I can’t entirely recall what happened that day—the day. A time so long ago that the memories are scarce, vague even. Following a small thread of coherent events, not entirely logical but frustrating in their incompleteness. In time, I learned that the mind conceals what it finds unbearable to recall, as though the pain of reliving those moments is too intense, too fearful, for it to endure.
It was a quiet, ordinary day, the kind easily forgotten. Large gray clouds hung heavy above, a looming shroud in the sky. I can’t remember if the rain had begun to fall, but the air was filled with the distinct, earthy scent of a coming storm—like wet grass and soil turned fresh by moisture. In the distance, rolling hills folded into the horizon, soft and endless. Light seeped through breaks in the clouds, casting patches of dappled brightness across the ground it touched. Birds, or so I think I remember, soared above, racing one another through the thick air.
Humble homes dotted the town of Chepstow, their roofs a dark brown, resembling hardened, dried mud. The windows—cloudy and warped—seemed perpetually dirty, capturing distorted images of the world outside. It was a village known for its sprawling farmland. People from nearby settlements would travel here weekly to work the fields, helping the locals maintain the land. Meanwhile, Chepstow’s own townsfolk dedicated their efforts to refining the yields, a livelihood built from the golden threads of harvest.
To the east, I recall a river, broad and powerful. Its waters surged with a vigor I found overwhelming as a child of no more than five winters. It wasn’t a roaring waterfall, but to my small frame and timid heart, it felt as though it might have been.
What else am I forgetting? Perhaps the gritty dirt path beneath my bare feet, or the woman who held my hand so firmly. She was beautiful, with hair like dark chocolate, falling in silken waves past her shoulders. Her face was soft and round, her eyes slightly sunken and tired, her nose small and button-like. Her tunic, long and worn, brushed just above her battered shoes. I don’t remember her name or who she was, but the thought of her presence had always brought me comfort.
We walked along the outskirts of the village. She spoke gently, her voice warm and sweet, pointing toward the distant croplands that stretched yellow and vibrant across the horizon. The air was brisk, filled with the familiar scent of hay. Wheelbarrows stuffed to the brim lined the path, the pungent sweetness wafting about.
Then, something happened. Something that tore the moment apart. A sound—soft at first, almost imperceptible. But it grew. The woman froze mid-step, her grip tightening on my hand. Her gaze drifted toward the woods on the far edge of the village, and when I followed her line of sight, I saw it too.
Horses. They emerged from the tree line, their forms dark and powerful. Their hooves pounded the earth in a relentless rhythm, sending clouds of dust into the air as they skidded to a halt. Their riders were draped in cloaks—some black as the storm-laden sky, others vibrant with deep hues of purple, almost like a hierarchy of power, I assumed.
That’s when I knew the peace of Chepstow was over.
One figure stood different. His robe was black but lined with gold trim, catching the faintest glimmer of light. At his hip hung a simple dagger. The others wielded bastard swords, their blades unsheathed and ready. It seemed peculiar to me why he had a weapon so feeble in comparison.
There were twenty of them, as far as my young mind could count—a small army, yet more than enough to command silence. The village stilled; every soul transfixed by the riders. The peace that had blanketed Chepstow just moments before was gone. No one more fearful than the woman holding my hand. Glancing upward she took on an almost ghostly appearance. Pale skin and a shaky grasp upon my skin.
“Alaric,” I remember her whispering, her voice dripping as sweetly as honey. Yet as her mouth opened to continue, revealing crooked but white teeth, she was interrupted by a presence far larger than hers.
The shadows of his hood concealed his features at first, but after a moment, he pulled it back to reveal an old, grizzled face. Creases and scars—oh my god, so many scars. Some were faded and pale, others red and fresh, still scabbing over. His golden hair fell in messy, untamed strands, framing his face. He sat atop the lead horse, his eyes scanning the crowd with a fierce intensity that made her pull me back instinctively.
“Well. This isn’t the place I expected,” the man announced, his voice ringing out. It was resounding, yet oddly middle-pitched, far from the depth I would have imagined. No one replied, and so he continued with a creeping smile. “I’m looking for a boy—and judging by those looks…” His eyes lingered on the growing crowd. “...you’re confused. Rightly so. Who wouldn’t be? Men riding into your peaceful village, swords in hand…” He spoke with unsettling nonchalance, as if all of this were some kind of joke. Waving a hand, he added, “Show them, boys. Sheath your weapons.”
His men hesitated but obeyed, sliding their swords back into their scabbards. “See? It’s not these metal sticks you need to worry about… oh no…” The man leaned forward on his horse, ducking slightly. “Perhaps who I am will clear up your confusion…”
Before he could finish, her hands swiftly covered my ears. She turned, steering me between two buildings with urgent haste. I struggled in her grasp, wanting to hear what he had to say, but her arms held firm around me.
Moments ticked by—one seconds, two seconds, three seconds—before a loud, muffled snap cut through the air. It was followed by the whistle of arrows soaring into the village. In the stillness, they looked like birds to me, graceful and fleeting. But these birds carried no mercy. They struck flesh brutally, tearing through the chests of those they hit. Villagers collapsed to the ground, their blood splattering in arcs or gushing in torrents.
Screams erupted. Chaos spread. Yet we stayed still, hidden in the narrow space between buildings. From where we hid, I could see the riders dismounting, their swords drawn again as they stormed into the village. They showed no discrimination—cutting down men, women, the old, and the young alike.
Her body trembled violently; her sobs muffled but relentless. The force of her grief seemed to shake the air around us, vibrating through me as she held me tighter. Her grip was so strong it felt as though she might crush me, making it hard to breathe. But even with the chaos surrounding us, I didn’t feel afraid. I didn’t feel in danger.
Not until she left my side.
Two of his men, their hoods barely clinging to their heads, shoved an old man to the ground. Unlike the others who marched toward the far end of town, these two stayed behind. One pressed a heavy boot against the man’s chest, forcing him down further. He must have been in his late fifties or early sixties—an age few reached, marked by thinning gray hair and a wiry, frail frame. The boot sank deeper into his chest as the second man crouched, gripping the old man’s face with armored fingers that left angry red imprints. Their lips moved, exchanging words I couldn’t hear. When the old man replied, a swift kick to his ribs sent him sprawling into the dirt.
She bolted toward him, her steps frantic, but before she could close the distance, the man in the golden-trimmed hood intercepted her with a callous knock to the ground.
“You...fuckers...” she gasped, clutching the back of her head where it struck the earth.
The man sneered, seizing her by the hair and hauling her up like a prize. She writhed in his grasp, crying out in pain. “Where’d you come from?” he taunted, his eyes briefly flicking toward me. His lips curled into a slow, malevolent grin, and for the first time, I felt a cold wave of fear settle over me.
Panicking, I scrambled backward, but he signaled to his men. They moved quickly, grabbing me by the legs and dragging me toward him. I flailed, but their grip was unyielding. With ease, they lifted me off the ground and held me aloft.
“This could have been avoided,” the man said with a chortle and glanced at her. “Oh my, you’re a pretty thing—” His words cut off as the old man groaned, still writhing in the dirt from the earlier assault. The man’s smile vanished, replaced by a scowl. “Goddammit, you piece of fucking shit, I’m trying to talk!” He strode over and delivered a brutal kick to the old man’s side, sending him rolling a few feet.
“Don’t touch him!” she cried, her voice breaking. “...I’ll kill you.”
“Tch, tch, tch,” he said, leaning close to her, his face inches from hers. He caressed her cheek slowly. “You truly are gorgeous. Don’t worry about him, my dear. He’ll be just fine.” He nodded toward his men. “Take the old man. Far, far away from here. Make sure he’s... comfortable.”
The men moved swiftly, dragging the groaning elder to his feet and escorting him out of sight. The golden-hooded man turned back to her, his hand trailing down her waist, then to her upper leg. “Now, what do you say...?”
She twisted away from his touch, her face contorted in disgust, before spitting directly into his face.
“You bitch—” he snarled, backhanding her with such force that she crumpled to the ground, crying out in pain. Wiping his face with her tunic, he knelt beside her. “Oh, I’ll pop you like a fucking watermelon,” he hissed, his hand curling lightly around her neck. For a moment, it seemed as though he might tighten his grip, but instead, he yanked her to her feet. “Restrain her and put her on my horse,” he barked, adding with a casual glance in my direction, “I’ll need her for later.”
“Vesperus?” one of the men queried hesitantly, his tone laced with confusion. Right—that was his name. It was hard to remember at times.
In a sudden burst of fury, Vesperus shoved the man aside. “Put her on my goddamn horse!” he growled, his voice a dangerous snarl before softening into an unsettling calm. Clicking his tongue, he turned back toward me.
As he approached, my breath quickened. I couldn’t move. Fear anchored me in place. He seized my collar with one hand and slid his other arm beneath me. In one fluid motion, he lifted me into the air as though I weighed nothing. His eyes roamed over me—my face, my arms, my legs—and back again. He smelled of wet fur and rot, a sickening odor that I tried not to react to.
“You... you’re the one, aren’t you?” he murmured, brushing my hair back with unsettling gentleness. His hand rested near my ear. “Care to share your name?” His tone was calm, almost soothing, but it belied the horror of the scene. “No? That’s fine. That’s fine, my little friend. I’ll find out soon enough.”
He set me down, but before I could react, he pulled out a dagger—or at least something resembling one. The weapon was grotesque, its surface a dark purple, with veins of lavender that pulsed like a living thing. The blade’s fleshy appearance made my stomach churn, and it radiated a sense of power—raw and unnatural. A feeling that was impossible to exist.
Vesperus raised the blade high, then slashed his own forearm. Black blood oozed from the wound, carrying with it the stench of death and decay. The smell was overwhelming, like something long-dead had been stuffed into his veins.
“Potent... hm?” he mused, lowering his arm toward my face. “My dear boy, you’ll need to drink up.” My eyes widened, and I tried to recoil, but my body refused to move. “No, no... it’s okay. It’s okay.” His voice dripped with mock reassurance as he pried my mouth open and pressed his bleeding arm against my lips.
The blood poured onto my tongue, bitter and burning, sending waves of pain coursing through my body. I convulsed, tears stinging my eyes as he chanted in an unknown tongue: “Llasvior miorrlafo pllionada.”
Then, something happened—or at least, I think it did. Vesperus vanished. Everyone vanished. The memory dissolves into nothing after that moment, leaving me questioning its reality. But after the blood spilled into my gums, the world faded into darkness.
Numbness. Ever-present and suffocating. It clung to me, wrapping itself around my senses like a heavy fog. Yet, as I squinted into the void, something began to take shape—or perhaps my eyes were merely adjusting to the oppressive darkness.
Black clouds swirled above, an ominous and impossible sight in this abyss of inky nothingness. How could clouds, so dark and alive with motion, exist in a place where light seemed banished? My gaze drifted downward.
The ground stretched out in a dull, crimson expanse, its surface mottled and textured like recently dried blood. It looked as if it had been poured out in fury and left to harden under an absent sun. With it came a familiar stench—metallic and unmistakable. The acrid scent of iron filled the air and invaded my nostrils
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t even smell anymore, though the stench lingered in my mind. It was as though I existed in a void—a perfect prison of nothingness. As that reality sank into my thoughts, despair overtook me. I sobbed, or at least I tried, but no tears came, no sound escaped. And then, as if summoned by the weight of my fear and sorrow, a distant bell tolled.
Small and unassuming, its chime echoed across the alien landscape, growing stronger with each beat. The world around me began to twist and distort until all that remained was a blinding, searing light. Just as quickly as it appeared, the light faded, and I was back—back in the village with Vesperus. His piercing eyes locked onto mine. I tasted blood on my lips, his blood, blooming from the wound he'd inflicted. He held me tightly in his arms.
“You’ve seen it…” he murmured so softly it was almost inaudible. “…Skarseld. Did you see…?” His words hung heavy in the air, but before he could finish, a guttural yell split through the moment, shattering the fragile calm.
In an instant—no more than a minute, perhaps two—everything changed. For the first time, something akin to hope flickered in my chest. Vesperus had moved to the corner of the two buildings we were sheltering between, peering cautiously around.
“Move! Now!” he barked. The urgency in his voice was unmistakable. Even I knew what it meant—the kingdom’s soldiers had been alerted. These weren’t ordinary men but internal warriors, a specialized unit trained for concentrated strikes.
Vesperus grabbed me and threw me over his shoulder as though I weighed nothing. Then he ran, weaving between the buildings, his movements swift and deliberate. My arms flailed as I bobbed up and down with the sudden momentum. As I twisted to look, the reason for our flight became starkly clear.
A force of at least sixty soldiers had appeared, their golden armor gleaming like flames in the sun. Each breastplate bore the sigil of Heladon, the kingdom they served. Half of them surged forward with shields and axes raised, while those behind readied their massive bastard swords.
“On me!” Vesperus roared, spittle flying as he sprinted ahead. “Protect the boy!”
His men obeyed instantly, forming a tight circle around us as we ran. For what felt like an eternity—but could only have been three minutes—we raced through the village, the pounding of boots echoing behind us. Yet as we reached the other end of the settlement, another squad of soldiers emerged, cutting off any hope of escape.
Vesperus skidded to a halt, his eyes darting in every direction, desperate for a way out. None came. He muttered a curse under his breath and tossed me roughly to the ground. Pain shot through my body as I landed with a dull thud. Groaning, I tried to push myself upright, only to feel the weight of a boot press against my back, forcing me down into the dirt.
“Unsheathe your weapons, slide them forward, and kneel!” barked a commanding voice.
Vesperus’s men hesitated, glancing toward him for guidance. With a casual shrug, he offered a faint, almost mocking smile.
“Do as he say boys. It will matter not,” he said with unnerving calm.
Reluctantly, his men complied. Their weapons clattered to the ground, and one by one, they dropped to their knees. But Vesperus defied the order. His dagger—a strange, pulsating thing—remained sheathed at his side. He stood tall.
“Not everything has gone to plan,” Vesperus admitted. The soldiers shifted uncomfortably, their patience thinning. “The boy was meant to come with me. That was the plan. But this… this will have to do.”
His eyes found mine, searching, almost pleading, as though seeking something only I could provide. Then he nodded, as if answering some unspoken question.
“It’ll have to do,” he whispered.
And then, before anyone could react, Vesperus vanished. His body dissolved into thin air, leaving no trace behind. For a moment, I thought the universe itself had erased him, snuffing him out of existence. But deep down, I knew the truth: sorcery. He had escaped, leaving us behind, or more merely, his men.
At the usage of magic, the soldiers roared forward. The oppressors stood no chance. Massive axes and long blades cutting them down with no mercy. I stared at the bloodshed in wide wake horror. A feeling of disgust crept up my spine, and despite the overruling fact that these murderers deserved to be killed, that fact seemed to elude my mind.
The memories that follow are scant. The soldiers placed me on a carriage that arrived about an hour later, and the subsequent three-day journey remains a blur. Our destination was a stronghold named Chlodovech Tower—a dark, gloomy place with long, cold corridors. It served as a pseudo-care facility for many of the poverty-stricken who became homeless.
Two months I spent there. It was a wretched, sickly place—one that clung to me like a fever. I didn’t sleep at all during the first week in its halls. The whispers of other children and the housekeepers painted pictures of its history. They said it had been an old keep during a siege, now repurposed for “social reasons.” Politics was something I never understood, nor cared to.
When they moved me to the Faust household, I expected something better—something lighter. But my anticipation quickly soured. The Fausts were a family of elites, their names intertwined with the royal family’s during that time. I remember my first encounter with them vividly, as if etched into my memory. I wasn’t introduced so much as inspected, an afterthought in a world that had already decided my role.
Their home, through my young, short stature, loomed impossibly grand. Towering white stone walls reached skyward, as though defying gravity itself. Large glass panels warped and imperfect, filtered light into peculiar shapes. Lanterns hung low, their warm yellow glow flickering across corners where shadows gathered. Beside me stood a burly man, thickset and round, his sagging stomach straining against his tunic.
He raised a massive fist and knocked on the door reverberatingly. From within came shuffling footsteps, followed by the appearance of a tall, slender man. He carried himself with an air of entitlement that clung to him like his poorly shaved face, fresh cuts dotting his chin. His black hair, slicked back, glistened faintly in the lantern light.
“Is this the child?” His voice was clipped, impatient.
The burly man gripped my arm tightly and yanked me forward into the light.
“It is,” he replied gruffly. “Chlodovech would like him to stay here—for safekeeping.”
He hesitated, “I understand that… he tampered with him?” The slender man, Faust, narrowed his eyes as he inspected me.
“We don’t know the extent,” the burly man continued. “That’s why he’s here. To be watched.”
Faust sneered, turning his gaze to the burly man. “Chlodovech can watch over his own child,” he said bitterly.
“Mustn’t speak of him like that,” the burly man snapped, “Nothing good comes of it.” Then, lifting me under my arms as if I weighed nothing, he held me aloft like a trophy. “He’s the only survivor of Chepstow.”
“Chepstow?” Faust repeated curiously. “That bad?”
“Hundreds dead,” the burly man confirmed solemnly.
“And this boy—what’s so special about him?” Faust asked skeptically.
The burly man shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out in time.”
Their words grew muffled after that, my mind retreating from the conversation. I wanted to escape, but there was nowhere to go. And so, my days, months, and eventually years unfolded in that house, serving the Faust family as little more than a ward in their care. They treated me decently enough. I ate bread and cheese each night—fish on the rare occasion I was lucky. Over time, a fragile semblance of normalcy began to root itself in my life.
But as I would learn, the universe has a way of uprooting such things. It always does. 51Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuuDNuRVVhL
