The candle flickered softly against the stone walls of Elias' chamber. Outside, the keep was quiet, but inside, memories clawed their way to the surface—memories of a world that no longer reachable.
He remembered the wars. He remembered the smoke curling through the streets, the screams of neighbors and strangers alike, the rumble of artillery that shook the ground beneath his feet. He remembered his parents, strong and busy, trying to shield him from the chaos. But the city was relentless. One day, it took them. One moment they were there; the next, gone—smoke and blood the only proof that they had ever existed.
He was left in the ruins, a small boy with nothing but his fear and confusion. He learned quickly what it meant to be invisible. A glance from the wrong person, a shout in the street, a shadow in a doorway—any of it could be deadly. Hunger became constant. Cold, exhaustion, and the endless uncertainty of each day shaped him in ways no child should endure.
As he grew older, the chaos never stopped. The city was a patchwork of burned buildings, abandoned streets, and makeshift shelters. Food was scarce, and he learned to take what he could—sometimes from kindness, sometimes from desperation. Other children, or what remained of them, taught him tricks to survive: where to hide, whom to avoid, how to keep moving when everything around you collapsed.
By the age of eight, he was no longer just a frightened boy. He had seen death enough to understand its inevitability, learned to guard himself in silence, and discovered that strength came from cunning, not brute force. He remembered the nights lying under broken roofs, listening to distant explosions, wondering if the world would ever be safe again. It never was.
And yet, amidst all the suffering, a small fire of resilience burned in him. The war had taken everything—his parents, his home, his sense of safety—but it had also taught him endurance. Every day he survived, he learned a little more about the world, about people, about chance, and about the merciless way life demanded adaptation.
Elias shook his head, pulling himself back to the present. Orravia's keep was nothing like the streets he had known, but the lessons of survival remained. The whispers of the corridors, the scrutiny of guards, the wary eyes of nobles—all were part of the same game: live or die, speak carefully, act cautiously.
He pressed his hand over the faint pulse of the mark on his arm. It was quiet now, but he could feel its weight—a reminder that survival alone was no longer enough. He had to thrive.
Looking out the small window at the courtyard below, he let himself imagine the boy he had been in his ruined city. Hungry, alone, and afraid. And then he let himself imagine who he would become here, in this new land, among these lords and knights.