Darkness took him before he hit the ground.
Xean's world shrank to a narrow tunnel of pain and light, the scent of rain and blood thick in his lungs. He remembered the dagger. The mark. The final scream of the wolf creature
Then nothing.
Just the steady, aching pull of unconsciousness.
He woke to warmth.
Not fire, exactly though something crackled nearby but the heavy comfort of thick blankets and a roof overhead. His skin ached. His arm throbbed, but it was clean, wrapped tight with fresh bandages.
He blinked against the dim light. Wooden beams above. A slanted roof. The smell of dried herbs, smoke, and wet earth.
A cabin.
Somewhere safe.
Somewhere far from the clearing.
Xean tried to sit up, but a hand pressed gently against his shoulder firm, but not harsh.
"Easy there," a voice said. Male. Low, rough like gravel, but not unkind. "You move too quick, you'll tear those stitches open again."
Xean turned his head and saw the man. Mid-forties, broad-shouldered. Weathered skin. A short beard streaked with silver. He wore patched, practical clothes something between a woodsman and a healer but his eyes… his eyes were too sharp for either.
The man set down a cloth soaked in something pungent and met his gaze.
"You're lucky I found you," he said. "Lucky you were still breathing."
Xean tried to speak, but his throat was dry, raw. The man noticed and handed him a wooden cup.
"Water. Slowly."
He drank. It tasted like rain and old copper, but it helped. After a few careful swallows, he rasped:
"The… wolf?"
The jaw tightened slightly. "Gone. Whatever it was. Didn't leave much behind. Just scorch marks and cracked stone, like lightning struck the ground and forgot to leave."
He sat back in the chair beside the bed, folding his arms. "Now tell me… what in the depths were you doing out in that forest? Alone? That far out? In this weather?"
His voice wasn't accusatory, but it wasn't casual either. It was the voice of someone who'd seen what happens to people who wander too far, too unprepared.
Xean looked down at his hands. They felt… foreign. Like he was flexing someone else's fingers.
"It's like… pieces," he said. "Flashes. But they're not mine. I don't even know who I am. Not really."
The man studied him for a long moment not with suspicion, but something quieter. Familiar, maybe. Like someone who had once said the same thing in a different time.
"Well," he said finally, "if you're lying, you're damn good at it. And if you're telling the truth…" He shook his head. "Then you've been thrown into something dark and deep."
He stepped closer, crouching by the bed.
"Doesn't matter how you got here not yet. What matters is what you do next."
He paused. "But if I'm going to help you… I need to know who I'm helping. What's your name?"
Xean opened his mouth.
Then paused.
The answer should've come easily.
Xean. That was his name. He had said it a hundred times before, worn it like a second skin, used it to anchor himself in a world that rarely made sense.
But now… it felt distant.
Thin. Hollow.
Like a word from someone else's story.
He remembered the clearing the roar of thunder, the creature's molten eyes, the way the blade had formed in his hand as if answering a silent command. The fire in his blood hadn't felt borrowed. It had felt claimed.
And the name Azit had risen from the chaos like it had always been there, buried deep beneath everything else. Not just a memory. Not just a name.
A presence.
A will.
It felt less like discovering something new and more like waking up to something he had always been… before forgetting.
But what did that mean?
Was Azit's soul truly inside him? Had it found a home, twisted itself into his bones and blood?
Or had something inside Xean shattered so completely that the pieces rearranged themselves into someone else someone stronger, colder, older?
The boy who entered the forest had been afraid. Unsure. Human.
But the one who stood his ground, who met the beast's fury with his own that boy wasn't only Xean.
That boy carried life. Memory. Purpose.
He had not been discovered.
He had been remembered.
Xean clenched his fist, the dull ache of the mark still pulsing beneath the bandages like a heartbeat.
Who he had been…was just another memory of his.
And whoever he was now whoever he was becoming that truth started with a choice.
Xean didn't belong in this world.
Not the one of glowing marks, beasts with molten blood, and memories that cracked the sky open.
Xean was a question.
But Azit… Azit had once been an answer.
Not a perfect one. Not a safe one. But a name that had weight. History. Rage. Fire.
And maybe if he followed that fire he'd find the truth behind it all.
Who Azit had been.
Why the memories found him.
And what it meant that he was still breathing when he shouldn't be.
Xean had brought him to the edge. But to survive the rest?
He needed to become more.
He needed to become remembered.
He looked up, voice quiet but steady, the weight of everything he'd seen pressing behind each word.
"…Azit," he said„my name is azit"
The man didn't blink. He studied him for a second longer maybe sensing the shift, maybe not then gave a single, accepting nod.
"Alright then, Azit."
Azit furrowed his brow slightly. "And you?"
The man stood, stretching his back with a quiet pop. "You can call me Mr. Mahmoud."
Before Azit could respond, the door creaked open. A breeze drifted in, carrying the scent of moss and rain and with it, footsteps.
A girl stepped inside.
Barefoot, about thirteen, her golden hair a messy braid down her shoulder. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. She wore a woolen cloak far too big for her, dragging just past her knees.
"Papa?" she asked, eyes flicking to the bed. "Is he awake?"
Her voice was soft, curious. Eager, in a way that felt foreign after the night Azit had survived.
Mr. Mahmoud glanced over his shoulder, smiling gently.
"That's my daughter, Emi," he said. "She's the one who insisted we help you."
Azit turned his head toward her. Despite the pain, despite the weight of whatever lived inside him now—he found the strength to nod.
"Thank you," he said softly. "For not leaving me out there and helping me."
Emi shrugged, but a small smile tugged at her lips. "You looked like you needed someone."
Mr. Mahmoud chuckled, then turned back to Azit. "Think you can stand?"
Azit groaned softly as he shifted upright. Every muscle protested. His shoulder screamed. But he managed, planting both feet on the ground.
"Barely," he muttered. "But I'll manage."
"You're probably starving," Mr. Mahmoud said. "My wife made food. She's been fussing ever since Emi dragged me out to get you."
He gestured toward the door. "Come on. Stairs are this way. Easy now."
The cabin creaked underfoot as they made their way down the narrow staircase. Warm light spilled from below, along with the scent of herbs, roasted vegetables, and fresh bread. It was grounding. Comforting in a way Azit hadn't realized he needed.
At the foot of the stairs, a table had been set simple but generous. Stew steamed in clay bowls. Thick slices of bread were stacked high. A pot of tea waited between them.
At the far end of the room stood a woman. She moved gracefully, setting out spoons with practiced ease. Her blond hair was tied back in a loose knot. Her features were soft, striking, and calm in a way that made the room feel even warmer.
She looked up as they entered.
Mr. Mahmoud gave her a small, proud smile.
"This is my wife," he said. "Lina."
Lina's gaze met Azit's, and she offered a quiet, knowing smile.
"You're safe now," she said gently. "Sit. Eat. You look like you've been through a war."
Azit hesitated for a beat.
Then, without a word, he stepped forward and sank into the nearest chair.
The warmth. The food. The people who didn't demand answers—it all felt like it belonged in someone else's story.
But for now… it was enough.
And maybe, just maybe, it was the beginning of his.