Morning crept in slow, golden, and quiet.
He stirred under a wool blanket that smelled faintly of ale and dust, sunlight slipping between the crooked shutters. His eyes blinked open to a ceiling of wooden beams and cobwebs. For a second, he forgot where he was.
Then it hit him.
This wasn't home.
This wasn't anything he'd known.
He sat up, rubbed his face, and breathed in the sharp chill of a countryside morning. The cot creaked beneath him. A dented basin sat nearby with a half-filled jug beside it. He poured some water in, leaned over, and splashed it on his face.
It was cold. Honest. No recycled air or artificial warmth. Just water, wood, and breath. It startled him awake in a way nothing else could.
He stared at his reflection.
Same brown eyes. Same mess of black hair. Same scar by the jawline.
But something in the eyes felt... lighter. Or maybe just less tired.
Downstairs, the tavern was already half-alive. A few locals nursed mugs. Someone swept near the hearth. The air smelled of herbs, onions, and roasted meat.
The tavern owner noticed him from behind the bar and gave a simple nod.
"Morning," the man said. "You look like someone who survived something nasty."
He smiled faintly. "Still not sure I did."
The man grunted, then waved toward a table. "Sit. Breakfast's nearly done."
He obeyed. No one else in the room paid him much attention. He was just another quiet stranger in a land full of them.
The food came: hot stew with something that resembled pork, a slab of coarse bread, and a boiled root sliced into wedges. It wasn't pretty, but it was the best thing he'd eaten in recent memory.
"You got a name?" the tavern owner asked, leaning on the counter with arms folded.
"...Not one that matters much anymore," he said.
That earned a raised brow but no comment. "Suit yourself. Travelers pass through now and then, but you've got the look of someone who's sticking around."
He tilted his head. "What makes you think that?"
"Because you haven't asked for directions. You've just been watching."
People talked around him as he ate. Most kept to their own conversations—idle chatter, gossip, nothing serious.
But one group, near the back, was louder than the rest. A few younger men with bows slung across their backs, hunters by the look of them.
"Heard some of the new blood got marked up north," one said. "Big names, too—noble families. Woke up with glowing eyes and all. Bastards don't even need to earn it."
"Already calling 'em rising stars," another muttered. "Whole world's changing again."
A woman chimed in, "And here we are, still drinking stale beer and fighting rats."
They laughed. He didn't.
His eyes drifted to the window. Past the hilltops, just beyond the rooftops of this humble village, the forest waited. A wall of towering redwood trees, stretching into the clouds. Ancient. Vast. Untouched.
The locals called it the Vales.
And he was going in.
The tavern owner approached before he left, handing him a modest cloth sack and a hooded cloak.
"Not much," the man said. "Bit of dried food, flint, bandages. The cloak's wool — keeps out cold and bugs alike."
He accepted it with quiet gratitude. "Why help me?"
The owner shrugged. "Maybe I'm a fool. Maybe I've got a soft spot for stray dogs. Either way… you don't look like you've got much else."
He smiled. A real one, this time. "I'll return it if I live."
The man laughed. "Don't worry. I never expect anything back."
The village faded behind him, swallowed by hills and silence.
The entrance to the Vales wasn't marked by a gate or a sign — just the slow rise of shadow, the thickening of trunks, the change in air. Sunlight dimmed beneath the canopy. The wind changed direction. Even the birdsong grew quieter.
He walked slowly at first. No map, no real plan. Just instinct and breath.
Everything felt... unreal. The sheer height of the trees. The way the red bark caught the light like old blood. Moss-covered stones. Plants that looked half-alive, half-aware. Butterflies with wings like stained glass.
And the silence. Not empty, but watching.
He saw tracks along the path — large feline pawprints. A disturbed nest. Scratch marks on bark taller than he could reach.
Not alone.
Around midday, he paused by a fallen log. Sat. Ate some dried meat and a wrinkled apple. Drank from a clear stream. The cloak shielded him from the worst of the chill, but he still shivered. The deeper he went, the colder it got.
His legs ached. His boots were soaked. His stomach churned with nerves.
He leaned against a tree and exhaled.
"…Why the hell am I even doing this?"
He didn't know.
A part of him wanted peace.
But another part… craved something else. Something louder. Dangerous. Stupid.
Maybe it was because he finally had the freedom to choose.
Maybe it was because he hated the idea of safety.
Or maybe…
"Why not?" he muttered, shrugging to no one. "Let the world try and kill me again."
Then—
A sound.
Not a bird. Not wind.
A low growl.
He turned.
"Shit."
It stood ten paces away. Gray fur, streaked with black. Eyes like cold gold. Thick shoulders and jagged fangs. A dire wolf.
Then another.
And another.
Three.
He backed away slowly.
The first wolf snarled. His foot crunched a branch. The tension snapped.
They lunged.
He bolted.
No thoughts. Just fear.
His breath tore out of him. He ran like hell, heart thudding like a war drum.
Thorns lashed at his legs. Branches clawed his face. He ducked, stumbled, caught himself, kept going.
A tree root grabbed his ankle. He crashed into the dirt.
Pain bloomed in his ribs.
He tried to crawl—
One wolf leapt—claws raking his side. Blood sprayed the ground.
He screamed. Rolled.
Another bite grazed his thigh. Too close.
He limped, barely standing. Every step like fire. Blood leaking through his pants. Eyes blurred.
He turned. The wolves still behind him.
Somewhere ahead—
A hollow trunk. Massive. Split wide by age and rot. A shadowed opening.
He staggered toward it, dragging himself through ferns and mud. His lungs burned. His heart stumbled.
He threw himself inside the hollow, clutching his side. His hand came away red.
The wolves didn't follow. Maybe they lost his scent. Maybe they didn't care.
Or maybe… they were just waiting.
Inside the dark, cold log, he curled into himself.
Blood soaked the ground. His chest heaved.
"…I really am crazy," he muttered, voice hoarse and cracking. "Ain't I?"
He laughed, once. Then passed out.
Darkness.
Then…
Light.
A breath—not like before. This one felt different.
Something shifted inside. A slow ignition. Like a lock turning in a long-forgotten door.
His eyes opened.
Symbols flickered faintly behind his vision. The world felt sharper. Alive. His blood hummed.
And then, in the silence, something named him.
Not with a voice. Not in words.
But in truth.
Diviners.