The First Scar
Alan's eyes snapped open.
Cold air burned his lungs as he gasped, his body jerking upright. For a moment, he thought he was still lying in that alley, bleeding out in the rain. But when his trembling hands reached for his stomach, the wound… was gone.
His shirt was still torn, stained with dried blood. But beneath it, there was no gash, no knife lodged between his ribs. Only a faint silver line remained, glowing faintly against his skin like a scar etched by something not human.
Alan's breath hitched.
"…I was… stabbed. I… I should be dead."
His heart hammered as he staggered to his feet. The world around him was not the one he knew.
The sky was a deep violet, two moons hanging above—one whole, one shattered into shards that bleed pale light across the land. The ground beneath him was blackened, scarred as though fire had once devoured it whole. Trees grew twisted, their bark cracked and bleeding with faint streams of red sap, their roots pulsing like veins.
The air itself hummed, low and restless, as if the world were breathing.
Alan whispered, "…Where the hell am I?"
A sound broke the silence.
Not a roar.
A growl.
Wet. Guttural. Thick with hunger.
Alan froze, his body stiffening. Slowly, he turned toward the treeline. Shadows shifted, and then it stepped forward.
The creature looked like it had been stitched together from nightmares. Its body was gaunt, muscle and bone fused in uneven patches. A crown of jagged obsidian antlers jutted from its skull, and its jaw hung far wider than it should, rows of uneven teeth dripping black ichor. Where eyes should have been, there was nothing—only hollow sockets, empty and endless.
Alan's throat tightened.
"…No… no, no, no…"
The thing's head twitched, sniffing the air, and then its jaws snapped open in a shriek that rattled his bones.
Alan ran.
He didn't think. He didn't look back. His feet pounded against the ash-black ground as branches clawed at his clothes. Roots rose like traps, tangling his legs. Every breath scraped his throat raw.
But the beast was faster.
A rush of air—then pain exploded down Alan's arm. Claws raked across his forearm, tearing skin, burning as if fire had been poured into his veins. He screamed, clutching the wound, but black lines were already spreading from it, pulsing beneath his skin like ink in water.
"No—no, no, no! Not again—!"
His vision blurred. His legs stumbled. He crashed through thorned vines, the barbs slicing across his cheek, but he forced himself forward. The growl was behind him, closer, too close—
"Move! MOVE!"
Alan hurled himself over a half-collapsed root, crashing hard against the ground on the other side. His palms stung, his knees scraped raw, but the monster had lost sight of him.
For a moment.
His body shook violently. He pressed his hand against his bleeding arm, teeth gritted. The veins writhed beneath his skin, black light pulsing with every heartbeat.
"What… what's happening to me?"
He forced his body onward, crawling through the underbrush until he found a stream of silver water glimmering faintly under the twin moons. His body gave out, collapsing at its edge.
Alan pressed his wound into the cold water, gasping at the sting. The reflection stared back at him—his own face pale, lips trembling, sweat and blood streaking his skin.
But his shadow in the water… didn't match.
It flickered. It twitched. It moved.
Alan froze. Slowly, he turned his head. On the ground beside him, his shadow twisted unnaturally, not bound to the angle of moonlight. It stretched, coiled, shivered like a living thing.
And then—
A claw.
A blade.
Wings.
Forms flickered, then vanished.
Alan whispered, voice breaking, "…What the hell… am I?"
The wound on his arm pulsed again. The black veins crawled higher, writhing like something alive beneath his skin. His breathing quickened, his body shaking with both fear and rage.
But even through the agony, one thought anchored him:
He couldn't die. Not here. Not now.
Not until he understood this place.
Not until he learned why he was alive when he should be dead.
Not until he controlled the shadow that now moved with him.
The first scar throbbed, burning into him like a brand.
Alan West's new life in Arathen had begun.