The wind blew softly through the trees, but it carried no birdsong.
Elijah stood at the edge of the treeline, his arms crossed over his chest for warmth. His clothes were torn in places—he hadn't noticed how much until the morning light began to rise over the horizon like a dying ember. The world beyond the forest was wide and empty, filled with low hills, cracked soil, and the distant shadows of stone structures, long collapsed.
It could have been beautiful. But it wasn't.
He had barely slept. The fire he made had gone out hours ago, and he hadn't dared to light another. He didn't know what kind of creatures lived here, or what might be drawn to smoke. He didn't know anything, really.
Just his name. Elijah. And a sense that something had been torn away from him too suddenly to remember.
He stepped forward, feet crunching lightly on the brittle leaves beneath him. He walked in silence, only the wind and the faint creak of old branches behind him. Each step felt heavier than the last, not from exhaustion, but from the weight of not knowing.
Where am I?
What happened to me?
And why does the sky feel... wrong?
He had looked up many times during the night, hoping to see familiar stars. There were none. Instead, the heavens above were dim and scattered, a thousand unfamiliar lights peeking through a swirling fog. One of the moons had collapsed into fragments—he could see its pieces still drifting, faintly glowing like dying coals.
The world had seen something terrible.
And he had arrived just after.
He followed the dirt path east. If it could be called a path. It was more a scar in the land, pressed down by footsteps that no longer walked it.
Here and there, ruins stood like broken teeth—stone houses without roofs, wooden beams half-swallowed by earth. He found the remnants of an old signpost, but the words carved into the wood had been worn smooth by rain and time.
Once, this had been a village.
Now it was only silence.
Elijah searched quietly. Not for treasure, or weapons, or food—though he had eaten nothing in what felt like two days—but for signs of people. A footprint. A voice. A name.
Instead, he found a broken necklace buried beneath a collapsed wall. It was small, rusted with age. A child's, perhaps.
He turned it over in his fingers.
Still warm.
He froze.
Not with fear—fear was too familiar now—but with a growing dread that made his breath shallow.
He looked around. Slowly. Carefully.
The wind had stopped.
The trees had gone still.
There was someone watching.
He couldn't see them—but the sensation crawled along his spine like ice.
Elijah turned away from the ruin and began walking again, faster now, hands shaking. He didn't run. He couldn't bring himself to. But every part of him screamed that he should.
The hills ahead were taller than he expected, jagged and uneven, scattered with broken stone towers. One had partially collapsed into a cave at its base. He considered passing it, but instinct—or something older—drew him to it.
He stepped inside, just far enough to be hidden.
The air was cool, damp. And quiet.
He waited. Listened.
Nothing.
A soft sigh escaped his lips.
He sat down against the cave wall and pulled his knees to his chest. His breath fogged slightly in the cold.
And then, in the stillness, he heard it.
A whisper. Faint. Not in the cave—but behind his thoughts. A voice without sound. A feeling like something brushing against his soul.
You should not be here.
Elijah's eyes widened.
He stood up too quickly, hitting his head on the stone above. The pain grounded him—but the voice did not return. Only the echo of it lingered.
"You should not be here…"
He pressed his hand to his temple.
He had to leave. He had to find someone—anyone—who could tell him what this place was.
Hours passed. Maybe more.
He walked until his feet ached. He crossed a cracked riverbed, climbed broken stairs carved into the hills, and followed a road of shattered obsidian that cut across a valley of white dust.
Then, finally, he saw it.
Smoke.
Not fire. Just smoke.
Thin and gray, curling into the sky from behind a ridge.
He didn't hesitate.
His pace quickened—first a jog, then a run.
By the time he reached the ridge, his legs were shaking. But he didn't stop. He crested the hill and looked down.
A small camp. Three tents. A firepit. Shapes moving slowly among the ruins of a stone watchtower. People.
Real people.
For a moment, Elijah didn't know what to do.
He had no story to tell. No explanation. No coin. No past.
Only a name.
He stepped forward.
One of the figures turned. A woman, tall, wrapped in a gray cloak, with a spear across her back. Her eyes locked on his.
Her hand moved to the weapon, not out of fear, but readiness.
Another figure stepped beside her. A man with tired eyes and a long scar down his face.
Then a third. A boy, maybe fifteen, dressed in armor that didn't quite fit him, clutching a staff.
Elijah raised his hands slowly. "I don't mean harm."
His voice cracked from dryness.
They didn't speak. They just watched him. Evaluating.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, the woman stepped forward.
"You're not marked," she said. Her voice was rough, but not unkind. "No crest. No god-sigil. No brand."
Elijah blinked. "What?"
She frowned. "Who sent you?"
"No one."
"Who are you with?"
"I… I don't know."
They looked at each other, wary.
The scarred man stepped closer. "Your name."
"Elijah."
A pause.
"No family name?" the boy asked.
Elijah shook his head. "I… I don't remember."
Silence again.
The woman studied his face. Then, slowly, she lowered her hand from the spear.
"You're not from any House," she said. "Not one I know."
"I don't know any Houses," Elijah admitted.
The boy laughed, short and bitter. "That much is clear."
They let him sit by the fire.
They didn't offer food at first. Just warmth. And quiet questions.
Their names were Mara, Derin, and Kell. Mercenaries, more or less. They weren't from here either, but they had lived in the region long enough to know the dangers.
"Ruinborn," Mara said, pointing to the cracked sky above. "Most of this land's like that now. Hollowed out. Touched by… things we don't speak of."
"Spirits?" Elijah asked.
Derin scoffed. "If only. Spirits are harmless compared to what's been crawling out of the deep places lately."
Elijah said nothing.
Kell handed him a small piece of bread. "Where did you come from?" he asked. "Really."
"I woke up in a forest," Elijah replied honestly. "I don't remember anything before that."
They didn't believe him. Not entirely.
But they didn't push.
That night, Elijah couldn't sleep.
He lay beneath the stars, near the fire, wrapped in an old cloak Kell had given him. The others were asleep.
And the sky was watching.
He stared upward, searching again for something familiar. A pattern. A name.
But there was nothing. Only the slow dance of broken moons and the quiet breath of a world that had forgotten itself.
Then, far off, something moved.
A shape against the horizon. Towering. Shifting.
Gone.
He closed his eyes.
The whisper returned—softer now. Like a sigh lost in the wind.
Your path was never meant to be walked.
He didn't know what it meant.
But he believed it.
And somewhere, in the deepest part of himself—the part that hadn't spoken since he woke—he was afraid.
Not of death.
But of what he might become.