The forest was too quiet.
Alaric's tiny chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. His eyes blinked open and closed, his lips trembling with weak whimpers that barely reached the night air. He could feel the damp earth clinging to his skin, the sharp scent of blood still heavy around him. His little fists curled tight, shaking whenever a breeze rustled the leaves.
Beside him lay the man who had tried to take him—the assassin. His body was twisted where it had fallen, his chest torn open by claws, his face pale and lifeless. His empty eyes stared at nothing.
The baby didn't understand death. He only felt the stillness, the absence, the silence that seemed heavier than the night itself. His whimper turned into a cry, soft and pitiful. It echoed in the darkness, then died into the void.
And then… something stirred.
It was faint at first, like a heartbeat that wasn't his own. A thrum deep inside his tiny body. It pulsed once, then again, sending a strange warmth through his limbs. His little fingers twitched, brushing against the dirt.
The air shifted.
The shadows thickened, creeping closer as if drawn to him. At the same time, a pale green shimmer rippled outward, faint but alive, wrapping around his fragile form like threads of light. Two forces, opposite yet bound together, pushed against each other and then twisted into one.
Life.Death.Both at once.
Alaric cried louder, the sound cracking in his throat. His power answered.
The corpse beside him twitched.
At first, it was small. A finger curling slightly. Then the chest heaved, dragging in a harsh, unnatural breath. The claw wounds that had ripped the assassin apart squirmed as if alive, the blood pulling back into his flesh. The skin sealed itself, smooth and unscarred, almost too perfect.
Alaric's cries broke into startled hiccups, his eyes wet and wide.
The man sat up.
His movement was slow, mechanical, as though testing whether he still existed. His head turned side to side, dark eyes opening fully. They weren't glazed, nor empty like the dead. They were sharp, alert—but hollow.
He looked down at his hands. Flexed his fingers. His face showed no confusion, no fear. Only stillness.
The man had died. Alaric had seen it. Yet here he was, alive again—or something close to it. His body was flawless, but too flawless. No scars, no pain. His wounds had been erased, but what replaced them was not human life.
Alaric's tiny body trembled. His voice cracked into another cry.
The man turned. His gaze fell upon the baby.
For a moment, the world held its breath.
Then the man reached out. His hand was strong, steady, yet strangely careful. He paused just before touching the child, as though some instinct warned him. But the bond pulling him forward was stronger. His fingers brushed Alaric's cheek.
The baby stilled. His cries weakened into soft hiccups, his wide eyes locked onto the figure before him.
The man tried to speak. His lips moved, but no words came. Only a rasping sound, as if his voice had been taken with his memories. His throat worked, but nothing formed.
Still, something was clear. His body remembered things his mind did not. The way he moved, the way his muscles shifted, the way his eyes scanned the shadows around them—all of it belonged to a man forged in combat. A man who once lived by steel.
But now he was bound.
He didn't know his name. He didn't know his past. He didn't know why he had been dragged back into existence. But he knew this:
The child was everything.
Protect him.Serve him.Never leave him.
The baby whimpered again, kicking weakly. His face turned red with the effort, his little arms waving without direction. The man didn't flinch. He slid an arm beneath the infant and lifted him with surprising gentleness. His rough hands, calloused and scarred by battles long past, cradled the small body with care that no memory could teach.
Alaric's cries softened. He pressed his face against the man's chest, hearing the steady, unnatural beat of a heart that should not exist.
The assassin—reborn, yet stripped of his past—looked down at the fragile life in his arms. He had no memories, no name. But something whispered to him, a word forming like smoke in his hollow mind.
Ashen.
Yes. That was who he was now.
Ashen adjusted his hold, the motion smooth and deliberate. He rose to his feet, silent as a shadow. His head turned, eyes scanning the trees. Every shift of the wind, every flicker of shadow, every sound of the night registered in his instincts. He had no weapons, no armor, but his body moved like it had never forgotten how to kill.
The baby squirmed in his arms, his small face scrunching in discomfort. Ashen paused, adjusting his grip again. He didn't know why he knew this much, but his instincts guided him all the same. He was a protector. And this child was his master.
The forest pressed close around them. Crickets chirped faintly in the distance, but nothing dared come near. The monsters that had torn Ashen apart earlier lingered at the edges of the dark, their eyes faintly gleaming.
Ashen turned his head toward them. He did not move. He did not threaten. He only looked.
The beasts froze. Their growls caught in their throats. One by one, they lowered themselves, then slipped back into the trees without a sound.
Alaric, still resting against his chest, breathed softly, unaware.
Ashen didn't understand. But he didn't question. The bond was enough.
The baby yawned, tiny mouth opening, his eyelids fluttering. Exhaustion weighed on him, his body too fragile to handle hunger and fear together.
Ashen sank to one knee, lowering himself carefully. He laid the child on a patch of grass, keeping his hand near, watching. The baby stirred but did not cry. His small fists relaxed, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep.
Ashen's empty gaze lingered on him, unwavering.
The firelight of life burned in the boy, strange and untouchable. And Ashen—death given shape—was bound to it forever.
The forest pressed in with a heavy silence, broken only by the faint breaths of the infant sleeping on the grass.
Ashen sat beside him, his back against the rough bark of a tree. His hands rested on his knees, fingers curling and uncurling as though rediscovering the meaning of movement. He looked down at his palms. The skin was smooth, almost too smooth, as if the scars and calluses that once marked a lifetime of battles had been washed away and rewritten.
He flexed his hands again. They were strong—he could feel the power in them—but something about them felt… detached. As if the flesh didn't belong entirely to him, yet obeyed without hesitation.
Ashen tilted his head toward the child. Alaric's tiny face had softened in sleep, cheeks round and damp from earlier tears. Every so often, his lips twitched, releasing faint whimpers that faded quickly. His little fists were balled near his face, his legs shifting beneath the thin cloth wrapped around him.
The sight drew something deep from Ashen's hollow chest. Not emotion—at least not the way humans knew it—but instinct, something written into his very existence. Protect. Guard. Preserve. The child was the anchor tethering him to this world, the reason his body pulsed with unholy life.
His gaze sharpened as he scanned the tree line.
The monsters that had once attacked were gone, melted back into the night, but Ashen didn't relax. His body—reborn yet remembering everything it needed to survive—tensed at every creak of branches, every shift of shadow.
He stood, silent and precise.
The air was damp, carrying the smell of moss and iron. He reached for a broken branch lying nearby and picked it up. His grip adjusted automatically, as though his body remembered weapons even when his mind did not. The wood was brittle, snapping in half with a single flex of his fingers. Too weak.
He let it fall.
Instead, he drew a sharp stone from the ground, turning it in his palm. Its edge scraped across his skin. He felt it. Not dulled, not numb. He felt it—yet in a way that didn't matter. There was sensation, but no vulnerability.
Ashen's gaze fixed on his forearm. Slowly, without hesitation, he dragged the stone across his flesh.
The cut was deep. Blood welled up in an instant, dark and thick. It slid down his arm, dripping to the ground in heavy drops.
Alaric stirred at the scent, his tiny face crinkling. A soft whimper left his lips, but he didn't wake.
Ashen watched the wound.
For a moment, it bled freely. Then, just as suddenly, the blood halted. The skin twitched. Muscles wriggled and pulled together, knitting themselves like threads being sewn. Within seconds, the cut was gone, leaving not even a scar.
Ashen flexed his arm. Whole. Unmarked. Perfect again.
He stared, but there was no wonder in his eyes. Only confirmation. His body was no longer bound by mortal rules.
A faint rustle came from the bushes.
Ashen's head snapped toward it, sharp as a blade. The night swallowed sound, but there it was again—a shuffle, heavier this time. Something was moving closer.
He rose in silence, stepping between the sound and the child. His body shifted naturally into a stance—knees bent, weight balanced, ready to strike or defend. The sharp stone in his hand angled low, useless but wielded with precision.
The rustling grew louder. Then, from the undergrowth, a shape emerged.
A boar.
Its eyes gleamed faintly in the moonlight, tusks catching the silver glow. It was massive, its bristled body moving with heavy, deliberate steps. The scent of blood in the air had drawn it here.
It stopped, head lifting. Its gaze fell on the baby lying defenseless on the grass.
Ashen's grip tightened.
The boar snorted, lowering its head. Muscles rippled beneath its hide as it pawed the ground.
Ashen didn't wait. He moved.
His body launched forward, faster than his own mind could process. The ground cracked beneath his heel as he surged across the space. The boar barely had time to react before Ashen slammed into it, shoulder driving into its neck.
The beast squealed, stumbling sideways. But it wasn't weak—it twisted, tusks slashing upward. One caught Ashen across the ribs, tearing through flesh with a wet rip.
The blow would have gutted a man.
Ashen didn't stop.
He caught the beast's tusk with his hand, twisting it sharply. Bone cracked. The boar shrieked, thrashing violently, but Ashen's grip didn't falter. He drove the sharp stone into its eye, shoving until the creature collapsed in spasms.
The struggle ended. The boar fell still, its chest heaving shallowly before going silent.
Ashen released it and straightened. His side was torn open where the tusk had ripped through him. Flesh hung loose, blood pouring down his leg in thick streams.
He looked down at the wound.
The bleeding slowed. The flesh began to crawl, shifting and pulling inward. Muscles reattached. Skin wove together. Within moments, the gash had closed entirely. Only blood remained, sticky against his skin, but the body beneath was whole again.
Ashen wiped his hand across the wound, smearing blood away. Nothing. Perfect.
Behind him, the baby whimpered.
Ashen turned instantly, striding back to him. He crouched low, checking the child. Alaric had stirred from the noise, his small body twitching with faint cries, but he hadn't been harmed.
Ashen lifted him again, pressing the infant against his chest. The baby cried, soft but distressed.
Without thought, Ashen swayed gently. His body remembered movements meant to soothe. Slowly, the child's cries softened into hiccups, his cheek pressed against the cold, bloodstained chest of his protector.
Ashen stood in silence, holding him close.
The boar's corpse lay forgotten in the grass. The air smelled of blood and iron, heavy and raw, but neither predator nor scavenger dared come near.
Ashen's hollow eyes lifted to the night sky, where the moon hung pale and distant.
He had no memory. No past. No purpose beyond the one written into his very being. He was death given flesh, bound by life's command.
And in his arms, the fragile spark that held him tethered to this existence stirred faintly, unaware of the weight it carried.
Ashen lowered his head, gaze locked on the child. The baby yawned, eyes half-lidded, then drifted back into shallow sleep.
Ashen whispered—though his voice was little more than a rasp of breath, rough and broken:
"…Master."
It was the only word that felt true.
And from that moment on, he never looked away.