Chapter 3

The wasteland was silent.

Ashen stood among the bodies of the Forsaken, his breath shallow, his body trembling. His wounds throbbed, his ribs ached, and his vision blurred from exhaustion. Zephyr was gone, leaving behind only corpses, fire, and a single command.

"Survive. Become strong. Then come find me."

Ashen gritted his teeth. His fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. The cold wind howled through the ruins of the Forsaken's camp, carrying the stench of death. He wanted to move, to leave this cursed place, but his legs refused.

He fell to his knees.

The pain in his ribs flared, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere.

"They're dead."

The people who had raised him, the only ones who had ever treated him as something more than a mistake—gone.

And he had done nothing.

Zephyr had slaughtered them with ease, proving once and for all what Ashen had always feared:

He was nothing.

Weak. Powerless. A child pretending to be a warrior.

His throat tightened. His fingers dug into the dirt. He wanted to scream, to cry, to curse the world. But no sound came out.

He could grieve later.

If he wanted to survive, he needed to move.

Now.

With a deep, shaky breath, he forced himself up. Every inch of him protested, but he pushed forward, stepping over the bodies of the Forsaken. His stomach twisted as he recognized some of them. Eron, the man who had taught him to hunt. Kira, the woman who had taught him to tie bandages. Their faces were frozen in death, their eyes empty.

He clenched his fists.

"No time for mourning."

His first priority was supplies. He didn't know how long he would be alone, but he needed food, water, and a weapon.

He moved through the wreckage, searching the remains of the Forsaken's camp. Most of the food was burned, charred beyond use, but he managed to find a few untouched supplies—a small waterskin, a handful of dried meat, a torn cloak. Not much, but enough to last a few days.

Then he found it.

A sword.

Not Zephyr's—he wouldn't dare touch that monster's weapon—but one of the Forsaken's fallen warriors. The blade was stained with blood, the hilt worn from use.

He reached for it, but the moment his fingers wrapped around the handle, a cold shiver ran down his spine.

This wasn't training anymore.

This wasn't practice with wooden sticks, swinging at empty air.

This was real.

This sword had taken lives.

And now it would be his.

His fingers tightened around the grip. He lifted the blade, feeling its weight. It wasn't perfect, but it was his.

The first step toward killing Zephyr.

But before that, he had to survive the night.

The wasteland was not kind to the weak.

And right now, he was still weak.

The First Night Alone

Ashen walked until his legs burned.

The Forsaken's camp had been deep in the wastelands, far from any civilization. If he wanted to live, he had to find shelter.

The wind howled around him, carrying the distant cries of unseen beasts. The wasteland was home to creatures that fed on the lost, monsters that lurked in the darkness. He had heard stories from the Forsaken—things that stalked in the night, waiting for the moment a traveler collapsed from exhaustion.

He wouldn't let that be him.

Not tonight.

His body ached, his wounds screamed, but he pressed forward.

Hours passed. The sky darkened. The shattered moon cast pale light over the cracked earth, illuminating a small, abandoned ruin in the distance.

A broken temple.

It wasn't much, but it would be enough.

Ashen stumbled inside, dropping his pack against the wall. The temple smelled of dust and decay, the stone walls cracked with age. Faded murals covered the interior, depicting forgotten gods and long-lost wars. He ignored them, collapsing against the cold stone.

His body finally gave in.

Pain surged through him, his ribs throbbing from Zephyr's blows. Every breath hurt. Every movement sent fresh waves of agony through his limbs.

He clenched his teeth.

"This isn't the end."

He forced himself to stay awake. Sleep was dangerous out here—he couldn't afford to be caught off guard. He kept his sword close, his fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt.

But exhaustion was a cruel enemy.

Slowly, his eyelids grew heavy.

And then—

A sound.

His eyes snapped open.

Something was outside.

The First Kill

A low, guttural growl echoed through the ruins.

Ashen's blood ran cold. He gripped his sword tighter, pressing his back against the stone. His breath was shallow, his muscles tense.

Then he saw it.

A shadow at the entrance of the temple.

A Rakar Beast.

The Forsaken had spoken of them—monsters that prowled the wastelands, feeding on the lost. Their bodies were covered in jagged, stone-like plates, their eyes glowed like embers in the night.

And one had found him.

Ashen's fingers trembled.

"If I move, it'll hear me."

The beast stepped forward, sniffing the air. It knew he was here.

He had two options.

Run. But the wasteland was open, and it would hunt him down before he could escape. Fight. With a sword he barely knew how to use.

Neither was good.

But one thing was certain—if he did nothing, he would die.

He took a slow, deep breath.

The beast stepped closer.

Ashen moved.

With a desperate cry, he lunged, swinging his sword toward the creature's neck.

The blade met resistance. Not flesh—stone.

The Rakar snarled, swiping its massive claws.

Ashen barely dodged, the beast's talons slicing across his arm. Pain exploded through him.

But he didn't stop.

He twisted, bringing the blade down again—this time at the exposed joint of its armor.

A sickening crack.

The beast howled.

Ashen didn't let it recover.

He drove the sword deeper, pushing with every ounce of strength he had left. The Rakar thrashed, but its movements slowed—blood pooled beneath it, its body weakening.

And then, silence.

The beast collapsed.

Ashen stood over it, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his arm. His vision blurred, his knees buckling.

He had killed.

For the first time in his life, he had fought—and won.

But there was no time for relief.

He had only survived one night.

There were still many more to come.

And if he wanted revenge—if he wanted to kill Zephyr—this was only the beginning.