"what?"
I tried opening my eyes; however, I couldn't pull my eyes open. The sensation of some sort of icky substance flew through my eyes, causing me to cannot open my eyes.
I shifted to my other senses, focusing on my smell instead; the smell of human feces mixed with rotting corpse and rancid eggs assaulted me. I couldn't help but wish the situation of my eyes and nose were reversed.
I tried moving my body to sit upright, which caused searing pain to sink deep into my bones. My arms struggled as if moving through dense water, resisting my every effort to lift myself.
I couldn't help but give up the idea of sitting upright. Instead I opted to half open my eyes and bring my hand above my face, an action that took considerable effort.
"What?", I couldn't help mutter under my breath
I was baffled because my hands were replaced by a boney short hand covered in skin, however the arm looked so malnourished that it could easily be mistaken as a decomposing body.
'Thump-thump'
My heart started to beat faster, yet even my heartbeat was instinctually different. It felt duller. it didn't have the energy & intensity of a man who stayed fit.
My mind raced trying to figure out my last memory, trying to figure out my current predicament
"I am Marcel", I muttered, trying to reassure myself that everything will be alright. A phrase I have used countless times before I entered any battlefield.
But this time the phrase didn't have the same reassurance it usually had on me. I took a deep breath before I reviewed my thoughts.
My last memory before waking up was entering a cave; however, my memory before and after entering the cave felt extremely murky. A feeling I have felt countless times before any assessment test.
My hypothesis was reincarnation, possession or delirium as a result of a caving accident. I couldn't bring myself to the options other than delirium or concussion were more than just a plausible remote explanation.
I, after several odd minutes of effort was able to half open one of my eye.
I was in a cave the size of a modest house, and there was water dripping from roof into a puddle. There were several dead rodents that looked like a mix of rats and moles but with no eye hole.
I would have usually been curious to inspect the body, but my grumbling stomach and parched mouth forced me to move my body towards the water puddle to drink.
I hobbled along, still feeling as though each move sent a jolt through my bones, and each move took more effort than the last.
With a lot of effort, I made my way to the puddle, gently touching the water to my mouth. I was no stranger to thirst—I had known the ache, the dryness, the way your body turns on itself when there's nothing left. But this time, the thirst felt personal, punishing, like it was angry I had survived this long.
A hole in the cave's ceiling let a shaft of light fall directly onto the puddle, illuminating it just enough for me to see my reflection. I dismissed the idea of delirium or concussion almost instantly—because the face staring back at me wasn't mine.
The face staring back at me was caked in sticky red mud, smeared from hairline to neck like a grotesque mask. My eye—if it could even be called mine—was a pale, seaweed-blue, glassy and unfamiliar. I couldn't even tell the true colour of my hair beneath the layers of filth.
I plunged my face into the shallow, icy water—not just to scrub away the mud, but to quiet the chaos in my head. The cold bit into my skin, but it did little to drown out the rising sense of dread. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. A quiet, crawling foreboding settled in the pit of my chest and a feeling of dread.
My reasons were unimportant; I started preparing for the worst, a routine by now. I inhaled deeply, accepting my fate, and resolved to do my best.
With my eyes now cleared up, I was able to take a clear look around the cave I was in. The person who owned the body had done a decent job of turning the cave into a semi-livable abode. As someone who was used to bivouacking, this setup felt more than cosy.
I looked around and spotted a name, "Marcel Solvenari". As soon as I read the name aloud, I felt my body get noticeably lighter and the movement of my body got easier. Earlier, there was a sense of desync with my own body, but now it felt as though I had fixed it.
…
In a spacious, high-ceilinged office sat a tall man with a commanding presence and a thick beard. He looked every bit like a seasoned short-tempered warrior—if not for the vivid orange glow in his eyes. He reclined in a luxurious wooden chair, surrounded by stacks of documents sprawled across an ornate desk, each stamped with the weight of importance.
Yet his attention wasn't on the papers.
It was on the knight kneeling before him, ashen-haired and grim-faced.
"Sir," the knight began, his voice tight, "the youngest has run away. He used a Sixth-Circle scroll from the treasury."
The orange-eyed man didn't look up. He casually turned a page in the report he was reading, expression unreadable.
"Henry," he said, almost bored, "how did my third son manage to steal a Sixth-Circle scroll from my treasury?"
The knight—Henry—held his silence for a moment, his thoughts swirling. He didn't believe this was a mere coincidence. He suspected something deeper—a plot woven by the Marquise herself to quietly rid the family of a son born with a broken body. In a house of mages, such a defect was not merely unfortunate. It was shameful. A stain.
And stains, in noble families, were often erased.
As a knight of the marquis, he was wise enough to never voice out his suspicion. He knew well that his next words would determine his fate; he couldn't escape punishment, but at least he might escape death.
"The young master is quite smart, I found evidence he was looking into forbidden magic from a shamanic book"
The Marquise briefly gave the knight a cursory glance before he dove back into the paper. His face indiscernible.
"Alright, you may leave"
The knight, not wanting to anger the marquise, left with a hurried but respectful bow.
From behind the Marquise, a shadowy figure stepped into view—half cloaked in darkness, his presence barely more than a whisper.
"My lord," the figure said softly, "it was under the Lady's orders. We believe the young master used the scroll to transport himself into the Uncharted Forest."
The Marquise's brow finally furrowed. He exhaled slowly—a weary breath, not of shock, but of resignation.
"Prepare the funeral," he said flatly. "Even a seasoned mortal hunter would struggle to survive in that place… let alone Marcel."
His voice did not contain the warmth of a father who likely lost his son, but rather that of a third party analysing the situation.