665 Years Ago…
"Hugh! Hugh! Hugh!"
"Clomp! Clomp! Clomp!"
The ragged breath of a lone figure echoed through the dense, eerie forest, chased by the thunder of hooves. Rain had soaked the earth hours earlier, leaving the ground slick and treacherous beneath their boots.
Towering trees loomed overhead, their thick canopies blotting out the sun. Mist curled between trunks like ghostly fingers, turning the forest into a maze of shadows and uncertainty.
The figure—cloaked and hooded—clutched a sack in one hand and a sword in the other. Their steps were frantic, desperate.
"Hyaah! Hyaah!"
The shouts of horsemen grew louder, closing in.
The runner skidded to a halt behind a massive boulder, heart pounding. They crouched low, breath held, as the riders thundered past—unaware of the fugitive just feet away.
Silence returned.
The figure waited a beat longer, then slowly backed away from the boulder and turned to flee in the opposite direction.
But then...
"Aaa!"
Their foot slipped.
The boulder was near the edge of the cliff which had been hidden by moss and mist. The figure tumbled down the slope, crashing through underbrush, twisting their ankle, and striking their head against a jagged rock.
They landed hard.
Unmoving.
Unconscious.
....
Croo! Croo! Croooo!
The rooster's call pierced the morning air, rousing the figure from unconsciousness.
They blinked slowly, disoriented, and found themselves lying on a bed of hay inside a grass-thatched hut. A thin cloth covered their body, and their injured leg was wrapped in a makeshift plaster—woven from tree bark and supported by wooden splints. Their head throbbed beneath a bandage tied snugly around their brow.
"Uurr.." the figure grunted in pain.
With effort, they sat up and peered outside.
A small village nestled deep within the forest came into view—hidden, peaceful, untouched by the chaos of the world beyond. The air was filled with the soft hum of morning chatter, laughter drifting between huts, and the mouthwatering scent of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries wafting through the breeze.
They scanned the room, eyes landing on the food placed on a small table. They limped toward it and ate like a hungry beast. After eating to their fill they drank water like a fish.
'I must have been unconscious for more than a day to be hungry and thirsty like this. Where am I? It doesn't matter I have to get out of here , otherwise I'll miss the deadline. Wait....where is my stuff?'
The figure then scanned the room again and saw their cloak neatly hung in the corner.
Ignoring the pain in their foot, they limped over and began rummaging through its folds. Relief washed over them as their fingers brushed the familiar texture of the sack—but their heart sank when they realized the sword was missing.
"Are you looking for this?"
A gentle voice rang out behind them.
They turned slowly.
Standing in the doorway was a young girl, radiant and serene. Her long wavy black hair framed a delicate face—black eyes gleaming with curiosity, cherry-pink lips curled into a smile, and a small sharp nose dusted with freckles. A headband woven from a rainbow of forest flowers crowned her head, and she wore a simple brown dress that swayed with her movements.
In her hands, she held the missing sword.
"You are but a young boy," the girl said, her voice gentle yet laced with curiosity. "Why wouldst thou carry such a dangerous weapon with thee?"
She wasn't wrong.
The figure before her was indeed a boy—handsome, with golden-brown hair that caught the light like spun copper, a small nose, plush pink lips, and eyes the color of blue sapphire flame. Despite his youth, his body was already sculpted, lean and toned like a warrior in training.
He smiled, a glint of mischief in his gaze.
"That's quite a dangerous weapon for a young maiden like you to wield," he replied, limping toward her until he stood just a breath away.
"You wouldn't want to get hurt with that, would you?"
The girl met his gaze without flinching—bold, unafraid. He liked that.
"If thou must know," she said, her voice rising with pride, "I am called The Maiden of the Rose—a reverend warrior chosen by Lady Wisdom herself to fight, protect, and defend our people unto death. So young, sir..."
Then, with swift precision, she unsheathed the sword and pointed it at his neck.
"I am not afraid to use thy blade against thee."
The boy chuckled softly. Amused.
'This little girl is like fire. And I like it. However, I cannot let her stand in the way of my plans. After I finish my task, maybe I could stop by again and play with her little. But right now...' he thought as he eyed the girl intently and the blade of his sword at his throat.
"I see… then I hope you won't mind if I do this."
Before she could react, he grabbed her sword hand and twisted it gently behind her back—not enough to hurt, but enough to hold her in place and drop the sword. His other arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her close to his chest.
"Hey! Let go of me!" she yelped, struggling. "Is that how you thank your savior?"
"Perhaps I should have left thee on the cliffside," she growled, "to be devoured by the beasts of the forest."
He leaned in, voice low and amused. "I live by one rule, Sweeches—never trust anyone. Especially your saviors."
Then, with a smirk, he released her.
She stumbled backward, landing with a soft thud on the hay bed, her eyes wide with indignation.
She turned sharply, her eyes blazing with fury.
The boy chuckled, unfazed. "Some Maiden of the Rose you are. I think Lady Wisdom made a mistake. Little girls shouldn't meddle in a man's world—only boys are destined to be warriors. Never forget that."
With a smug grin, he pulled on his cloak, grabbed his sack, and sheathed his sword. Then, reaching into his pocket, he tossed two gold coins onto the floor beside her.
"A small payment for saving my life. Perhaps one day, our paths shall cross again. Farewell, Maiden of the Rose."
He limped toward the door, his steps slow but deliberate, and disappeared into the morning light.
The girl stared after him, fists clenched, cheeks flushed with indignation.
"So thou mockest me for my stature?" she growled. "Hmph! I shall show thee who is worthy of being called a warrior, runt! I will show thee!"
She snatched up the coins and stormed out of the hut, determined to find him.
But he was gone.
Vanished into the forest mist like a ghost.
.....
Rumble! Rumble!
Thunder growled across the sky like the belly of a starving lion. Rain poured in relentless sheets, drenching the earth as if the heavens themselves were emptying their buckets.
The boy trudged through the muddy terrain, each step a battle against the slick ground and the pain radiating from his injuries. His pace was slow, labored—but his mission was clear. He had to deliver the goods in the sack to the buyer. One hundred and fifty gold coins awaited him. Nothing—not the storm, not the pain—was going to stop him from claiming the jackpot of his life.
"AAAH!"
A sharp cry escaped his lips as his foot slipped on the slope of a small hill. He tumbled down, limbs flailing, mud splattering across his cloak.
The sack flew from his grip, rolling ahead of him.
Groaning, he crawled toward it, heart pounding. The sack had come slightly undone. Ever since he'd stolen it from the rich master's mansion, it had remained sealed—he hadn't dared open it, not with guards chasing him through the night.
Now, curiosity clawed at him.
He reached inside, fingers brushing something unfamiliar—
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.
The sound of hooves.
He froze.
Lifting his gaze, his breath caught in his throat.
They were everywhere.
Dark figures on black horses emerged from the mist and rain, surrounding him in a tightening circle. No escape. No cover.
Just the storm.
And the sack.
"Well, well… isn't it my good lad, Phillips."
The boy turned, breath ragged, eyes narrowing.
A man rode toward him, clad in gleaming royal armor. The crest on his chest—a golden horse mid-gallop over a white field, bordered in radiant gold—shone even through the rain. Around him, soldiers bore matching armor and flags bearing the same emblem.
"What wouldst thou be stealing this time?" the man mused. "Gold? Jewelry? Diamonds? Or something even more precious…"
Phillips said nothing but glared at the man.
His grip tightened around the sack, fury burning in his sapphire eyes.
The man chuckled. "Ah, that fire in you, Phillips. It always finds a way to rattle me. Too bad it doesn't work. But I promise—I'll find a way to use it to my advantage."
Before Phillips could move, a soldier kicked him hard from behind, sending him sprawling face-first into the mud. Another ripped the sack and sword from his grasp and handed them to the man.
The man opened the sack.
His eyes widened—just for a moment—before returning to their usual cold calm. He glanced down at Phillips, who was grunting and writhing in the dirt.
"Take him to the barracks," he ordered. "Tell Luther to deal with him until I arrive."
The soldiers tied Phillips up and dragged him away.
Meanwhile, the man rode back toward a grand carriage surrounded by guards. Royal flags hung from its sides, soaked and dripping in the rain.
He approached the window and knocked.
"What is it?" came a small voice from within.
"An ear for your time, my Prince," the man said.
"Is it important enough to halt my ride?" the voice asked.
The man leaned closer and spoke.
"Canes et chacalli similes videntur, sed tandem alter naturam suam veram ostendet. Noli falli… effod thesaurum."
The window slid open immediately after the man said those words.
A pale hand reached out.
The man handed over the sack. The hand withdrew, and the window closed.
"Move," said the voice inside.
"Let's move on!" the man barked, and the procession began to roll forward.
Inside the carriage sat a boy dressed in a regal red-and-black outfit, the golden horse crest stitched across his chest. His long, dark, wavy hair cascaded over his shoulders like ink on silk.
He reached into the sack and drew out its contents.
A black velvet box.
Ominous. Sealed. Locked with a mechanism unlike any other.
He ran a finger across the surface, eyes gleaming.
"Tandem te inveni, meus pretiosus," he whispered.
Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the box in a burst of silver light.
Then came the thunder.
Rumble! Rumble!
....
Back in the Present…
RUMBLE! RUMBLE!
"Hugh!!"
Isaac shot upright in bed, gasping for air. Rain lashed against the hospital windows, the storm echoing through the ceiling like a distant war drum.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He turned toward the heart monitor, its steady rhythm grounding him in reality. His eyes darted around the room—white walls, sterile light, the unmistakable scent of antiseptic.
He was in a hospital.
It took a moment for his breathing to slow, for the panic to ebb. He leaned back against the pillows, fingers brushing the bandage wrapped around his head.
Then his gaze fell on the table beside him.
A black velvet box.
It sat silently, ominously, as if waiting.
Isaac stared at it, unsure if he was still dreaming. The memory of the storm, the chase, the voice—it all felt too vivid to be imagined.
He sighed, voice low and shaken.
"What the hell was that?"
Rumble. Rumble.
Thunder rolled outside. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room in a brief, ghostly glow.
And if he'd looked just a moment longer…
He might have seen it.
The bottom of the velvet box shimmered with a faint, ominous blue light.
But as his eyes drifted closed—
It began to fade.