Richard Day was born in the village of Brindle Hollow, a quiet settlement tucked between low hills and thin stretches of forest. It was not a place marked on most maps, and those who lived there preferred it that way. Life was simple, predictable, and often harsh. The soil was stubborn, winters bit deep, and coin was scarce. But it was home.
His father, Thomas Day, was the village blacksmith—a broad-shouldered man with a steady hand and a reputation for honesty. He was not a wealthy man, but he was respected. Farmers relied on him to mend plowshares, hunters trusted his blades, and travelers passing through would often stop for repairs. Richard’s mother had died when he was very young, leaving Thomas to raise him alone. He did so with quiet patience, teaching Richard not only the trade, but the values that came with it: discipline, resilience, and the understanding that nothing worth having came without effort.
Richard’s childhood was not filled with stories of knights or grand adventures. It was filled with the ringing of hammer against steel, the heat of the forge, and the weight of responsibility. By the age of ten, he could already shape simple tools. By thirteen, he was strong enough to assist his father fully. And by fifteen, he had begun to believe his life would follow the same path—steady, honest, and confined to the borders of Brindle Hollow.
That illusion ended in a single night.
The attack came without warning. No horns, no scouts returning with news—only fire and steel in the dark. Raiders descended upon the village with brutal efficiency. They were not the disorganized bandits the villagers had feared in passing conversations; they moved with purpose, cutting down resistance and driving people into chaos. Homes were set ablaze, livestock scattered, and anyone who fought back was quickly overwhelmed.
Richard remembered the heat first. The flames climbed faster than seemed possible, turning familiar streets into a maze of smoke and panic. His father had shoved a hammer into his hands—not as a tool, but as a weapon—and told him to run. Richard did not listen at first. He tried to fight, swinging wildly at shadows, driven more by fear than skill. But he was untrained, unprepared, and outmatched.
Thomas Day did not survive the night.
By the time dawn came, Brindle Hollow was no longer a village—only ash and silence remained. The survivors, few as they were, scattered. Some fled to nearby towns, others simply disappeared into the roads, carrying whatever they could salvage. Richard did not stay. There was nothing left to stay for.
He took with him what little he had: his father’s hammer, scarred and worn, and the memory of a life that had ended too quickly.
The years that followed were not kind.
Richard wandered from place to place, never staying long enough to call anywhere home. He worked where he could—hauling cargo, repairing tools, guarding caravans that could not afford better protection. The skills his father had taught him kept him fed, but survival demanded more than craft. It demanded strength, awareness, and the ability to act without hesitation.
He learned to fight properly, not from knights or masters, but from those who lived by the blade. Mercenaries taught him how to hold a weapon with intent rather than desperation. Caravan guards showed him how to read terrain, how to anticipate danger before it arrived. In the crowded streets of larger towns, he learned caution—how to watch people, how to recognize lies, how to avoid trouble when possible and end it quickly when not.
The hammer he carried changed as he did. Over time, he reforged it, reshaping it into something balanced between tool and weapon. It was no longer just his father’s—it was his, a symbol of both where he came from and what he had become.
Despite the years that passed, the night of the raid never left him. He remembered details others might have forgotten: the coordination of the attackers, the markings on their armor, the way they moved like soldiers rather than common thieves. It troubled him. Villages like Brindle Hollow were not worth such effort—not unless there had been a reason.
That question followed him wherever he went.
At twenty-three, Richard is no longer the boy who fled a burning home. He is hardened, capable, and deliberate in his actions. He does not seek out glory or recognition. Titles mean little to him, and he has no illusions about becoming a hero sung about in taverns. What drives him is simpler and far more personal.
He seeks strength—not for power’s sake, but to ensure that he will never again stand helpless while everything is taken from him.
And beneath that, quieter but no less persistent, he seeks answers.
Who were the raiders that destroyed Brindle Hollow? Why did they come with such precision? And if there was a purpose behind it, what might still remain hidden in the ashes of the place he once called home?
Richard does not know where the path will lead. He only knows that he will follow it, no matter how long it takes.
