The pain receded—not vanishing, but retreating like a weary tide, leaving behind a silent shore of ruin within my mind. In the stillness after that storm, a sound seeped through. A calm melody, like droplets of water falling into a clear pool. Each note plucked from the strings of a harp felt like a balm soothing the unseen wounds of my soul. These sounds… they did not awaken old memories, but rather created a new one—a fragile anchor of peace amid an ocean of confusion.
My body, once weighed down like tortured lead, now felt lighter.
Yes… I would rise. I had to rise.
When I opened my eyes, the sensation of lightness was so vivid it was as if I were a feather adrift atop clean linen sheets. Soft light streamed through a wooden-framed window, illuminating tiny motes of dust dancing in the air.
"Oh, you're awake?"
The voice belonged to a woman seated near the window, her figure still blurred by my unfocused sight. A beautifully carved wooden harp rested in her lap.
"What is your name?" The same question, from that same gentle voice.
I searched for an answer within the recesses of my mind, but all I found was a yawning void.
"No," I croaked, my voice hoarse from disuse. "I… don't know. I don't know who I am." I raised a trembling hand to my head, feeling the faint throb beneath the skin of my brow.
She laid her hand atop the harp strings, silencing them. The sudden absence of music was heavy.
"I see," she asked, her tone now sharper, more serious. "Have you lost your memory?"
I could only nod. A bitter truth. I was a blank page written in pain.
The woman was silent for a moment, then her fingers began to dance across the strings once more, continuing the melody that had been cut short. The notes were achingly beautiful, steeped in a deep longing. The musician—this woman—played not merely with skill, but with a quiet sadness woven into each chord.
"It's beautiful…" I murmured without meaning to.
She turned slightly, a faint smile touching her lips, though it never reached her eyes.
"Isn't it? This song is a memory from my youth."
"A memory?" I asked, intrigued by the word—a concept that now felt alien to me.
"Yes. A somber one," she replied shortly, her voice cooling. She stood, gracefully brushing away some invisible dust from her neat, modest clothes. As she turned to leave, the light from the window caught her face for a fleeting moment—beautiful, yet carved by grief so deep it seemed etched over centuries, like a river wearing away stone. She left without another word, trailing the faint scent of jasmine and melancholy in her wake.
Perhaps I should rest.
As I drifted back toward that strange, comfortable shroud of unknowing, another sound broke the silence. Heavy, deliberate footsteps upon the wooden floor outside the room. Each step carried authority. Alongside them came a strange yet intoxicating scent—not of flowers, but of sandalwood, aged leather, and the fresh air of a pine forest. The scent of wisdom… and power.
It drew closer. Closer.
The door creaked open.
"So, you're the wanderer with no memory?"
The voice was deep and resonant, a baritone that could make mountains tremble. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood at the threshold, his presence filling the frame.
He stepped inside, extending his hand toward me, palm open—whether in offer of aid or demand for surrender, I could not tell. I stayed silent, too intimidated to move, and simply nodded in answer to his question.
"My name is Veyron Aurelion Varthas," he said, lowering his hand to thoughtfully stroke his neatly trimmed beard. His sharp eyes studied me—not with hostility, but with a cold, calculating assessment. "A leader here."
The tense quiet shattered with the sound of hurried, almost reckless footsteps. The door, which had just been closed, swung open again with force.
"Grandfather!" cried a girl's voice, sudden and brimming with emotion. If this Varthas was a man of such commanding presence, how could a girl dare to challenge it so boldly?
Varthas exhaled heavily, as if releasing the weight of an entire forest from his lungs. He did not turn—his gaze remained locked on me—but his words were aimed at her.
"Aelia." His reprimand was calm, yet each syllable carried the unmistakable weight of disappointment.