In the stillness of the night, Winston drew a deep breath, his eyes closed in concentration. When they opened, he fire an arrow, its sharp tip slicing through the night air toward a distant tree.


    Before the arrow struck its target, his thoughts drifted. Hours earlier, laughter had filled a small room as Winston sat before a cake topped with candles. "Happy 18th birthday, son!" his mother cheered warmly. Winston leaned forward, exhaling softly to extinguish the flames.


    His thoughts shifted back to the present. The arrow struck just above the carved bullseye of the tree. Winston’s lips twitched in satisfaction. "Almost got it," he muttered under his breath.


    The first hints of sunrise painted the horizon while he hoisted a weathered pack from the base of the tree, slinging it over one shoulder. The quiet of the forest surrounded him as he trudged toward the village.


    Movement in the bushes ahead caught his eye. Instinctively, he dropped the pack and readied his bow, a flicker of excitement crossing his face at the thought of bagging food to bring home.


    He steadied his aim. His momentary satisfaction faltered as a grotesque creature lunged from the bushes, its sharp fangs glinting in the early light. Winston didn’t flinch. His smile vanished as he quickly fired the arrow. The creature collapsed with a pained cry, its twisted body hitting the ground with a thud.


    “Dammit,” Winston grumbled, crouching to inspect the kill. It resembled a rabbit, but its fur bristled like porcupine quills, and its teeth were unnaturally jagged. A sickly purple hue stained its hide, a telltale sign of corruption. He grabbed it by the ears, letting it dangle. "Figures," he muttered, shaking his head. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he trudged onward, the creature swinging limply in his grasp.


    As the sun climbed higher, Winston entered the quiet streets of his hometown. A small stone shrine marked the entrance, its weathered inscription barely visible: Aroco Village. He passed by without pause, the weight of the corrupted creature tugging at his hand.


    The village square lay ahead, anchored in the middle was a circular stone fire pit. At its center stood a statue of Flynn Ashford, the Hero, immortalized in stone. Flames flickered low around the pit, casting soft, dancing shadows on the statue’s surface.


    Winston approached, pulling a small, glowing red sphere from his pocket. He studied it for a moment before tossing it into the fire. The flames roared to life, soaring hungrily at the new energy.


    Without hesitation, he followed with the creature’s body, letting it drop into the inferno. The smell of burning flesh was immediate, but Winston didn’t waver. He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes.


    “Guardians, grant this creature’s soul safe passage,” he murmured.


    A soft voice of a women interrupted behind Winston. “Practicing all night again?” The concern was evident. “I was worried about you.”


    Winston didn’t open his eyes, his voice steady. “You should be used to it by now, shouldn’t you?”


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    “No mother gets used to anything that hurts her boy,” she replied gently, stepping closer.


    His posture relaxed as the tension in his shoulders eased. “It’s not hurting me,” he said with a sigh. “I just want to be ready next time.”


    They stood in silence, watching as dark smoke curled from the fire, twisting into the morning sky. His mother rested a hand on his shoulder, her grip firm but comforting. She gave a faint smile, her lips pressed tightly.


    “Happy birthday, my boy,” she said, her voice quiet as she turned to leave.


    “Not anymore,” Winston replied softly, his gaze never leaving the fire.


    She hesitated, her voice barely audible. “Guess so,” she said, walking away toward their home.


    Hours earlier, as the candles burned on his cake, his mother had asked with a smile, “So, what did you wish for?”


    “Nothing. It’s just a silly tradition,” Winston replied, forcing a weak grin.


    But it had been a lie. Winston knew exactly what he had wished for, despite knowing strength wasn’t so easily attainable.


    Winston made his way down the road to his small, modest cottage, its wooden frame worn by years of weather and use. Behind the house, he caught sight of his mother, her hands busy hanging damp laundry on the line. He hesitated for a moment but quickened his pace, slipping inside before she could notice him lingering.


    Once in the washroom, he leaned over the sink, his hands gripping the edges as he stared into the mirror. His reflection gazed back, his messy orange hair framing piercing blue eyes, their intensity unbroken. For a brief moment, his mind felt blissfully empty, a rare pause after the long night of training.


    Reaching for the tap, he twisted it, letting the cold water flow freely. He bent forward, drinking directly from the stream before scooping water into his hands to splash over his face. The icy shock cleared his head. As he left the room, he grabbed a nearby rag to pat himself dry, then made his way toward his bedroom.


    The door creaked as he entered, revealing a familiar chaos inside. Books and clothing were strewn across the floor, draped over furniture in careless piles. Amid the disorder, only his bed, tucked neatly against the wall beneath the window, stood untouched. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Winston let his gaze sweep over the clutter until it stopped on something partially hidden beneath a shirt.


    He leaned down and retrieved a worn book: The Hero’s Journal, Volume 5. The title, etched in raised lettering, felt rough beneath his fingers. Flipping through the pages, he landed on passages he had read countless times before.


    The journal chronicled the feats of those who had borne the hero’s mark over the last century. Every chapter celebrated acts of courage and sacrifice, but one stood out above the rest, the story of Flynn Ashford and the final party who stood against the Dark Mage during the recent Calamity.


    Winston’s grip tightened on the book as he turned to the chapter titled “The Coward”. His jaw clenched as he read the familiar words. According to the text, Flynn had abandoned his comrades during the final battle, seeking forbidden dark magic for himself. History had labeled him a traitor, a fugitive whose name was synonymous with shame.


    Frustration bubbled to the surface. With a sharp motion, Winston hurled the book to the floor. It landed awkwardly, its pages fanned open, but he didn’t bother picking it up. The story burned in his mind. He couldn’t accept it.


    Flynn had once saved him, risking his life without hesitation. That memory, seared into Winston’s thoughts, made the accusations impossible to believe. Something about the official accounts felt incomplete, as though the truth had been deliberately obscured.


    Two years had passed since Flynn’s disappearance, his legacy overshadowed by accusations of betrayal. Yet Winston couldn’t let go of his conviction. Flynn wasn’t a coward. He was a hero, one whose story was marred by history.


    Winston sank back onto his bed, as he stared blankly at the ceiling. The morning sun streamed through the window, casting soft golden light across the room. He let his heavy eyelids shut, the warmth of the sun filtering through and settling on his face.


    Even with his eyes closed, the glow from the window was visible behind his eyelids. Within moments, his breathing slowed, and the exhaustion from the night claimed him. He had fallen asleep in minutes.