The wind had a voice that day.
It spoke not in words, but in sensations — a whisper crawling along Ren's skin, tugging at memories he didn't have. He stood motionless before the ruined shrine, heart pounding in a rhythm he didn't understand.
The statue's glow was gone, but its presence lingered, like a dream refusing to fade.
"I must be imagining things," Ren muttered.
He turned away, trying to shake off the strange heaviness that had settled in his chest. But as he walked back toward the temple, every sound — the rustling leaves, the soft crunch of gravel beneath his feet — felt distant, like the world had slipped half a step out of sync.
That night, sleep refused to come.
He lay curled on his mat in the orphanage dormitory, listening to the quiet breathing of the other children. Shadows danced across the ceiling, cast by the low flicker of the hearth. The sensation in his chest hadn't left — a faint thrum, like an echo trying to reach him from far, far away.
Then came the dream.
---
He stood on a cliff overlooking a vast battlefield.
The skies burned red with magic. A shadow loomed across the horizon — a monstrous figure of wings, horns, and flame. All around him, soldiers fought, bled, and died. He held a silver blade that pulsed with divine light.
"Saint Lyselle!" a voice cried. "They're breaching the southern flank!"
He turned. A knight with a cracked helmet saluted him, blood dripping down her cheek. "What are your orders?"
And Ren — or whoever he was — raised his blade and whispered:
"Hold the line. I'll end this."
---
He jolted awake, gasping.
The dormitory was quiet. His blanket clung to his skin, damp with sweat. He sat up slowly, clutching his chest, heart racing.
What was that?
He'd never seen those people before. Never held a blade. But in that dream — no, vision — he had spoken with command. He had known what to do. Like it was natural.
Like it was… him.
The next morning, he stood again before the ruined shrine. No one else came here, not even the priests. It was too old, too forgotten.
He knelt in front of the statue.
"I don't know what's happening to me," he whispered. "But if I really… if I really am someone else… if I'm this 'Saint Lyselle'…"
He clenched his fists.
"Then tell me why I came back."
A soft wind blew through the shrine. This time, it didn't feel cold.
Behind him, the temple bell began to ring — once, then twice. A signal. Someone was approaching from the road.
Curious, Ren walked toward the gate.
A carriage stood at the path, elegant but dusty from long travel. A woman in travel-worn armor stepped down, her golden hair tied in a warrior's braid, sword at her side.
She looked at Ren — not with curiosity, but recognition.
Her eyes widened.
"…Lyselle?" she breathed.
Ren froze.
"…What did you just call me?"
---