On the outskirts of the great human empire Aetherion, where cobblestone paths wound through quiet fields and the hum of cicadas filled the evening air, lay a small, forgotten village. In one of its humble cottages, the scent of burning wood lingered, mingling with the faint aroma of herbs drying by the window.
An old lady sat on a creaking wooden chair, her frail hands folded neatly on her lap, her gaze tender yet weary. Her skin was lined with the deep etchings of time, but her eyes carried the patience of one who had seen countless seasons pass. Beside her, on a modest bed covered with a woolen blanket, lay a boy no more than eleven.
His face was unlike that of the village children—sharper, refined, with the silent grace of nobility. Even in slumber, there was something regal in the tilt of his brow, the calm of his lips, as though he were carved from a lineage far removed from the rustic simplicity of the place he now lay in.
The old lady's gaze softened further, almost protective. She shifted in her chair, the wooden legs scraping faintly against the floorboards.
And then—
The boy's eyelashes quivered. A flicker of consciousness stirred within him. His breath hitched, shallow but steady, until finally, his eyes fluttered open, revealing depths that carried an unspoken weight, as though destiny itself had chosen to awaken with him.
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{1st person view}
Endless darkness stretched as far as I could see. My first reaction was relief—relief that at last I was free from that endless torture of hunger, from the suffocating fear of the Syndicate, and from the gnawing regret and hate that fate had carved into me. For the first time, I thought, maybe it was over.
But then a sudden realization struck me—why was I able to think? I was dead… wasn't I? And yet, I felt warmth. Death isn't warm. Death is supposed to be cold, hollow, harrowing.
My eyes fluttered open. A sharp breath escaped me. I'm not dead. The thought clung to me, desperate, almost frantic, as if denying reality would somehow shape it. I forced myself to glance around, afraid of what I might see.
And there she was. An old woman, seated by my side, her expression soft, almost glowing with happiness—like I was her long-lost son returned at last. My chest tightened with confusion. Who is she? Where am I?
Before I could drown in the questions, her voice reached me—gentle, trembling with warmth.
"Are you okay, son?"
My throat felt dry, my voice hoarse, yet the questions clawed their way out.
"Who… who are you? Where am I?"
The old woman smiled, her eyes kind but steady, like she had already expected the question.
"Don't panic, son," she said softly, her tone wrapping around me like a blanket. "You are safe here. Four days ago, I found you near the river by our village. You looked so frail, so malnourished, I feared you wouldn't make it. So, I brought you home with me."
Her words sank into me slowly, as if my mind was too battered to hold them all at once. Four days? By the river? My chest tightened.
"As for your first question," she continued, her lips curling into a faint smile, "just call me Granny. Everyone does."
"Village… river…" The words spun in my head, meaningless, foreign. None of it made sense. My chest tightened, and a cold fear crept into me, whispering that she was lying. That this was just another trick.
My eyes darted to the small wooden table beside the bed. A knife lay there, glinting faintly in the dim light. Without thinking, I lunged for it, my fingers wrapping around the handle.
"Stay back!" I hissed, holding the blade toward her with trembling hands.
Her eyes widened in shock, her wrinkled face paling. For the first time since I opened my eyes, she looked afraid.
"Calm down, child," she said quickly, raising her hands, her voice shaking yet still gentle. "I mean no harm."
But I wasn't sane. Not anymore. Two years of torment, of hunger, of betrayal had carved the lesson deep into me—trust no one, believe no one.
I pressed the knife forward, my arms trembling, demanding the answers I so desperately needed.
My grip tightened on the knife as I forced the words out, my voice sharp and uneven.
"Where… where in the Aetherion Empire are we?"
She didn't flinch. Instead, she answered with a calm steadiness that almost disarmed me.
"We are in the western outskirts of the empire, the monster front. The domain of Duke Blackmere. Please, child, I know you are afraid, but keep the knife down. It's not good for you."
I searched her face, desperate for cracks, for the smallest flicker of deceit. But her eyes held no lies. Only patience. Only concern.
My hand trembled, my breath uneven. She did save me—didn't she? And even if I didn't want to admit it, the warmth of the bed, the food-scent clinging faintly to the air, the fact that I was alive… they were proof enough.
Slowly, I lowered the knife, though I kept it close within reach. Just in case.
"I'm… sorry," I muttered, the word foreign and jagged on my tongue.
"It's okay, child," she said with a small smile, like forgiveness was as natural to her as breathing.
I gazed at her in silence, my thoughts twisting in uneasy circles. The only logical explanation I could cling to was this: someone must have thought me dead, a corpse unworthy of even dirt, and tossed me into the river. And then… she saw me. She pulled me out. She saved me.
At least, that's what I wanted to believe.
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