The Last Remnant :Chapter 1 The Hunt

This is the first chapter where we introduce our main character and his friend and mentor.

Reign moved through the forest like a whisper, silent, deliberate, and carved from instinct sharpened over years far from marble courts and polished war rooms. Branches swayed overhead, their skeletal fingers dripping with cold mist. Dawn had not yet broken; only the faintest blue-gray washed through the canopy, painting the world in the colors of a half-remembered dream.
The air tasted of wet earth, pine resin, and something older, an ancient metallic tang hidden beneath the forest’s natural breath. A storm had passed through in the night, and the soil still held its weight. Fog clung low to the ground like a living veil, curling around moss-swollen roots and drifting across the shallow creek that threaded through the undergrowth like spilled silver.
Talus crouched at the creek's edge.
The boar tracks were fresh.
Deep, heavy prints pressed into the mud, each one rimmed by water still pooling inside the indentations. One track...larger than the others, radiated outward like a burst star, its edges disrupted by sudden force.
A struggle. A charge.
Reign brushed two fingers along the print, feeling the subtle heat still rising from the churned mud.
“Close,” he murmured.
The forest answered with quiet. Only the soft drip of water from leaves broke the stillness.
He rose, bow in hand, and eased one foot into the creek. The water was frigid, mountain-born and sharpened by last night’s storm, but he crossed without sound. His boots kissed the opposite bank. Ferns brushed against his greaves, their fronds slick with dew.
Ahead, the woods thickened into a barrier of bramble and twisted vines. Light filtered through in jagged shards, like broken glass scattered across the forest floor. Reign paused, scanning the undergrowth with the steady, practiced eye of a man who had survived more ambushes than hunts.
He felt the shift.
The forest breath held....for just a moment.
Reign's hand drifted toward the fletching of an arrow.
A hollow grunt echoed from deep within the thicket.
Low.
Wet.
Close.
He drew an arrow, notched it, and inhaled softly. The world tightened around him. Every sound sharpened: water dripping from leaves, the faint scuttle of some small creature retreating deeper into the brush, the quiet stretch of his bowstring.
Then the forest exploded.
A wall of brush erupted outward as the giant boar tore through it in a frenzy of bristling fur and muscle. It was larger than any Reign had hunted this season, easily the size of a warhound. Dew-slicked bristles stood in jagged ridges along its spine. Its curved ivory tusks were smeared with fresh blood from some earlier kill. And its eyes—black, feral, boiling with rage, locked onto him with chilling intelligence.
Reign released.
The first arrow buried itself deep in the beast’s chest. It should have slowed. It didn’t.
The boar thundered forward, hooves tearing at the earth, flinging mud and dead leaves in violent sprays. Its breath steamed cold in the morning air, coming out in short, furious bursts.
Reign pivoted in a single fluid motion. Second arrow loosed.
It struck the shoulder.
The beast jerked but did not stop.
Reign backpedaled, drawing again, but the monster was already nearly on him, its tusks lowered, mouth foaming.
He fired the third arrow at point-blank.
It buried itself just beneath the throat.
The boar’s legs folded. Its massive body collapsed forward, rolling once in a heap of steam and dirt before sliding to a stop at Reign’s boots.
Silence reclaimed the forest.
Reign exhaled slowly, lowering his bow. His pulse steadied with practiced ease. He nudged the fallen beast with the tip of his boot. It twitched once, then grew still. Steam curled from its nostrils, mingling with the morning mist.
The hunt, at least, was done.
He dragged the boar to a sturdy maple and hoisted it with a rope looped over a thick branch. Reign worked methodically, field-dressing the carcass with swift, precise cuts. The metallic smell of blood filled the clearing, mixing with the forest’s damp perfume. Flies were slow to gather in the cold, drifting lazily rather than swarming.
As he carved through a thick tendon, a memory flickered, unbidden, sharp.
A battlefield
Fire.
A woman’s scream drowning beneath the thunder of collapsing stone.
No.
Reign exhaled and pushed the vision away. He had long learned which memories to silence and which to bury so deep even nightmares couldn’t scrape them up.
When the job was finished, he lifted the carcass over his shoulders. Muscles rippled beneath worn leather armor as he made his way westward, deeper into the forest. His boots sank into soft moss. Birds rustled overhead, cautious but curious.
The trees soon parted, revealing the shallow valley he called home.
Every time Reign stepped into it, a strange quiet settled in his chest—something close to peace, though he’d forgotten what that truly felt like. Lush green draped the hillsides like a living cloak. Mist swirled through the basin, softening the edges of the world. Sunlight finally broke through the clouds, spilling warmth into the clearing.
At the valley’s heart stood a small stone cottage.
Humble.
Sturdy.
Smoke curled lazily from its chimney. A pair of sparrows perched along the roofline, chirping a morning song.
Reign slowed.
Then stopped.
He sniffed the air. His jaw tightened.
Herbs.
Spices.
Cooking.
Someone was inside his home.
Someone who should not be.
His scowl deepened, pulling tight across his scarred jaw. Without bothering to wipe his hands or calm his rising irritation, he strode toward the small shed where he hung and cured meat. He tossed the boar inside, wiping the blood onto his trousers.
Then he stormed toward the cottage.
The sparrows scattered with indignant chirps.
Reign didn’t care.
He reached the door, the wooden frame worn smooth by years of use. He set his palm against it, feeling warmth from the hearth inside and then shoved it open.
The door slammed into the interior wall.
The cottage exhaled its warmth around him: crackling firelight, the steady pop of burning wood, the scent of herbs hanging from rafters. Copper pots gleamed above the worktable. Everything was clean, orderly, familiar.
Except the man in his chair.
Talus.
A mountain of a man. Thick arms like hewn oak. A graying beard braided with strips of leather. His fur-lined cloak draped across his broad shoulders like a pelt from some mythic beast. Deep scars crisscrossed his forearms, old ones, pale and rope-thick, and newer ones, red and jagged.
Reign's teeth clenched.
Talus sat slightly hunched, the chair groaning beneath his weight. A hand-bound book rested across his knee, and his massive fingers traced its pages with surprising care. The fire cast shifting shadows across his weathered face, hiding his eyes beneath a low brow.
He didn’t look up.
Didn’t move.
Reign stomped across the cottage toward the stone basin at the far wall. He splashed cold water across his face, rinsing away blood and grime. Droplets ran down his neck, pooling at the collar of his talbard.
Behind him, Talus continued reading, unmoved by the intrusion.
The silence stretched, heavy, taut.
Talus dried his face with a rough cloth, then braced his hands against the basin, breathing steadily.
The older man’s presence pressed against the back of his skull like a weight.
“Are you done playing host to yourself?” Reign muttered.
No reaction.
Finally, Talus spoke—voice deep, rumbling like distant thunder rolling over stone.
“You missed a spot.”
Reign froze.
He turned his head slightly. “What?”
Talus tapped his cheek without looking up. “Left side. Near the jaw.”
Reign wiped at the spot, cursing himself for responding at all. He tossed the cloth onto the table beside the hearth and marched toward the fire. Every step seemed to squeeze the cottage tighter.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Reign said. “Walking into my home like it’s yours.”
Finally, Talus closed the book. The soft thump echoed louder than it should have. He rested it on his thigh, lifted his head, and met Reign's glare with a steady, unshaken gaze.
“You weren’t here,” Talus said.
“That’s not the point.”
“Then make your point clear.”
Reign's jaw flexed. “The last time you showed up unannounced, I spent two months planting gravestones.”
Talus's expression flickered...pain and memory crossing like shadows over his eyes.
“And this time,” he said quietly, “you may dig more.”
Reign stilled.
“Say that again,” he said, voice low.
Talus reached onto a small table. He pulled out a folded cloth—deep violet, singed, stained with soot and ash. He held it out.
Reigns heart lurched.
House Tyrian.
His family’s banner.
The violet so dark it nearly bled into black. The silver lion emblem half-consumed by fire.
He stepped forward slowly, as though approaching a corpse, and took the cloth. Ash smeared onto his fingertips.
“Where… did you find this?”
Talus leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him.
“The winds through the Northern Pass carried smoke,” he said. “Too much smoke. So I followed it.”
Raign unfolded the banner fully. The fabric trembled in his hands.
“What happened?” His voice was barely sound.
Talus inhaled heavily, shoulders rising like mountains shifting beneath snow.
“Tyria” he said. “Three days past.”
He paused.
“Or what remains of it.”
Reign's breath hitched.
Talus's gaze sharpened. “The city was burning. The southern wall had collapsed. The eastern tower—torn apart from within, not toppled. Something hit it. Something with wings.”
Reign staggered a step back, hand gripping the table for support.
Talus continued.
“Witnesses spoke of a creature descending from the sky. Massive. Scale-covered. With a rider cloaked in shadow. And runes—bright as lightning—carving themselves into stone.”
Reign's knuckles whitened around the banner. “And my father? The king? My mother? Talren?”
Talus held Reign's gaze.
“I found no one alive in the royal wing.”
The room seemed to hollow itself around the statement. The fire crackled. Outside, a bird chirped—innocent, oblivious. Inside, Reign stood trapped in stillness.
The banner fell from his trembling fingers.
Talus's voice softened. “I said nothing of bodies. Only survivors.” He paused. “The two are not the same.”
Reign's swallowed hard, breath shaking.
“What are you saying?” he whispered.
Talus's leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“I’m saying something deliberate struck your family,” he said. “Something planned. Something powerful.” His voice dropped. “And whatever it was… it isn’t finished.”
Reign lifted his head, storm gathering behind his eyes.
“Then neither am I,” he said.
The air in the cottage thickened into something suffocating, heavy with the scent of firewood, damp earth, and the faint, acrid undertone of the scorched banner lying on the table. Reign felt the weight of Talus's silence like a physical pressure, squeezing the breath from the room.
He forced himself to breathe slowly. Steadily. He was a soldier or had been, he had been trained to face worse than this. But training did nothing when the foundation beneath a man’s life began to crack.
Reign stepped closer to the hearth, letting the heat burn away the chill crawling through his veins.
“Tell me everything,” he said.
Talus nodded once, a slow, heavy movement that spoke more sorrow than words could. He settled back in the chair, bracing his elbows on its arms.
“When the smoke first hit the Northern Pass,” Talus began, “I thought it was another wildfire. Or raiders torching farmland again.” He shook his head. “But smoke carried that far, that thick? No normal blaze spreads like that.”
Reign didn’t blink.
Talus continued. “Two days I followed it. The further south I rode, the more the sky darkened. Ash fell like snow. The forest creatures fled north—deer, elk, even wolves. I saw none heading toward the capital. Not one.”
A cold knot tightened in Reigns stomach.
“When I reached the outer fields,” Talus said, voice grim, “the wheat was flattened. Burned in places. Others torn apart as if something tore through the stalks at a full sprint.”
Reign frowned. “Siege machines?”
“Not unless siege machines have claws,” Talus muttered.
Reigns pulse quickened.
The older man exhaled slowly. “The first bodies I found were in the farmlands. Not many. But enough to know something terrible struck fast, faster than the city could respond.”
The cottage felt smaller by the breath.
“By the time I reached Tyrias outer gate…” Talus paused, his jaw tightening. “…the gate was open.”
Reign stiffened. “Forced?”
“No.” Talys's eyes darkened. “Destroyed.”
A silence full of dread settled between them.
“Half-melted,” he added. “Like metal that had turned soft and run. I’ve only seen iron behave like that once.....in the Great War, when...”
He stopped.
Reign did not press him. Some memories were not meant for tongue or breath.
“I made my way inside,” Talus continued. “And Reign… the streets were empty. Silent. No guards. No civilians. Just… ash.”
Reign clenched his jaw. “What kind of attacker leaves no bodies?”
“The kind that burns everything,” Talus said, his tone dropping low. “Sometimes so thoroughly there’s nothing left to bury.”
Reigns grip around the back of a chair tightened until the wood creaked.
“And the castle?” he asked.
Tal's expression hardened, lines deepening around his eyes.
“Worse.”
The word landed like a hammer.
Reign waited, breath taut, muscles coiled.
Tal continued, voice quieter now, heavy with grim memory. “The western wing had collapsed. The eastern tower was split clean down the middle—like a giant hand had torn it open. Burn scars climbed the inner stone. Not natural fire either. Something hotter. Something deliberate.”
Reign swallowed, throat dry.
Tal reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, broken tile—charred along one edge, flecked with soot. He set it on the table gently, as if it were something sacred. Talus didn’t touch it.
“I made my way to the throne room,” Tal said, and Reign felt the world around him narrow to that single sentence. “The doors were blown inward. Hanging from one hinge.”
Reign didn’t breathe.
Tal's voice grew quieter, though the rumble never left it. “Inside… I found them.”
Reign's heart hammered against his ribs, each beat pounding like a war drum.
He didn’t speak.
He couldn’t.
Talus looked him directly in the eyes.
“Your father,” he said, voice hollow, “was hanging above the throne.”
Reign felt his blood turn to ice.
“Hanging how?” he forced out.
Talus inhaled deeply, as if pulling breath through grief itself. “Blood-eagled.”
A sickening silence crashed down between them.
For a moment, Reign's vision blurred, rage and sorrow surging so violently he nearly stumbled.
Blood-eagled.
An execution so ancient even warlords flinched at the mention. A ritual of fear, not war. A message carved into the flesh of kings.
Reign whispered, barely audible, “Who would do that to him…?”
Talus shook his head.
Reign's breath shook. He swallowed hard, gripping the back of the chair until his knuckles turned white.
“And Talren?” Talus asked, voice cracking despite his efforts.
Tals jaw trembled, the first sign of emotion the big man had shown.
“Your brother was at the foot of the dais,” he said.
Reign closed his eyes.
“His head,” he continued softly, “had been placed on the throne.”
Reignss entire body went rigid. Pain welled like fire behind his eyes. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t dare breathe, fearing the dam holding back everything inside would shatter.
“And Mother?” he whispered.
Tal hesitated, then nodded grimly toward the lower part of the imaginary scene he described. “She was on the floor before them both.”
Reign bowed his head, eyes closed, fists clenched at his sides. Every breath quivered. The fire in the hearth flickered violently, throwing harsh light across the room.
His mother, gentle and warm.
His brother, brash but loyal.
His father, stern but unbreakable.
Taken.
Desecrated.
Displayed.
Reign felt something inside him crack, not loudly, but with the quiet finality of a bone snapping beneath skin.
He opened his eyes.
They burned.
“When did this happen?” he asked, voice raw, scraped from somewhere deep.
“Three days before I arrived,” Talus said. “Maybe four. The flames were fresh. The smell…”
He trailed off.
Reign didn’t need to hear the rest.
Talus shook his head. “There were no survivors in the palace. None. Whoever did this didn’t just kill. They wanted to erase.”
Reign stared into the fire.
Erase.
Yes.
That felt right.
Like someone was wiping the Tyrian bloodline from the world, carving them out with blade and flame.
He inhaled once.....long and steady.
“So,” Reign said quietly, “this attacker… what direction did they flee? If you tracked the destruction back through the city, where did the trail lead?”
Talus hesitated. “North.”
Reign frowned. “North?”
Talus nodded. “Toward the Wraith Peaks.”
Reign's face darkened. The Peaks were cursed, abandoned after the Great War, left to rot beneath the screaming winds and haunted storms.
He looked toward the window. Mist coiled through the valley outside, clinging to the hills like grasping fingers.
He didn’t know who had done this.
He didn’t know why.
But he knew one thing with chilling certainty:
They were still out there.
And now....they knew Reign lived.
Reign spoke again, voice iron. “I’m going after them.”
Talus stiffened. “Reign”
“No,” Reign snapped. “This wasn’t a raid. This wasn’t bandits. This was a message.” He jabbed a finger toward the burned banner. “And whoever did this wanted me to see it.”
Talus rose to his full, towering height. “Then you’re a fool if you think you’ll survive alone.”
Reign glared up at him. “I’ve survived everything alone.”
“Not this,” Talus growled.
Reign opened his mouth to retort, but froze.
A scent drifted through the cottage window.
Sharp.
Acrid.
Burning.
Not woodsmoke.
Flesh.
Reign's hand fell to his sword.