Chapter 1 – The Awakening
For centuries, the forest had remained still, unbroken, untouched by war or whisper. Legends spoke of a place where time itself had folded, where even memory dared not tread. Few believed them. Fewer still returned.
Then the sky split — not with thunder, but with silence. A murder of birds tore through the heavens, their wings cleaving the stillness like blades through silk. Beneath the ancient canopy, the shadows recoiled — not from fear, but as though remembering something older than fear itself.
Something stirred. Not for the first time.
The world shivered, like a breath held too long. And then, as though honoring an unspoken vow, it fell utterly still.
From a bed of moss and stone, his eyes opened.
In the space between sleep and breath, flashes came — a throne crumbling into dust, a blade made of starlight, a voice that once called him king… All gone. All faded.
There was no panic, no confusion — only the quiet weight of return. A soul not waking, but remembering.
He rose — not with the awkwardness of flesh, but with the ease of inevitability. The earth steadied beneath him. Trees leaned ever so slightly inward, and the wind hesitated, as though unsure whether to embrace or flee.
Silver strands spilled over his shoulders like flowing moonlight. His form — tall, precise, still — held a calm that defied mortality. He did not walk. He arrived.
The world twisted near him — light and shadow unsure which to obey. Beneath his skin, something stirred: a whisper without voice, a name without sound.
"This land… this silence…""I will find its truths."
A scream cleaved the stillness. Then another — closer, sharper, laced with terror.
He moved.
The forest gave way as if it knew. Roots shifted. Branches pulled back. Leaves whispered ancient names. There was no urgency in his steps. No fear. He merely willed — and distance vanished.
The clearing opened like a wound, and there, amidst firelight and ash, stood a child.
She stood paralyzed, trembling not in body, but in soul. Not fear, but futility gripped her. The knowledge that nothing in her world could stop what had come.
A hydra towered — black-scaled and steaming, eyes molten with hunger. Four heads swayed like serpents in rhythm, flames curling between their jagged fangs. The forest around them smoldered, trees scorched and dying.
He stepped forward, and the beast noticed.
His limbs did not hesitate. They remembered. The stance, the balance, the silence before the strike. It was not instinct. It was a pattern learned long before breath.
Four heads turned. Fire bloomed.
He raised his hand.
What followed was not reflex. It was memory. A strike. A hiss. A severed head collapsed into ash.
>"One," he whispered.
From behind him, her voice rang out:
> "The heart! Strike the heart!"
He did not look back. Only replied:
> "As you command."
Black fire surged along his arm. He leapt — higher than gravity permitted — and fell like divine judgment.
The earth split. The flames died. The hydra collapsed, silent and still.
She stared at him — not with fear, but disbelief. Like she had seen something the world had long denied.
Her mouth parted, but no sound came. This wasn't what heroes looked like in her books. He was too quiet. Too ancient. Like a shadow that had stepped out of a forgotten prayer.
> "What… what are you?" she whispered.
He turned his gaze to her — still, unreadable.
> "I do not know."
She hesitated, then stepped forward, voice trembling.
> "My name is Angela. I live beyond the forest. My mother is sick. I came searching for a herb — one said to bloom here."
Her hands clenched around the hem of her cloak.
> "I didn't expect monsters…""I didn't expect you."
He said nothing for a moment. Then:
> "Take me to her."
Not a question. A path chosen.
She blinked.
> "O-okay…"
They walked in silence, the forest whispering around them. Angela cast him a glance — cautious, curious.
After a long pause, her voice rose, soft as falling leaves.
> " You're not from here… are you?"
He did not look at her when he answered.
> " No."
She hesitated, then asked:
> "Then… where did you come from?"
> "I do not know."
That answer — calm, unshaken — made her chest tighten. She slowed her pace, searching his face for something, anything.
> "You remember nothing? Not even a name?"
> "Only shadows," he said, and there was a strange finality in it —as though even the shadows hurt to recall.
She looked down at her feet, frowning.
> "That's… lonely," she whispered.
No answer came. Only the sound of their steps against the earth, and the forest breathing around them.
But even in his silence, she could feel it —the weight he carried, like a name long buried, aching to be remembered.
She paused and glanced up. Something about him felt like a story she'd once heard but forgotten how it ended.
Then, softly:
> "You… you're an elf, aren't you?"
He slowed.
> "Elf…""Is that what you see?"
"The silver hair. The ears. The way the forest watches you. You don't move like others. You move like… something remembered."
He said nothing.
And she did not ask again. But the question clung to her thoughts like a name unspoken.
At last, the village came into view — slouched and timeworn. The houses leaned with age, their beams warped and weary. Roofs sagged under the weight of countless seasons. Fences lay broken, half-swallowed by weeds and dust.
The air was thick — not just with silence, but with something that had long forgotten how to speak.
No one stepped forward.
A child peeked from behind a doorway, clutching a broken doll. An old man removed his hat and bowed, not knowing why. None dared speak — as if a single word might shatter something holy.
Angela led him along the narrow path. The ground felt brittle beneath their steps.She stopped before a crooked doorway. The wood groaned as if protesting their arrival. The house stood still — not welcoming, but enduring.
She lives here? In this ruin of splinters and dust… Strange. I expected more — though I do not know why.
Inside, the air turned stagnant. The scent of illness clung to everything.
A woman lay on a low bed, barely moving. Her skin was pale and thin like old paper.Her breath shallow, fading.
Angela knelt beside her. Not crying — only holding on.
> "Mother…"
Her voice cracked like something too long restrained.
He stepped forward. His hand hovered above the woman's chest.
Something stirred.
Not power. Not magic. Something older.
A voice, strong and internal:
> "You have forgotten what you are… but not what you can become."
The candle flickered, then flared. Light swelled from his palm — soft, true, timeless.
The woman gasped. Color returned to her cheeks.
Angela let out a breath caught somewhere between a sob and a prayer.
He looked at his hand.
> "That was not power," he murmured."That was… memory."
As he turned and stepped into the night.
Beyond the trees, cloaked in mist, crimson eyes gleamed.
A figure watched — silent, still, waiting.
And when the door creaked closed behind him, it vanished like smoke.