Alden tumbled down the cliff, his body crashing against jagged rocks and snapping branches as he plummeted. The sharp sting of cuts and bruises covered him as he tried to grab onto anything—roots, stones, anything to slow his fall—but his fingers only scraped against rough surfaces, leaving behind torn skin.
His world spun violently. Every time he slammed against something, the air was forced from his lungs. His ribs ached, his arms flailed, and his legs twisted at unnatural angles. He tasted blood in his mouth, the coppery bitterness mixing with the dirt and dust that coated his face.
The impact of each hit sent fresh waves of agony through his body. His shoulder smashed into a protruding rock, sending him into another roll, his vision blurred by pain and dizziness. A thick branch cracked beneath him, its splintered ends stabbing into his side before he continued his helpless descent.
The ground below rushed up to meet him. He barely had time to brace himself before his body slammed into the earth with a sickening thud. Pain exploded in every limb, his bones screaming in protest. His vision darkened at the edges, his body refusing to move.
As the world around him faded, he saw the blurry outlines of figures standing over him. Their hushed voices barely registered through the pounding in his head.
"It's him… it's him."
A Few Hours Later
Alden's eyes fluttered open to the dim light of a small shed. A broad-shouldered, bearded man, who looked to be in his mid-thirties, sat nearby. Disoriented, Alden tried to move, but a sharp, unbearable pain shot through his body. His breath hitched—his arms and legs were broken.
He glanced down, confusion washing over him. He remembered having deep wounds, injuries that should have left him close to death. Yet, his body, while in pain, was mostly intact.
The man approached, holding a bowl of steaming broth. "Drink this. It'll help you."
Alden hesitated, but thirst and exhaustion won. The man held the bowl to his lips, allowing him to sip. The moment the liquid touched his tongue, he recoiled.
"Yuck, what's in this?" he groaned.
The man scowled, clearly annoyed. "Medicinal herbs. Now rest—you'll need it."
Alden wanted to ask more. How had he survived? Why was this stranger helping him? But the ache in his body weighed him down, and the warmth of the broth spread through his limbs. He let his eyes close.
The days blurred into each other. Alden couldn't move, not even an inch, without pain ripping through him. The old man fed him, changed his bandages, even turned him over when he couldn't do it himself.
At first, Alden thought it was kindness. But every time the old man muttered under his breath—"Damn druids and their debts…"—he realized it wasn't.
The words stuck with Alden. Who were these druids? And what debt did the old man owe?
Weeks passed. Then a month. His pain dulled. His bruises faded. The wounds that should have taken years to heal disappeared far too quickly. Something was wrong. But he didn't have the strength to question it. Then two months passed. Then half a year.
And finally, he could move again.
The moment he could stand, the old man gave him chores. Each morning, Alden chopped wood, his muscles growing stronger with each swing of the axe. In return, the old man provided food. It became routine, day after day, until the pain was a distant memory.
One morning, as the sun cast golden rays across the land, the old man shook Alden awake.
"Get up, kiddo. We have work to do."
Alden groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What now, mister?"
The old man crossed his arms. "From today onward, I will train you to become a Holy Knight."
Alden blinked, sitting up straight. "What?"
"You heard me."
He was speechless. Knights were legends, revered as the strongest warriors. He had always believed they were beyond his reach. But now…
"Why?" he finally asked.
"Why not?"
Alden hesitated before bowing deeply. "I will be in your care, Master."
A small smirk tugged at the old man's lips. "Good. At least you know how to show respect."