When the door closed behind Daario, Ethel remained motionless, listening as the mercenary's footsteps faded down the hallway. Only then did he allow himself to release the breath he had been holding. The pain in his side was intense but bearable, a real sensation that confirmed he wasn't dreaming.
With cautious movements, he sat up on the edge of the bed. The floorboards creaked under his bare feet as he tried to steady himself. His body felt simultaneously familiar and foreign, as if he inhabited a perfectly tailored suit he had never worn before.
"This can't be real," he whispered, his fingers tracing the outline of the bandaged wound on his side. "There has to be an explanation."
He tried to organize his thoughts, separating what he knew with certainty from what he only intuited. Most disturbing was that, although he remembered his life perfectly, the faces of the people who had been part of it had vanished. He tried to visualize his parents, but where their features should be, he found only an indistinct fog. The same happened with the faces of his friends, his teachers, his classmates. Names without faces, stories without protagonists.
"If this is real..." he muttered, looking at his hands as if expecting them to vanish at any moment. "If I'm truly in another world..."
He stopped, unable to complete the thought. The magnitude of what it implied was too overwhelming to process all at once. If he had really crossed some kind of barrier between worlds, if somehow he had been reborn or transported to a different universe.
With determination, Ethel began constructing a story that could explain his presence in that forest clearing without revealing his true origin. He needed something believable, something that would justify both his initial confusion and his evident ignorance of certain customs or places.
Amnesia from trauma, he thought. No, too convenient. Besides, I remember too many things about this world for that to be credible.
It would be best to stay close to the truth. A traumatized survivor of a dark ritual that had gone terribly wrong. Someone who had witnessed something terrible and whose mind blocked certain memories as a defense mechanism.
The sound of footsteps approaching down the hallway interrupted his musings. Ethel hurried back to the bed, adopting a posture that suggested weakness but not complete helplessness. The door opened, revealing Daario, who carried a tray with bread, cheese, and a pitcher that probably contained wine or water. Behind him entered another man, shorter and thinner, with an elaborate hairstyle of reddish braids adorned with small silver bells that chimed softly with each movement of his head.
"Our guest has awakened, I see," commented the newcomer, observing Ethel with penetrating jade-green eyes that seemed to evaluate his worth as they would any merchandise. "An admirable recovery, considering your state when they found you."
Daario placed the tray on a nearby table and leaned against the wall, his hand never straying too far from the hilt of his arakh.
"Ethel, this is Nymerio Tolos," the mercenary introduced. "A merchant from Braavos and the one responsible for you now resting in a bed instead of feeding the crows in that forest."
Ethel inclined his head slightly in a sign of respect and gratitude.
"I owe you my life, then," he responded with deliberately weak voice. "I have no way to repay such a debt."
Nymerio made a dismissive gesture with his jeweled hand.
"Information sometimes is worth more than gold," he replied, drawing a chair closer to sit beside the bed. "And you, young survivor, possess information that interests me enormously."
His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied every detail of Ethel's face.
"Daario has told me you don't remember how you came to that clearing. That your memory is... fragmented."
It wasn't a question, but an invitation to elaborate. Ethel felt the weight of that inquisitive gaze, aware that this man was not someone who could be easily deceived. A Braavosi merchant didn't reach such a position without knowing how to read people better than account books.
"My mind is like a broken mirror," Ethel began, carefully choosing his words. "I see fragments, but not the complete image."
His hands intertwined over his lap, a natural gesture to hide any treacherous trembling.
"But there are things that are slowly returning," he continued, noticing how both Nymerio and Daario leaned imperceptibly forward. "I remember... voices. Many voices, terrified murmurs."
Ethel closed his eyes, as if the effort of remembering was physically painful. In reality, he was mentally organizing his story, making sure not to make mistakes.
"There were people chained in the forest," he continued, his voice now barely a whisper. "Many people together. I could hear their fear, their prayers, their laments."
He opened his eyes, meeting Nymerio's intense gaze.
"And men in black robes, hooded. I couldn't see their faces, but I heard their voices. They were... praying, I think. In a language I don't understand, but that made my skin crawl."
Ethel noticed how Daario and Nymerio exchanged a meaningful look.
"A ritual?" asked the merchant, his voice carefully neutral.
Ethel nodded slowly.
"I believe so. The hooded ones formed a circle around the captives. There were symbols drawn on the ground, traced with something dark that gleamed under the torchlight."
He shuddered, and this time it wasn't an act. The story he was weaving, though invented, evoked disturbing images even for himself.
"And then..." Ethel stopped, as if the memory was too terrible to verbalize.
"Then what?" pressed Daario, taking a step toward the bed.
"Then the fire appeared," Ethel replied, his voice becoming hollow. "Not from the torches, not from any visible source. It simply... appeared, as if the air itself had ignited. It began in the center of the circle and spread like a wave, growing larger and hotter."
His hands clenched the sheets.
"The screams..." he murmured, and this time the horror in his voice was genuine, because he was remembering the real fire he had lived through. "The hooded ones were the first to burn. The fire consumed them as if they were made of dry straw. Then, the flames reached the captives."
Ethel raised his gaze, meeting Nymerio's eyes.
"I shouldn't have survived," he concluded, with a conviction he didn't have to fake. "The fire surrounded me on all sides. I felt its heat, saw how it devoured everything around me. And then... then I only remember waking up here."
A heavy silence settled in the room when Ethel finished his tale. Nymerio observed him with an indecipherable expression, while Daario had abandoned his relaxed posture to straighten up, his hand now firmly resting on the hilt of his arakh.
"Fire that appears from nowhere," the mercenary finally murmured. "Sounds like blood magic, the kind practiced by the red priests of R'hllor."
Nymerio slowly shook his head, making the small bells in his braids produce a musical tinkling that contrasted macabrely with the gravity of the conversation.
"The followers of the Lord of Light control their fire," he objected. "If it had been their work, the officiants wouldn't have burned as well."
The merchant leaned forward, his jade eyes scrutinizing Ethel's face as if searching for truth written in his features.
"Did you recognize any symbol? Anything that could identify which cult or sect these hooded ones belonged to?"
Ethel pretended to make an effort to remember.
"There was a main symbol, traced in the center of the circle," he finally replied. "A kind of spiral, I think. With ramifications extending outward, like... like the twisted branches of a dead tree."
Nymerio exchanged a glance with Daario, and something silent seemed to be communicated between them.
"The warlocks of Qohor are famous for practicing human sacrifice," the mercenary commented. "But even they respect certain limits. What you describe... that goes beyond any known ritual."
"Unless the purpose was precisely that," Nymerio murmured, more to himself than to the others. "A ritual designed to fail catastrophically."
Ethel raised an eyebrow, intrigued by this line of thought he hadn't anticipated.
"Why would anyone want that?"
Nymerio leaned back in his chair, his fingers playing distractedly with the medallion hanging from his neck.
"Magic has its rules, even in its darkest forms," he explained. "And sometimes, the greatest power is released not when a ritual succeeds, but when it fails spectacularly."
The merchant directed a penetrating look at Ethel.
"Which leads me to wonder: of all the people present in that clearing, why were you the only one to survive?"
The question hung in the air like a sword over Ethel's head. It was the weak point of his story, the part for which he had no convincing explanation because there was no logical explanation for being alive when everyone else had perished.
"I don't know," he finally admitted, opting for partial honesty. "I shouldn't be alive. The fire reached me, I felt it on my skin. And yet..."
He raised his hands, examining them as if expecting to find them charred.
"Perhaps the gods had other plans for me," he suggested, aware of how pretentious it sounded even as he said it.
To his surprise, Nymerio nodded as if the answer made sense.
"The gods, fate, chance... different names for forces we don't understand," the merchant philosophized. "Whatever the reason, you're here, and that in itself is significant."
He rose with a fluid movement, the bells in his braids chiming softly.
"You need to rest and recover your strength," he declared, his tone transforming from inquisitive to almost paternal. "We'll talk more when your mind is clearer."
Before Ethel could respond, Nymerio headed for the door. However, he stopped at the threshold and turned, as if he had just remembered something important.
"One last question, if you'll permit me," he said, his voice deceptively casual. "Before these... events in the forest, where did you come from? Do you have family, friends who might be looking for you?"
The question was apparently innocent, but Ethel perceived the cunning behind it. It was a trap to detect inconsistencies in his story.
"I..." he began, then stopped, as if the effort of remembering was too great. "I don't remember."
He brought a hand to his head, in a gesture of frustration.
"It's as if my life before the forest was wrapped in fog. I have the feeling I traveled a lot, but I can't remember names of places or people."
He looked directly into Nymerio's eyes, allowing the genuine confusion he felt about his situation to reflect on his face.
"I suppose that part of my memories hasn't returned yet."
The merchant studied him for a long moment, his jade eyes impenetrable.
"Or perhaps it never will," he finally suggested with a slight smile. "Sometimes, forgetting is a gift from the gods."
With a farewell gesture, Nymerio left the room, leaving Ethel alone with Daario, who continued observing him with a mixture of curiosity and distrust.
"Eat something," the mercenary ordered, pointing to the tray he had brought. "You'll need to recover your strength."
Outside, in the hallway, Nymerio stopped beside a window overlooking the inn's courtyard. The evening light cast long shadows over the cobblestones as he watched Daario's mercenaries training, sharpening both their swords and their skills.
His fingers absently caressed the medallion of the god of many faces hanging from his neck.
Interesting, he thought. Very interesting.
Ethel finished the last piece of cheese from the tray while Daario remained standing by the door, observing him with attentive eyes that seemed to miss no detail.
"The bread is hard and the cheese too salty," the mercenary commented with a crooked smile, "but on the roads one learns to be grateful for any food that isn't rotten."
"It's the best feast I've had in days," Ethel replied, taking a long drink from the pitcher that turned out to contain a spiced and surprisingly pleasant wine. "Thank you."
A silence settled between them, not entirely uncomfortable but charged with unspoken questions. Finally, Daario moved away from the wall.
"You should rest," he said, collecting the empty tray. "The healer will come at nightfall to change your bandages. Don't try to get up alone; that wound could open again."
Ethel nodded, suddenly aware of the exhaustion weighing on his eyelids. The tension of the interrogation, added to the physical effort of staying alert, had drained the few energies he had recovered.
"Daario?" he called when the mercenary was about to leave. "Do you believe in magic?"
The question seemed to surprise the blue-haired man, who stopped at the threshold, reflecting seriously before responding.
"I've seen enough of the world to know there are things that no steel can cut, no coin can buy, and no ordinary mind can understand," he finally answered. "Some call it magic, others the will of the gods. I prefer to stay away from both."
With those cryptic words, the mercenary closed the door behind him, leaving Ethel alone with his thoughts.
The young man lay back on the bed, his mind spinning between fragments of memories, theories, and concerns.
The warm light of the rising sun filtered through the small window of the room, drawing golden patterns on the worn wooden floor. Ethel awakened slowly, momentarily disoriented until the memories of the previous day returned to him with clarity.
He sat up, expecting to feel the stab of pain in his side, but to his surprise, the discomfort had diminished considerably during the night. He pushed aside the sheets and examined the bandages covering his wound. There were no stains of fresh blood, a good sign.
Cautiously, he swung his legs to one side of the bed and placed his feet on the floor. The room remained stable, without the dizziness he had experienced during his brief moments of consciousness in the previous days. Slowly, he stood up, prepared to sit back down if pain or weakness overcame him.
To his amazement, his legs supported him without difficulty. The wound in his side protested slightly with a dull twinge, but nothing compared to the agony he would have expected from such a grave injury.
"Impressive," he murmured to himself, tentatively feeling the bandaged area. "Too fast to be normal."
He wondered if the healer from the Peaceful Isles had used some unknown technique or particularly effective herbs. Or perhaps, he thought with a shiver, his rapid recovery was related to the way he had arrived in this world.
His gaze swept the room, stopping at a washbasin with fresh water and a change of clothes carefully folded on a stool by the window. Someone had entered while he slept, probably the silent healer.
He approached the window, enjoying the sensation of moving by his own will after days bedridden. From there he could observe part of the inn's courtyard and, beyond, fragments of the city of Qohor between the surrounding buildings.
Carefully, Ethel washed using the water from the basin and then examined the clothes they had left him: rough but resistant wool trousers, a simple linen shirt, and an unadorned leather vest. Basic but functional garments, appropriate for a middle-rank merchant or perhaps an artisan. Nothing that would draw attention on the streets of a commercial city.
He dressed slowly, familiarizing himself with the different fastenings and ties than those he was accustomed to. The clothes fit surprisingly well, as if someone had taken measurements while he slept.
Once dressed, Ethel felt more secure, more anchored to this new reality. He took a few experimental steps around the room, checking that his balance and strength improved with each passing minute.
"Good," he said to himself. "Now I need information."
Information about where exactly he was located, not just geographically but temporally.