The house was small, the bed hard, but at that moment it was exactly what Miquella needed: a safe place to rest. He was exhausted in every sense—physically, mentally, and spiritually.
Lying on the bed, he lifted his left arm with difficulty. He could barely hold it in the air; it remained weak and numb, though at least it no longer felt dead. He watched it in silence, but soon his attention shifted to the ring on his finger.
He stared at it with a mixture of intrigue and suspicion. Ever since he arrived here, all the strange sensations, the sudden episodes of exhaustion, and that force that seemed to consume him had one thing in common: the ring. The tongue of fire he had summoned only confirmed his suspicions.
He would have liked to call it magic, but it didn't feel like that. It wasn't a spell, but something more instinctive, primal, and emotional. He had no control over it—at least, not yet.
His ability to understand and speak the language of this world also seemed to come from the ring. It was a mysterious object, frustrating in its elusive nature. The more he tried to comprehend it, the more unreachable its secrets became.
He tried to take it off, but soon realized that physical strength was not the problem. No matter how hard he tried, the ring would not move without a firm will to remove it. Likewise, for it to remain off his finger, he had to desire it with constant intensity, or else it would vanish only to return to his hand. It seemed to exist and not exist at the same time, as if it had no true physical presence, nor did it emit any energy or trace that could be analyzed.
There was so much he wanted to test, so much he longed to discover. If the ring truly granted him the ability to understand languages and unleash flames, what else could it do? But he knew that every use had a price. He had learned that the hard way: the ring consumed him with every action it performed. And right now, he could barely stand.
Everything would have to wait.
Sleep overcame him before he could continue pondering. His eyes shut against his will, plunging him once again into unconsciousness.
...
While he slept, someone approached.
The woman who had pulled him from the river lay down beside him, wrapping him in her arms. She watched him in silence, hypnotized by his beauty.
...
The next morning, Miquella was awakened by the aroma of hot food. He opened his eyes heavily and saw the woman before him, offering him a bowl of milk and some kind of porridge. He did not reject the kindness. He couldn't afford to. He felt better than the night before, but his body still demanded compensation, it needed nourishment.
He ate and drank in silence, under the woman's attentive gaze, as if she delighted in watching him feed. Miquella noticed, but showed no emotion beyond a slight gesture of gratitude.
She treated him like a child. And physically, perhaps he looked like one. He had no intention of correcting her for the moment. In this unknown world, he needed to make use of every advantage he had in order to survive.
They talked for a while. The woman wanted to know about him: his origins, his home, his family… but none of the answers he could give were pleasant. Yet far from discouraging her, his words seemed to do the opposite.
For his part, Miquella wanted to learn more about this world. The woman was not educated, but he could still gather some information.
She spoke of their location: they were not far from the East Road. The river he had fallen into was the Hoarwell, and the forest where he had awakened was Trollshaws.
None of it sounded familiar. He didn't know where he was, nor in what age. Was this a new world? Was it Earth in the past?
But then, among the names she mentioned, there was one that sounded vaguely familiar: Rhudaur. He couldn't recall where or when he had heard it, but it stirred something within him.
Another name was also familiar: the Misty Mountains. Yet it was too generic a term to know for certain whether he truly remembered it, or if it was just coincidence.
Miquella pressed his lips together in silence. There was much to discover… and too many questions without answers.
The woman, whose name was Brea, offered Miquella a place in her home without hesitation, assuring him that he had nothing to worry about, that she would take care of him.
Miquella eventually accepted. He was in no condition to wander the world alone, not with his body still weak and his arm functioning at barely a quarter of its strength.
The life of common folk was simple, yet harsh. Brea made her living by washing and mending clothes for others. When she found him in the river, she had been there because she had taken on extra work to save for some special purpose. But with Miquella's arrival, those expenses disappeared—or rather, were redirected.
From his corner, he would watch her work: spinning, weaving, hauling clothes to the river several times a day. He found it fascinating, what people did to survive. He himself, as Miquella, had endured hardships, but of a different kind. And though he had seen the world in its cruelest aspects, there were still things that remained foreign to him. As a young man on Earth, he had lived in a modern age where many inconveniences had been erased, but here, reduced to nothing more than a lost child, he was discovering a raw, different—almost primitive—reality.
One might think Brea would be bothered by having to feed another mouth—a stranger, no less—but it seemed to be quite the opposite. She delighted in his presence. Watching him observe her work filled her with excitement; having him sit by her side, follow her to the river, ask her questions… all of it brought her an unexpected happiness that bordered on bliss.
She worked, cooked, and kept the house, and unlike the innkeeper, she didn't want Miquella to do anything. He noticed the difference and wondered how contrasting people's treatment of him could be. He didn't complain. After all, this reprieve allowed him to focus on understanding himself… and the enigmatic ring on his finger.
Thus passed his first day in Brea's home, and the night ended like the one before: with the two of them sharing the same bed. This time, Miquella was aware of it. He noticed how, when lying down, Brea hesitated at first, but little by little drew closer, testing the limits of her proximity until she finally embraced him, seeing that he offered no resistance.
The next morning, while she tried to untangle his long golden hair, Brea frowned. The accumulated dirt made it a challenge, so she suggested he take a bath.
Miquella saw no issue with it and agreed.
Brea was very thoughtful, heating the water for him, though at times she seemed to tremble as she stoked the fire. When the bath was ready, she helped him undress, though with only a single garment on, it wasn't a difficult task.
However, she had no intention of letting him bathe alone.
With gentle care, she poured the hot water over his body, washing him attentively. She didn't have many cleaning products, but the few she did have were reserved for him now.
Miquella remained still, dazed by the sensation of her hands moving across his skin. Since arriving at this house, it seemed as though he was not allowed to do anything for himself, but he didn't protest. He depended on her to survive.
Brea washed his shoulders, his back, his hair, his arms, his torso… every part of his body as if he were a porcelain figurine. Her breathing became more labored as she moved closer to him, until her hands descended where they shouldn't have.
Miquella felt Brea's shudder on her back. His own was minor in comparison.
The woman's breath brushed his neck as, caught up in the sensation of what she was touching, she whispered in a trembling voice,
"You're always going to stay with Mom... right?" Her hands moved in a way that could no longer be disguised as a simple bath.
Miquella didn't respond; he simply stood there, motionless, feeling those hands roaming over his body. There was no reaction from his lower body, which was to be expected; his childlike body wasn't capable of more. But that didn't seem to diminish the fervor of the woman behind him.
"Will you stay with Mom? Mom will take good care of you..." she whispered haltingly, as if each word was difficult to get out through her labored breathing.
Brea was caught in a whirlwind of emotions. All her life, she had hidden unspeakable desires, aware that they were unacceptable for someone like her: a mere commoner of no importance. She had been saving up for months to visit that tavern rumored to have an elven child as an attraction, hoping to see him, maybe touch him... but she never imagined that her own angel would come to her.
A beautiful child... Pure... Just for her... to give his purity to his mommy...
But she knew she couldn't rush things. If she did too much, she might lose him. And that wasn't an option. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her agitation, and continued with the bath—though with more contact than was necessary.
When she finished, she studied Miquella closely. He showed no reaction of pleasure or displeasure. He didn't resist. He said nothing. And that made her happy. Perhaps, in time, she could go further…
The rest of the day passed in a strange silence. There were no words about what had happened. No questions, no reproaches. Brea didn't push, and Miquella didn't complain. When night came, they once again shared the bed, and this time, with more confidence, the woman rested her hand over Miquella's jewels, as if claiming him for herself.
…
The next morning, Miquella left the house early while Brea was still asleep. She had stayed up late, savoring the feel of her hand. His condition had improved considerably, though his arm still troubled him.
He didn't plan to run away—not yet. He only wanted to wander, to test and explore a little more. He had made some attempts in the house, but he needed a secluded place, far from everything, where he could focus and perform more "dangerous" experiments. He needed to discover how to recover at least a fraction of his former power—or how to wield the ring, if he was even capable of it. Despite the risks, this was the best method he had.
He planned to try something simple, something that could weaken him as before, but not too much. He thought he could recover during his time with Brea. Whatever it did to him would not be pleasant, but at least he would be safe until he found a solution to his problems. A price he might have to pay now to secure a better future.
That was what he thought. But things don't always go as one expects.
As he walked toward the river, something struck him hard across the face, knocking him to the ground.
Dazed, Miquella didn't know what had happened or what had hit him. Before he could react, hands grabbed his arms and dragged him into the forest.
Disoriented, he could barely make sense of what was happening. But when his captors stopped, his vision cleared enough to see a group of men. Some were wounded and bandaged, all glaring at him with murderous hatred.
"There you are, bitch. I'm gonna cut your balls off and make a necklace out of them," snarled a bald man with half his face burned and bandaged.
The others looked just as furious. They were the same savages who had attacked him in the tavern, and now they wanted revenge. But not a slow one.
Miquella, on his knees with his arms restrained, watched as the leader stepped in front of him and smashed a fist into his face. Unfortunately, the blow landed right where he had been struck before.
"I'll make you scream," the man spat, seizing his hair with one hand while lowering his trousers with the other. "Swallow, whore…"
Miquella could only hear those words as he tried to resist the pull on his head, recoiling from the vile thing looming before his eyes.
Then, a piercing scream rang in his ears.
Suddenly, the grip restraining him vanished, and something fell in front of him. But instead of looking down, he raised his gaze—and saw the man who was about to assault him… headless.
Everyone froze.
Behind the decapitated corpse stood a figure clad in armor and a white cloak. In her hand, a sword still dripped with blood.
The lifeless body collapsed to the ground, and the knight let out a battle cry—feminine—before hurling herself at the other men.
"FILTHY SCUM!!!" she roared with a fury that chilled the savages' blood.
Her sword moved faster than her words. Before anyone could react, the arm of one of the men holding Miquella was severed. With an even swifter motion, the bastard sword pierced the bare torso of the other captor.
"HOW DARE YOU TOUCH HIM!!!" she bellowed, slamming her metal boot into the man screaming from the loss of his arm. Her voice was pure, unbridled rage. "DIE!!!"
With feral wrath, the knight hurled herself into battle against the rest of the men, who barely had time to draw their weapons. Armed with daggers and axes, they tried to resist, but fear shone in their eyes.
The figure before them radiated a murderous, majestic aura. This was no ordinary warrior. This was a relentless scourge.
The knight moved with impossible lightness for someone in armor. She wielded her sword as though it weighed nothing, tracing lethal arcs that sliced and pierced flesh with terrifying precision. Death danced with her in a whirlwind of blood and agonized screams.
The sound of steel tearing through flesh persisted, merciless, but it lasted so briefly that Miquella was still kneeling on the ground when it was all over.
He turned his gaze toward the knight who had saved him. He recognized her garments instantly.
But the warrior didn't look well.
She had just pulled her sword from the last survivor, who lay dying on the ground. Yet her stance wavered dangerously. Despite the helmet covering her face, her ragged breathing was obvious.
She staggered a few steps before collapsing to the ground, drained of all strength.