the forest. He drank, he cursed, and when the trees yielded no game, he took his anger out on them.


    By the time Ronin turned seven, this had become their life.


    One early spring morning, before the last of the snow had melted, Warrick led the boys into the woods. He was after forest grouse, rabbits—anything to fill their bellies. It wasn’t long before he spotted a grouse roosting high in a tree. He motioned for the boys to stay quiet, took a long pull from his bottle, then nocked an arrow.


    The shot was wild. The arrow missed by a mile, and the bird took off in a flurry of wings.


    Warrick cursed, roaring in frustration. Without a second thought, he charged after it, stumbling through brush and brambles. The boys ran after him, struggling to keep up.


    Then came the scream.


    By the time they reached him, Warrick lay still. His head was twisted at an unnatural angle, his body sprawled across the forest floor. A jagged rock jutted out beneath him, smeared with blood.


    Ronin and Dominick froze.


    Their father—drunken, raging, larger than life—was gone in an instant.


    For a long moment, they simply stared. Then, wordlessly, they turned and ran for home.


    To their mother.


    To whatever came next.