Lord of the Forest - A Witcher Fanfic

The peaceful sanctuary will contrast sharply with the brutal skirmish, making the fight more impactful. Thorolf's skill will be on full display, while Eldric experiences the visceral reality of violence for the first time.

The sanctuary had never felt this quiet. Eldric crouched beside a shallow stream, his fingers tracing the patterns of a smooth stone. The air around him seemed heavier, and even the water's babble sounded muted.

"The forest is warning us," Ailsa said, stepping into the clearing. Her eyes scanned the trees, tension tightening her jaw.

Thorolf appeared from the shadows, his sword strapped across his back, the bear medallion on his chest trembling faintly. "Men," he said, his voice sharp. "They've returned."

Ailsa stiffened. "They dare to defile these woods again?"

"They're confident," Thorolf replied. "Armed, too. This won't end with a warning."

Eldric felt the weight of his father's words sink into his chest. He remembered the poachers—how his mother's magic had driven them away before. But this time, the threat seemed larger, darker.

"Stay close to me," Thorolf said, glancing at Eldric.

They moved silently through the forest, shadows slipping between the trees. As they neared the disturbance, the sound of axes and laughter broke through the stillness.

Below the ridge, eight men surrounded a sacred oak, their blades hacking into its bark. One man knelt beside a trap, baiting it with bloodied meat.

Thorolf grunted. "Poachers. Raiders. Whatever they call themselves, they've come ready for a fight."

"They'll have one," Ailsa said coldly.

Thorolf drew his sword, its edge gleaming like frost in the morning light. Without a word, he leapt down the ridge, his movements as fluid as a predator's.

The first poacher didn't even see him coming. Thorolf's blade cut through his neck in a single motion, blood spraying across the snow. The man crumpled without a sound.

The others shouted in alarm, scrambling to grab their weapons. One swung an axe at Thorolf, who caught the handle mid-swing and drove his blade through the man's chest.

Ailsa descended more deliberately, her hands glowing with green light. She muttered an incantation, and the ground beneath two men erupted in tangled roots, dragging them down and holding them fast.

Thorolf didn't hesitate. He moved like a storm, his sword cutting through flesh and bone with brutal efficiency. A man lunged at him with a dagger, but Thorolf spun, slamming the hilt of his sword into the poacher's face. The man fell, blood pouring from his shattered nose.

Eldric stood frozen at the edge of the clearing, his heart pounding. The air reeked of iron and sweat, the snow stained red.

Ailsa's magic lashed out again, roots and vines striking like whips to disarm another man. But one of the poachers broke free of her spells, charging at her with a spear.

"Mother!" Eldric cried.

Thorolf intercepted the man, his sword carving through the attacker's shoulder. The poacher screamed, collapsing into the snow. Thorolf's face was a mask of grim focus, his eyes cold as he stepped over the fallen man.

Amid the chaos, Eldric spotted the youngest poacher—a boy barely older than himself—raising a crossbow. The weapon wavered, but its aim was fixed squarely on Thorolf.

Eldric's breath caught. He stepped forward instinctively, the sapling tattoo on his back tingling.

"Stop!" he shouted, his voice cracking.

The young poacher flinched, lowering the crossbow slightly. Eldric felt a surge of energy pass through him, his connection to the forest reaching out like unseen tendrils.

Images flashed in the poacher's mind—bleeding animals, burning trees, and Thorolf's cold, relentless gaze. The boy staggered back, his eyes wide with terror. He dropped the crossbow and fled into the woods, his screams echoing through the trees.

Eldric stood trembling, the faint glow of his tattoo fading. He turned to see Thorolf watching him, blood dripping from his sword.

The last of the poachers lay defeated. Some had fled, others lay lifeless in the snow. Ailsa knelt beside the wounded oak, her hand pressed against its bark.

"It's too late for this tree," she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes.

Thorolf cleaned his sword, his expression hard. "They got what they deserved."

Ailsa shot him a glare. "You think this solves anything? They'll return, or others will. The forest won't be safe as long as men like them exist."

Thorolf sighed. "And what would you have me do? Let them kill us first?"

Eldric watched his parents, their words sharp and heavy with tension. His hands shook as he stared at the blood staining the snow.

Thorolf crouched beside him, his voice softer now. "This is the truth of the world, boy. You kill, or you die. Mercy's a luxury most can't afford."

Eldric swallowed hard. "I didn't want to kill him," he said quietly.

"You didn't," Thorolf said. "And that's your choice. But remember: when the time comes, hesitation can cost you everything."

That night, Eldric lay awake beside the fire. The day's events played over in his mind—the blood, the screams, the cold finality of death.

Ailsa sat beside him, brushing a hand through his hair. "What you did today was brave," she said. "But bravery isn't just about fighting. It's about knowing when to stop."

Eldric nodded, though his thoughts remained troubled. He looked across the fire at Thorolf, who sat sharpening his blade. His father's face was calm, but his eyes held the weight of countless battles.

For the first time, Eldric began to understand the path ahead—and the cost of walking it.