In the age when mountains still remembered the footsteps of giants and the sea kept counsel with the moon, there lived a man called Edric Vale, though in every tavern, village, and roadside camp between the black pines and the western cliffs, he was known by another name: Edric the Unready.
Not because he was born weak.
Not because fate had dealt him some unusually crooked hand.
Not because the gods had marked him for sorrow.
No.
He was called Unready because though he always stood at the mouth of the road, boots on, cloak fastened, chin lifted toward glory, he never truly meant to walk it.
Edric loved the idea of heroism. He loved maps spread over oak tables. He loved speaking of destiny by candlelight. He loved the heavy sigh before a great imagined burden. He loved being pitied for battles not yet fought and admired for victories not yet won.
He was forever saying, “Were it not for my luck, I would have been the greatest among them.”
And there was always some fool, fresh-hearted and kind, willing to believe him. So he gathered companions the way burrs gather on wool.
