Once Upon a Time...
If their old home wasn’t burned to the ground, it was infested by evil, forever lost, and nothing more than a memory — a happy memory that ended the night their village was invaded. Any sadness was overcome by gratitude for narrowly making it out alive.
Their new home was quaint. It seemed safe and was off the map, tucked below the foothills of mountains far away from their last home. It didn’t have a river or neighbors or crop fields, but it had heart. It was exactly the place Riven needed to raise his three daughters and nurse his wife back to health after she was nearly killed the night they fled. Fortunately, spring was just beginning, bringing a fresh start to his family in these deep woods.
Day after day, from before dawn until after dusk, Riven worked, cutting down trees and moving boulders for their new home. During this time, he gave his daughters one responsibility: to care for their mother. They would forage for food and hike to a nearby stream for fresh water from the mountaintop. Over time, his wife recovered, and their new home was completed. After a night of surprise festivities curated by his daughters, an evening of dancing and singing and games with a woodland feast fit for a king, Riven did what he had not done since they left their old village — he rested.
And the next morning, he went back to work as early as the day before, chiseling arrowheads from stone and carving arrows made from ash trees. When he had enough arrows, he forged blades of all sizes, just as his father had taught him when they worked together as blacksmiths years earlier. His arsenal was soon completed. He could hunt and, if needed, protect his family from outside forces. As skilled as a hunter as he was, he found no animals to hunt during the day, so he resorted to trapping — and this worked quite well. Each morning, his family would wager berries on what new animal had been caught.
For the first time since they arrived, Riven now had free time, or better put, he had options on how best to utilize his days. They didn’t need more shelter, food, or weapons, so it only made sense to focus on the next most important task: becoming a warrior. He nearly lost his wife when his village was attacked. Never again would he allow that to happen.
After a lifetime of forging, his hands were like padded gloves. He could grab a smoldering log with his bare hands without so much as a grimace. This meant he could train harder than most thought was possible. He rose with the sun, and by the time the dew peaked, he’d be at the base of the mountain, where he’d begin his daily routine.
He’d find a boulder large enough to barely wrap his arms around and carry it up the mountain. From there, he’d stack it at the overlook. Then, he’d cut down a tree and roll it back down the mountain. Over time, one boulder turned into a pile, and one tree turned into his armory, filled with enough weapons to arm every person, small and large, in a small village.
The next stage was his favorite. Each day, he would perfect a new attack. If he wasn’t sword-fighting trees in the nearby grotto, he was spear-throwing, shooting arrows, mastering hatchets — or punching decaying trees. After he trained, he would swim below a waterfall in icy water that, a short time ago, had been snow at the summit.
His daughters begged him to let them tag along for the day, but he said no. This is his duty. Never will they have to be afraid as long as he was there.
After a grueling day of training, Riven would finally rest. Each evening was spent sharing a meal, telling stories of magical lands, and playing whatever games his daughters spent their day creating. It was a good life, and they were happy.
As the sun started to set, Riven would prepare the traps around their cabin. Once those were set, he would retire for the evening, kissing his daughters goodnight then wishing his wife sweet dreams before placing his sharpest hatchet at the base of his bed.
What happened next happened quickly.
