He was alone.

Completely
And utterly
Alone.

He had been for what seemed like centuries. He knew it had only been twenty years, but it was enough. They had trapped him out here with the intent of letting the Drenzian kill him, drive him insane, let the dark magic consume him.

But he lived.

Viseron was the Drenzian. He was the darkness. He was the evil. He was the cold. He was the man they feared more than the beasts that hunted in these leafless trees.

A hunter, a killer, a monster. A master of the creatures that ruled this place. A threat. They sent man after man after him but they never came back.

They never made it out. Sometimes he found them already driven insane by the magic of the Drenzian. He put them out of their misery, feeling little remorse. They deserved it for trying to destroy his home.

Viseron was a mystery, a legend. He was a shadow and a shadow hunter. The Shadowhunter. A myth, nothing more. A whisper on the wind.

Viseron preferred it that way, it made his life easier. He ran a hand along the rough bark of a dreadwood tree, frost covered leaves crunching beneath his boots.

Viseron hadn't known warmth in over twenty years. The frost bitten trees had been his companions for years now. The warmth of his true home had all but faded.

It is better this way. He reminded himself, stalking through the silent forest.

From above him a forlorn cry echoed through the Drenzian and a shadow passed over Viseron's head. A smokey black bird flew through the trees, skeins of shadowy magic trailing behind it.

The raven's wings were soundless, its glimmering black eyes scanning the forest. It circled once more and landed on Viseron's shoulder, the bird's talons digging into the folds of his black cloak.

The armor he wore beneath it was the same midnight black with silver engravings. The twisting glyphs were Izilmä, a delicate name for the dark language.

It sounded snakelike when spoken, though only two people knew how to speak it. Him and The Shadowalker, who was thought to be dead.

The ones who could speak it whisper to the Dark Magic, tell it what to do.

Both a blessing and a curse.

Shadows twisted around his arms, flowed from him like a dark cloak, tendrils snaking along the pristine snow as he walked. They twisted around his neck, reminding him they were there.

Viseron spoke a single word and hooves could be heard in the snow. A nightmarish horse came galloping out of the forest, pupiless white eyes locking with his. Black skin was stretched across its skeletal frame, the beast's mouth ending in a sharp beak.

It was a Dioket, a once living horse resurrected by the Drenzian to roam the cursed forest.

It snorted as the Shadowhunter mounted the creature. The raven took flight with a cry, flying up into the trees. Viseron put his hands on either side of the horse's neck, directing it towards the edge of the shadowy forest.

He often rode there; in fact, he did so so often that it had become apart of the Shadowhunter legend. Viseron had first heard the story about him when he had encountered a soldier.

The terrified man had something about a legend, and Viseron had asked him to tell it to him before he killed him.

They had said that he could be glimpsed at the edge of the forest if one dared to go close enough. Viseron had not killed the habit; he still went to the edge of the Drenzian when he felt he needed to, to see a slight change in scenery, to feel a little warmth.

To be reminded of what had once been and could never be again. His heart beat to the pounding of the Dioket's hoof beats, the raven flying alongside him, keeping pace easily.

That was another part of the legend. His raven was a part of him. He was his heart, the vassal that carried his magic.The raven was a reincarnation of the Drenzian, able to travel with the Shadowhunter. At the same time Viseron was the Drenzian's heart.

They depended on one another, if one died the other did as well. He felt every shift, every breeze, every whisper, every beast. This forest was as alive as any human, able to feel and grow and move.

Its whispers often filled his head, telling of cold snow and frost covered hills, of dark caves and relentless winds. Of lost souls and ancient magic.

Viseron came to the edge of the Drenzian and he heard voices. Other people were here, whether they were soldiers or just incredibly foolish people was yet to be determined. He watched his raven go out ahead of him, flying over the group.

He heard them gasp and immediately knew they weren't soldiers. They were fools, is what they were. He should kill them, he knew it, but he wouldn't.

Not unless they did something to him.

Viseron came to the edge of the woods, the Dioket shifting underneath him as it picked up the people's scent.

He laid eyes upon the four people in the clearing, young men, most likely dared to go to the edge of the Drenzian and come back sane and alive.

They stood in hushed silence, watching him, their eyes wide. He stared back, his eyes hidden by the hood of his cloak.

"Go," he said, his voice a low growl, "you don't belong here."

They shuffled backwards, stumbling over one another, fear shining in their eyes. He watched them run, sensed their fear. They hadn't expected to actually see him, no one ever did.

No one truly believed he was real and he preferred to keep it that way. It was better that they didn't know who he had been before and instead knew who he was now.

When they were gone he dismounted and went to the edge, gazing at where the black roots ended and the frost seemed to just suddenly disappear. A fire still crackled where the men had left it.

An overwhelming urge to reach out and feel the warmth came over him, the urge to touch the flame, feel it burn his skin, feel the pain, remind himself of a home he had once had.  He didn't, however. He didn't deserve to feel its warmth. He was cursed and left in the forest to walk its twisted paths.

If he felt the warmth he was afraid that he would never come back, that he would be hunted like an animal and eventually killed. That he would spend his life running endlessly.

A Kingdom that used to love him, a Kingdom that used to be his home, now just out of reach.

Viseron sighed, turning to where the Dioket stood, watching him. The Drenzian was his home, and it would be for however long he lived.

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Hope ya'll liked this first chapter! Don't forget to leave feedback, it is greatly appreciated!

- Nightfury107