I. The Hunter and the Whisper
Long before Edran drew breath, the woodlands of Cairnwood bore witness to a chance meeting that would echo through time.
A Dance of Shadows
Mariel, daughter of the village huntsman, moved through the forest at dusk with the ease of a deer. Quiver on her back, knives at her belt, she knew each bend of the trail, each whispered secret carried on the breeze. Yet on this evening, the wind itself seemed charged, as though the forest held its breath.
She paused beside an ancient oak—its trunk gnarled like a titan's fist—when she heard laughter: soft, musical, and utterly at odds with the woodland hush. Mariel nocked an arrow, creeper vines curling around her boots. "Show yourself," she called.
From the shadows stepped a figure clad in leathers woven of moss and midnight. His hair flowed like strands of moonlight. In his eyes danced starlight and cunning. No ordinary man, Mariel knew; still, her arrow trembled between her fingers.
He bowed, one hand on his heart. "Peace, huntswoman. I am Lynx, wanderer of the wilds."
She laughed, wary but intrigued. "A spirit of the forest? Or a trick of wind and leaf?"
He straightened, grace in every movement. "Call me friend. I know your heart, Mariel of Cairnwood. I have watched you spare a doe's fawn, guide lost travelers, carve runes of protection on your doorposts."
Mariel's breath caught. She'd never met this man yet felt laid bare by his words. "Why reveal yourself now?"
"Because," he murmured, "the forest grows restless. A darkness stirs beneath its roots. I seek an ally."
Under the blood-red sun of autumn, hunter and forest-god forged a fragile bond—a bond that would birth a child of prophecy.
II. The Birth of Edran
Nine months later, in a humble cottage sealed with protective runes, Mariel gave birth beneath a harvest moon that swelled like a blessing. The midwife wrapped the infant in moss-green swaddling, humming an old tune of renewal.
But the moment Mariel held Edran in her arms, she saw more than flesh and bone. His hair shimmered with dawn's first light. His grasp was firm as a sapling's root. Tears blurred her vision as she whispered, "My son… what have we done?"
Lynx appeared at the window—silent, proud—before vanishing into the dark woods. Mariel, heart torn between fear and wonder, named her son with a word from the old tongue: Edran, meaning "Heir of the Wild."
III. Childhood Among Trees and Mist
Edran's earliest memories entwined wood and wind. Before he could walk, he crawled through ferns taller than himself. Before he could speak, he mimicked birdsong so perfectly the sparrows paused to listen.
Lessons of Silence
At three, Mariel taught him to share her mother's lullaby, a melody that coaxed the river's current as it lapped against the banks. But Edran's voice carried a deeper note—an undercurrent that made the water pause midflow, as though holding its breath.
When he giggled, small mushrooms sprouted in rings around him. When he cried, branches drooped and leaves fell like tears. Mariel watched, both enchanted and alarmed.
The First Hunt
At six, Edran accompanied his father on a hunt. The forest, usually alive with rustle and call, grew unnaturally still. Gnarled roots twisted toward them as if to bar their path. Mariel shivered but pressed on, bow in hand, Edran perched on her hip.
A stag emerged—a magnificent creature with antlers like lightning bolts. It regarded Edran with calm intelligence, massive flanks trembling. Edran reached out, and the stag bowed its head. A single white feather drifted from its coat, landing softly on Mariel's palm.
No arrow was loosed. No blood was spilled.
That night, Mariel dreamed of a grove bathed in emerald light, where all beasts kneeled before her son. She woke to find the feather's glow pulsing faintly in her hand.
IV. The Whispered Prophecy
As Edran grew, rumors swirled in Cairnwood and beyond of the "Wild's Heir" whose laugh brought blossoming flowers and whose anger summoned brambles to ensnare intruders. Travelers spoke of a boy with wolf's eyes who danced with foxes at twilight and vanished before the dawn.
Mariel worried. She instituted strict routines—rising before sunrise, sleeping before moonrise—but the boy's nature could not be contained. He slipped through window cracks to race the wind, climbed cliffs to converse with eagles, and once lured a pack of wolves away from a stranded caravan.
One evening, a wandering seer arrived, cloaked in moth-wing patterns. She watched Edran from the shadows, lips moving in silent chant. Mariel confronted her.
"What do you see in him?"
The seer's blind eyes opened, revealing galaxies. "A thread of prophecy spun from wild magic. A catalyst in the looming war between gods and men."
"Then he is safe?" Mariel whispered.
"Safe," the seer repeated, "is a word with no meaning for prophecies." She drifted away on silent feet.
Mariel clutched Edran close, her heart torn. She sought answers in the runes, beseeched Lynx in her dreams, but all replies came as rustling leaves and shifting shadows.
V. The Twilight Trial
On Edran's twelfth year, the forest tested him. A violent storm—unseasonal and savage—descended. Branches snapped like bones. Rivers swelled into snarling beasts. The very earth quaked.
Mariel sheltered in the cottage. Edran watched from the doorframe, silence in his stance. Rain lashed his face; wind whipped his hair. He closed his eyes.
A crack of thunder sounded beneath his skin, not overhead. Then, softly at first, he sang: a wordless hymn carried on his breath. The storm froze—raindrops suspended in midair, gusts locked in invisible cages.
He spoke, and ice spider-webbed across the cottage windows, holding back the tempest. He laughed—a clear, ringing note—and the storm shattered into harmless whispers.
Silence returned. The sky cleared. Edran turned to his mother. "It wanted to test me," he said. "See if I could command the wildness within."
Mariel collapsed, tears streaking mud on her cheeks. "I fear what you will become," she cried.
He shook his head. "I will become what the world needs."
VI. The Hidden Shadow
As Edran's renown grew, so did the darkness trailing in his wake. Hunters found their traps undone. Villagers woke to find their livestock herded safely into pens. Once, a man who sought to kill Edran in a jealous rage vanished—only his footprints remained, leading back into the forest and dissolving in mist.
Whispers spoke of a second presence in the shadows: the Shadow-Warden, a figure draped in midnight fur and moon-silver talons. None saw its face, but its eyes glowed like embers. It protected Edran from all harm… yet when the boy's laughter faded, it too vanished.
Mariel began to suspect that Lynx's blood in her son had awakened something deeper—a guardian born of secret bargains in the realm of beasts.
VII. The Twist of Blood and Bone
On Edran's sixteenth year, Mariel uncovered her own secret. In the attic, beneath a loose floorboard, lay a leather-bound journal—her mother's. The pages crackled with age and magic.
She read of a pact: centuries ago, Lynx had spared a fledgling goddess of beasts, Morrigan, in exchange for a token of her favor. Morrigan, seeing Lynx's endless wanderings, bound her own essence to his bloodline: a dual inheritance of wild fury and fierce protection. That gift passed to Edran—along with a curse.
The journal's final entry chilled Mariel's blood:
"When the Heir of Wild stands at the heart of battle, the Shadow-Warden will rise beside him—not as guardian, but as emboldener. And if the ward ends, the inheritor will unleash the full fury of beasts upon the world."
Mariel sank to the floor, cradling Edran's spear. She realized the boy she'd protected all these years was not just a guide for the wilds, but a living storm of animal wrath—capable of salvation… or of savagery beyond measure.
VIII. The Departure and the Omen
That night, under a waning moon, Edran stood at the edge of the forest, waiting. Mariel approached, journal in hand.
"Why leave?" she asked.
He turned, eyes reflecting starfire. "I must learn to control the beast… before it controls me."
"And if you fail?"
He laid a hand on her cheek. "Then the world will learn why gods fear the wild."
Without another word, he strode into the shadows, spear gleaming. The Shadow-Warden emerged behind him—hulking, wolfish—its gaze fixed on the path ahead.
Mariel stayed where she was until dawn. When light came, she found two sets of footprints imprinted in dew—one human, one beast—and neither faded.
IX. Azrael's Silent Watch
Far beyond the mortal realm, in a throne room stitched from starlight and shadow, Azrael reclined. His form flickered—everything and nothing—his laughter a thread in the tapestry of silence.
Before him, a vast screen of memory displayed Vaelith mastering flame, Cyron commanding storms, and Edran embarking on his lonely quest. Each image pulsed with possibility and peril.
He sipped from a goblet of time, swirling the futures like wine.
"Grow, my champions," he murmured. "Grow, so that I may play. For what is prophecy," he asked the void, "if not the sweetest stage for a god who weaves both hope and despair?"
He smiled, a curve of cosmic light and void. The throne room shivered in anticipation.
And outside, in realms both wild and forged, the next chapter of Gods Before Men prepared to unfold.