The Bonds We Forge

The rain poured like silver needles through the dense, tangled canopy of the Elderwood, drumming against leaves the size of shields. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine resin, the ground soft beneath their weary boots.

Eryndel, an elven ranger with hair dark as midnight and eyes sharp as a falcon’s, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Her fingers, long and calloused from years of wielding a bow, trembled not from the cold, but from exhaustion. It had been weeks since they’d left the safety of her homeland, and every step since had been a battle against time, against fate.

Beside her, stomping through the mud with stubborn determination, walked Dorrik, a dwarf of the Blackstone Clan. His beard, thick and braided, dripped with rainwater, and his broad shoulders hunched beneath the weight of his axe. Unlike Eryndel, he welcomed the storm, the rawness of nature pounding against him. “Better rain than fire,” he muttered, shaking his head. “At least it don’t burn.”

Eryndel shot him a look, her lips pressing into a thin line. She knew what he meant. The flames of war had chased them from the east, from the ruins of a city they had failed to save. It wasn’t the first time she had lost people. It wouldn’t be the last.

They walked in silence for a time, the only sounds the squelch of boots in the mud, the whisper of wind through trees. Then, suddenly, Dorrik stopped, his hand shooting out to grab her arm. Eryndel tensed, her instincts flaring, fingers already reaching for her dagger.

“Listen,” he murmured.

She did. And then she heard it too. Not the rain, not the wind—something else. A low, guttural breathing, like the snarl of a beast.

Eryndel’s heart pounded as she pulled free of Dorrik’s grasp, her bow already in her hands. “We need to move,” she whispered.

But before they could take a step, the creature emerged from the shadows.

It was massive, a dire wolf, its fur as black as the void, eyes gleaming with hunger. Scars crisscrossed its snout, remnants of battles past, and the way it prowled forward sent a chill racing down Eryndel’s spine.

Dorrik didn’t hesitate. With a battle cry that split the air, he swung his axe, aiming for the beast’s throat. The wolf dodged, faster than something that size had any right to be, and lunged.

Eryndel loosed an arrow, the twang of her bowstring lost in the roar of the storm. The arrow struck true, sinking into the wolf’s side, but it barely staggered. It twisted, its jaws snapping, and Dorrik barely had time to raise his shield before the beast crashed into him, knocking him off his feet.

“Dorrik!” Eryndel’s voice cracked as she drew another arrow, but her hands were shaking, her vision blurred with rain and panic.

The wolf reared back, its mouth opening wide, ready to tear into the dwarf beneath it.

And then Eryndel moved without thinking.

She dove, her dagger glinting as she drove it deep into the beast’s throat. A spray of hot blood hit her face as the creature let out a strangled cry, its massive body collapsing.

Then, silence.

Eryndel’s breath came in ragged gasps as she pushed herself up, her hands slick with blood. Dorrik groaned, rolling onto his side. “By the gods, woman,” he wheezed, coughing. “A little warning next time?”

She let out a choked laugh, relief making her lightheaded. “You’re welcome.”

He sat up, rubbing his ribs with a wince. Then, he looked at her—really looked at her, his dark eyes softened by something unspoken. “I mean it,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

Something tightened in her chest. Dorrik had always been a stubborn fool, a warrior who charged into battle without fear, without hesitation. But now, beneath the bruises and the blood, he looked… human.

She swallowed. “Don’t make me regret saving you.”

A grin broke across his face, warm despite the storm. “Too late for that, elf.”

And for the first time in weeks, she smiled.

(This is just a story I wrote to express my love for fantasy, and I don’t plan to continue it.)