Wolf King of Oblivion

The crimson sky of Oblivion cast an eerie glow over the jagged landscape as Jon Snow made his way back to Vehlmor. At fourteen, he had earned a reputation as a skilled adventurer, his prowess with sword and magic growing with each passing day. The villagers spoke of him with admiration, a far cry from the whispers that had followed him in Winterfell.

As he crested the final hill overlooking the village, a sense of unease gripped him. Smoke billowed from the thatched roofs, and the distant cries of terror reached his ears. His heart pounded as he broke into a run, the familiar path to his home now a gauntlet of dread.

Vehlmor was under attack.

Bandits swarmed the village, their cruel laughter mingling with the screams of the innocent. Flames licked at the cottages, casting dancing shadows across the chaos. Jon's eyes scanned the scene, searching desperately for Duris and Alenya.

Near the center of the village, he spotted them. Duris, his adoptive father, stood defiantly with sword in hand, fending off two attackers. Alenya, her silver hair gleaming in the firelight, wielded her magic with precision, but the strain was evident on her face.

A third bandit emerged from the shadows, blade raised to strike Alenya from behind. Without hesitation, Jon drew his sword and summoned the arcane energy that Alenya had taught him to harness. With a guttural shout, he unleashed a bolt of lightning that struck the assailant square in the chest, sending him sprawling.

Duris glanced over his shoulder, a brief look of relief crossing his features. "Jon! Protect the villagers!"

But Jon's focus was solely on his family. He charged forward, his sword a blur as he engaged the nearest bandit. The training with Duris had honed his skills, and the bandit fell quickly under his assault.

"Alenya!" Jon called out, his voice strained. "We need to get you to safety!"

Alenya shook her head, her hands weaving intricate patterns as she cast another spell. "The village is our home, Jon. We stand and fight."

Before Jon could respond, a massive figure loomed behind Duris. The bandit leader, a hulking Orc with a wicked grin, swung a spiked mace with terrifying force. Duris parried, but the impact sent him staggering.

"No!" Jon screamed, rushing to his father's aid.

But he was too late. The Orc's mace came down again, and Duris crumpled to the ground, his sword slipping from his grasp.

Rage unlike any Jon had ever known surged through him. The world narrowed to the Orc's sneering face, and with a roar, Jon unleashed his fury. Fire erupted from his outstretched hand, engulfing the bandit leader in searing flames. The Orc's screams filled the air as he writhed, the fire consuming him.

Jon's vision blurred with tears and rage. He turned to see Alenya, her face pale with shock, her hands trembling as she tried to summon another spell. But exhaustion had taken its toll, and a bandit closed in on her, sword raised.

"Alenya!" Jon's voice broke as he sprinted toward her.

The bandit's blade descended, and Alenya fell.

Time seemed to freeze. Jon's breath caught in his throat, his heart shattering. The bandit turned toward him, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

Something inside Jon snapped. The teachings of Duris and Alenya, the discipline they had instilled in him, dissolved under the weight of his grief. He became a whirlwind of steel and magic, his sword cleaving through flesh, bolts of lightning and fire erupting from his hands. The bandits fell before him, their screams echoing in the burning village.

When the last of them lay dead, Jon stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving, his body trembling. Blood—some his own, most not—covered him. The flames crackled around him, the heat searing his skin, but he felt nothing.

He stumbled to where Duris and Alenya lay, collapsing between them. His hands shook as he reached out, touching their lifeless forms. The weight of his failure pressed down on him, and a strangled sob escaped his lips.

"It's all my fault," he whispered, the words a mantra. "It's all my fault."

The world around him blurred, the edges of his vision darkening. He didn't hear the approach of armored footsteps, didn't see the figures that emerged from the smoke.

"By the Nine," a voice muttered. "What happened here?"

Jon looked up, his eyes hollow. Imperial Guards stood before him, their expressions a mix of horror and suspicion.

One stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "You there! What happened?"

Jon's mouth moved, but no sound came. His gaze drifted back to Duris and Alenya, the reality of their deaths crashing over him anew.

"He's covered in blood," another guard said, his tone accusatory. "And look at the bodies. This wasn't just bandits."

The first guard narrowed his eyes. "Did you do this?" he demanded.

Jon's voice was barely a whisper. "It's all my fault."

The guard's expression hardened. "By order of the Imperial Legion, you are under arrest for the destruction of this village and the murder of its inhabitants."

Rough hands seized Jon, pulling him to his feet. He didn't resist as they bound his wrists, his mind numb to everything but the crushing grief.

As they led him away, he cast one last, lingering look at the ruins of Vehlmor. The place that had given him a home, a family, now lay in ashes. And in his heart, a cold void took root, the whispered promise of the gods echoing in the recesses of his mind.

"The gods are not done with you."