The village of Black Hollow stood as a testament to the harshness of the world—a place where few dared venture, and even fewer left. Nestled deep in the Malmorian Mountains, where the land was constantly shrouded in mist, it was a forgotten corner of the kingdom. The villagers knew little of the outside world, content in their isolated existence, where superstition held dominion. And in their midst lived one boy—a boy whose very existence stirred fear.
Ronan had always been an outcast.
Born to a mother accused of witchcraft and a father lost to the abyss of war, he was left to fend for himself from a young age. The village elders whispered of the curse that ran in his bloodline, a curse that manifested in his heterochromatic eyes—one silver and the other crimson. From birth, the mark of doom was upon him, and the villagers treated him as if he were a harbinger of calamity. No one befriended him. No one dared to speak his name with kindness.
On the eve of his sixteenth year, a dark omen came to pass.
The night was thick with the scent of rain as Ronan walked the outskirts of the village. He preferred the solitude, away from the cruel stares and whispered curses that followed him like a shadow. He had been told to stay indoors, but the oppressive weight of his cage-like existence pushed him to roam.
Suddenly, a thunderous roar echoed across the mountains, shaking the ground beneath his feet. The wind howled, carrying with it the scent of something foul—something ancient. Panic spread through the village like wildfire, and the torches lining the road flickered wildly as a monstrous shadow blotted out the moon.
Ronan turned, instinctively knowing that something terrible had come. And then, he saw it—a dire wraithwolf, a creature of nightmare, stalking through the mist. Its crimson eyes burned with an unnatural fire, its fur black as the night sky. The beast's maw dripped with blood, and its claws scraped the earth, sending sparks flying.
Screams rang out from the village as the wraithwolf tore into the panicked villagers. The elders shouted for a retreat, but it was too late. The beast moved like a shadow, its claws rending flesh and bone with terrifying ease.
Ronan stood frozen. He had no weapon. He had no magic. Nothing to defend himself with but the trembling of his hands and the pounding of his heart.
And then, as if guided by a force beyond his comprehension, something inside him awoke.
A voice, deep and resonant, echoed in his mind.
You are bound to me by blood and fate. Call my name, and I shall answer.
Pain surged through him like wildfire, coursing through his veins. Symbols of unknown origin burned into his skin, drawing intricate patterns across his forearms. His vision blurred, the world shifting and cracking before his eyes as though the fabric of reality itself was being torn apart.
In that instant, the sky above him tore open.
A great rift appeared in the heavens, a swirling mass of chaotic energy, and from it emerged a colossal wyvern, its scales as black as the abyss, its wings unfurled to blot out the stars. Its eyes burned with an eerie blue flame, and its massive jaws opened wide as it let out a roar that shook the earth beneath Ronan's feet.
The beast fixed its gaze on him, and Ronan felt a bond form—a bond stronger than any he had ever known. The creature's mind and his were one. The wyvern's voice echoed in his thoughts.
We are one. You are my Forsaken, and I am your Doomfang.
The pain surged again, and Ronan fell to his knees as the bond solidified. The wraithwolf, distracted by the appearance of the wyvern, turned its attention to the new threat, but it was no match for Doomfang. With a single swipe of its claws, the wyvern tore the creature in half, leaving nothing but a pool of blood in its wake.
Ronan gasped for breath, feeling the weight of the beast's power coursing through him. He stood shakily, his heart racing, unable to comprehend the force he had just unleashed.
And then, the villagers saw him—the boy they had once shunned, now standing in the shadow of a legendary beast. Fear spread like wildfire, and the cries of the terrified villagers rang in his ears. But Ronan was no longer the forsaken child they had once cast aside. He was now the first Beastbinder in centuries.
But that moment of triumph would not last. The village elder, seeing the power that Ronan had become a vessel for, stepped forward, his face twisted in fear.
"No," he spat, his voice shaking. "This is an abomination. The beast is no savior. It is a curse, and so are you."
Ronan's heart sank. He knew what was coming next. He had seen the fear in their eyes, felt the hatred that surged beneath the surface of their words. The village was lost to him.
The elder's voice cracked as he ordered Ronan's exile.
"The Forsaken are not welcome here. You and your beast must leave, or we will be forced to deal with you as we would any other monster."
With Doomfang standing beside him, Ronan had never felt more alone.