A cold shiver crept down his spine before his eyes even opened.The air was damp, heavy, tasting faintly of iron and moss.
Fog clung low across the forest floor, winding itself around crooked roots and jagged stones like a living thing. The trees stood tall and skeletal, their branches clawing at the pale sky. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed—sharp and hollow.
The boy stirred. His back ached against the wet earth, his fingertips brushing soil that clung to his skin. In his right hand, he gripped a sword.
Its steel was etched with strange, glimmering runes. They pulsed faintly—like the beat of a heart.
He stared at it, confusion flickering in his gaze.
His clothes were torn, threads hanging loose like cobwebs. His left hand was blistered, raw from some battle he couldn't recall. And his mind… was empty.
No name.
No past.
Only a strange ache in his chest, pulling him toward something unseen.
It might be home. It might be death. It might be something worse.
The silence broke with the faint murmur of running water.
He pushed himself to his feet, each movement stiff, his muscles aching. The fog swirled around him as he walked, carrying the faint scent of damp leaves.
But before he could reach the water's edge, the world shifted.
A low growl rumbled behind him.
He turned.
From the mist emerged a shadow beast—wolf-like, its form shifting as though carved from smoke. Its eyes glowed like molten amber, fixed on him with hunger.
The boy's breath caught, but his body moved before his mind could catch up.
The sword rose.
The beast lunged.
Steel sang as he slashed, spun, and parried—each strike sending warmth surging through his veins. The sword seemed to guide his movements, pulling him into a rhythm he didn't know he possessed.
With a final thrust, the blade pierced the creature's heart.
The shadow beast dissolved into black smoke, curling away into the fog.
In its place, a shard of crystal clattered to the ground.
When he picked it up, it burned—not painfully, but with an unsettling heat that sank into his palm.
A voice came from behind him.
"You fight well… for someone who doesn't know his own name."
The boy spun around. A cloaked traveler stood there, half-hidden in the mist. The hood shadowed their face, but the faint glint of eyes watched him closely.
"Who are you?" the boy asked, his tone wary but tinged with curiosity.
The traveler's head tilted. "The better question is—who are you?"
The boy's grip on the sword tightened. "I don't know. I woke up here. This sword was already in my hand."
"That sword isn't yours," the traveler said softly, "and yet… it chose you. The more you wield it, the closer you will come to remembering. But memories…" The traveler's voice dropped to a whisper. "…can kill as much as they can save."
The boy stepped forward. "Then tell me. Who am I?"
The traveler only shook their head. "Not here. Not yet. This is Dreadwillow Forest—home to creatures far worse than the one you just fought. You won't survive them all."
"Then where do I go?"
The traveler pointed toward a faint, reddish glow in the horizon. "Find the village at the edge of the Red Mountains. There… the truth begins."
Before the boy could speak again, the traveler's form wavered like smoke, then vanished into the mist.
The boy stood alone once more.
The forest was quiet again, save for the whisper of the river nearby.
Kneeling beside it, he looked at his reflection. His face was pale, eyes unfamiliar. But as he stared, they flickered—just for an instant—with a strange golden light.
His voice was barely a breath.
"Who… am I?"
The sword's runes pulsed faintly in answer, though whether in comfort or warning, he couldn't tell.
Straightening, he tightened his grip and turned toward the distant mountains.
Somewhere beyond them lay answers.
High in the canopy, hidden from sight, something watched him go. Its voice was a whisper on the wind.
"The Origin… awakens."