The three of us moved silently along the damp, muddy path that wound its way through the forest. Though the night was dark as ink, not one of them carried a torch or lantern. They walked as if they had memorized every mound of earth, every crooked turn beneath the shadowy canopy. Our footsteps sank gently into the wet soil, producing soft, rhythmic squelches, but neither of them seemed to mind. It was as if the entire forest lay curled in the palm of their hands—these strange, silent figures whose identities I could not begin to fathom.
Above us, the full moon hung like a silver disc suspended in the heavens, casting a gentle glow over the world. Moonlight filtered through the dense foliage, scattering into shimmering fragments upon lingering drops of dew, as though stars had fallen and caught themselves on the leaves. Below, the crystal orb set into the top of the woman's staff glowed faintly with a crimson light—neither fierce nor glaring, but mysteriously compelling, as though it harbored ancient secrets and whispered truths in a language only the night could hear.
The path back to their village was not long, yet in the eerie stillness of the nocturnal forest, every minute stretched into something eternal.
Eventually, the two of them began speaking—casually, even cheerfully. Their voices rose and fell in a lilting, melodic tongue I could not understand, with tones that reminded me of wind weaving through treetops. I strained to catch meaning, to decode even a single word, but it was like listening to the forest speak in dreams. I felt a flicker of frustration. Were they talking about me? This wounded child plucked from the aftermath of a brutal raid, now orphaned and lost in a world I did not belong to?
Fifteen minutes passed. After we navigated a particularly winding stretch of the path, where the trees grew thick and tangled above our heads, I spotted tiny flickers of light in the distance—glowing like fireflies suspended in the air. Gradually, the lights sharpened, focused, and became real.
Before me lay a village unlike any I had ever seen, nestled deep within the heart of the forest.
It was small, humble. Most of the structures were made of rough-hewn wood, their surfaces moss-covered and ancient. The rooftops were low and steep, and from their crude chimneys rose thin trails of smoke that twisted into the night like silent prayers. The scene stirred something within me—a distant memory from another life, where tribal camps huddled under dark skies, where law was forged in steel and the strong shaped the fate of the weak.
As we passed beneath the village's entrance—massive wooden gates carved with snarling beasts and fierce-eyed predators—I was immediately enveloped in an unfamiliar yet oddly comforting scent. A subtle perfume of incense drifted through the air, earthy and sacred, like something that might awaken ancestral memories long buried.
The scent came from a stone statue standing silently at the village threshold. It stood two meters tall, depicting a creature half-man, half-bird, its hollow eyes gazing into the void. Strange glyphs covered its weathered body—ancient symbols that pulsed with quiet power. I couldn't tear my gaze away. Something in me felt the presence that emanated from it: not merely divine, but watchful and stern, like a judge awaiting a verdict.
But they didn't let me linger. The man lifted me into his arms—gently, but firmly—and together with the woman, they led me to a house on the edge of the village, somewhat removed from the others.
It wasn't large, but it wasn't small either. Upon entering, the woman placed a pale blue stone into a hanging box affixed to the ceiling. Instantly, it lit up, casting a cool, soft light that spread throughout the room. The interior brightened, revealing every detail.
Everything was neatly arranged. To the left was a broad bed layered with mossy green cushions and a rug woven from vines, its surface adorned with spiraling patterns and diagonal motifs in dried fibers. To the right stood a tall shelf brimming with all manner of oddities—earthen jars, folded fabrics, and wooden chests sealed tight. A wooden door led to what appeared to be a kitchen, and a small stairway curled upward to a second floor.
A subtle mix of aromas hung in the air—herbs, resin, and a hint of warm milk. My eyelids grew heavier by the second, an inexplicable drowsiness settling over me.
The woman left briefly and returned with a downy pillow stuffed with lamb's wool. The man placed me carefully onto a padded mat near the bed, then removed his belt and weapons, hanging them with deliberate care.
He stepped out for a moment and came back carrying a wooden basin filled with clean water. He sprinkled in a fine, ivory-colored powder that dissolved instantly, releasing a tender, soothing fragrance. Without a word, he picked me up and lowered me into the water.
It wasn't too cold, nor was it warm, but in that moment, it was the only comfort my battered body could receive. My skin still bore dried blood, streaks of dirt, and bruises that ached under every touch.
His hands—large, coarse, furred—began to wash me. There was an odd clumsiness to it, like someone washing a stray pup for the first time. Yet every movement was gentle, every stroke done with patience and care. He didn't hurt me. On the contrary, he seemed almost reverent in his attention, scrubbing away every stain with quiet focus.
Bit by bit, the filth of the road and the blood of the past slipped into the murky water. The feeling of being cleansed, of being cared for, wrapped me in a cocoon of warmth I hadn't known I needed.
I don't think I'd ever been treated with such gentleness before—not in my former life, where I'd been thrown into a military school the day I was born, forged into a killing machine, with childhood measured only in blades and arrows.
After the bath, he dried me off with a clean, soft cloth, then returned me to the mat and laid my head gently on the lambswool pillow. The woman emerged from the kitchen carrying a clay pot, still steaming, and a jug of warm goat's milk.
She set the pot on the rug and called the man to join her. They ate together in quiet contentment, barely exchanging a word. Then the woman poured some milk into a small cup, cooled it with her breath, and handed it to me.
I took a sip—and was surprised. The milk wasn't sweet, nor was it thick, but it had a mild, creamy flavor, comforting and wholesome. The warmth spread through my throat and chest like a gentle flame. In the middle of this dark forest, haunted by memories of blood and loss, one mouthful of milk was enough to convince me: I was alive. I had truly survived.
I drank eagerly until my little belly was round and full. My eyelids drooped; the world blurred at the edges. And before another thought could take root, I slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep—the first peaceful rest I had known in a very, very long time.