Faelan headed to the dorm managed by the messenger's guild, took off his clothes and went to the bath, as the warm water enveloped his body he felt the tension in his muscles loosen and fatigue melt away.
**Few years earlier**
The acrid stench of blood and scorched earth clung to the air as Faelan stumbled through the remnants of his village. Charred wooden beams jutted out at odd angles, and the once-lively market square was now a graveyard of splintered stalls and torn fabrics. The cries of the dying had long since been silenced, replaced only by the distant howls of the Loboan pack that had slaughtered everyone he knew.
Faelan's chest heaved as he ducked behind a toppled cart, trying to catch his breath. His fingers, smeared with both his own blood and that of his neighbors, tightened around the hilt of a crude hunting knife. His brown eyes scanned the shadows, every muscle in his body taut, every sense screaming danger.
A low, guttural growl echoed from the ruins of the village hall. Faelan froze. The Loboan were still here, hunting the remnants, savoring their kill. Their twisted forms—towering on all fours, fur matted with blood, jagged teeth glinting in the dim light—moved with predatory grace, each step crushing the earth beneath them.
He swallowed hard, forcing down the rising panic. I can't die here, he thought. Not like this. Not after everything…
Faelan's legs trembled as he made a slow, cautious retreat toward the forest line. Every snap of a branch underfoot, every rustle in the debris, made his pulse spike. Behind him, the Loboan paused, sniffing the air, their heads tilting in unison as if sensing the lone survivor's fear.
Faelan moved clumsily, fear and panic scrambling his limbs. Survival was the only thought keeping him upright.
The Loboan closed in. But as luck would have it. He slipped, tumbled down a slanted path, and was hurled into a fast-moving stream.
The icy water shocked him into momentary alertness, dragging him downstream with merciless force. His clothes clung to his body, soaked and heavy, and the knife in his hand felt almost useless against the current. Rocks scraped against his arms and legs as he tumbled violently, gasping for air that was quickly swallowed by the torrent.
Above him, the snarls of the Loboan echoed, distorted by the rush of water. They reached the edge of the stream and snapped at him with frustration, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to risk entering the fast-moving water.
Faelan's vision blurred from the cold, but instinct took over. He kicked against the current, twisting his body, letting the flow carry him while searching desperately for a grip on the rocky banks. Every second felt like an eternity, the sound of his own pounding heart nearly drowning out the furious cries behind him.
Somewhere ahead, the stream curved sharply, and jagged rocks jutted out like teeth. He needed to find a way to stop before they tore him apart—or worse, delivered him straight into the jaws of the Loboan.
His hands scrabbled for anything to latch onto, mud and moss making the rocks slippery, but finally, his fingers found a protruding root, and he clung with all his strength, his body thrashing violently in the current.
The root wasn't strong enough to hold him, but it was just enough for him to change his trajectory and miss the rocks.
Faelan's stomach lurched as the roar of the waterfall grew deafening. The current dragged him closer, faster than he could hope to fight, and the world became a blur of white foam and cold spray. He flailed wildly, arms scraping against slick stones, until the edge of the waterfall approached like the mouth of some merciless beast.
For a heartbeat, he hung suspended in terror, suspended over the edge, the ground nowhere in sight. Then gravity claimed him. The plunge was violent—water slammed into his chest and twisted him under the surface. Bubbles and debris filled his vision, and for a moment, he couldn't tell which way was up.
Instinct kicked in. He kicked and twisted, letting the current carry him, fighting for air, lungs burning. When he finally broke the surface, coughing and gasping, he found himself in a turbulent pool at the base of the waterfall. His body throbbed with every impact, cuts from rocks stinging sharply, but he was alive.
Around him, mist rose from the waterfall, masking the forest beyond in a shroud of spray. Faelan floated there, heart hammering, chest heaving, letting the adrenaline ebb just enough for him to realize the silence—the Loboan hadn't followed him this far.
Shivering from cold and exhaustion, he realized he had only one choice: climb out of the pool and find shelter.
Faelan dragged himself onto the damp, slippery bank, collapsing onto the moss-covered ground. Water dripped from his hair and clothes, mixing with the blood from shallow cuts along his arms and legs. His chest heaved as he tried to steady his ragged breathing, the roar of the waterfall still echoing in his ears.
He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to focus. But he couldn't, tears flowed down his face as the waterfall did, the sudden loss of everything he knew, all but broke him.
He folded in on himself, shivering. He barely moved for a while, as the sun began to cast long shadows he knew he couldn't stay like this forever.
Looking around through the mist, he noticed the forest ahead. Trees twisted strangely, some with bark as thick as armor, others with leaves that glowed faintly in the dim light. Strange noises echoed from within—creatures scavenging, maybe predators, maybe harmless—but nothing as immediate as the Loboan had been.
Faelan sat up straighter, pressing the knife into his palm like a lifeline. I can survive this. I have to. He scanned for any sign of dry ground, a sheltered spot, or even food. Every step would be a gamble, every movement a test—but staying put wasn't an option.
With a slow, careful rise to his feet, he took a tentative step toward the forest, muscles trembling but resolve hardening. This was his world now, chaotic and dangerous, and if he wanted to live, he had to navigate it on his own terms.