4 Lessons and Whispers
The silence in the training yard was broken by Liam's furious shout. "He cheated! He's using some kind of trick!"
The spell of shock broken, the other children began to murmur, their eyes fixed on Rimo with a mixture of awe and suspicion. The wooden sword felt suddenly heavy and alien in his hand. He dropped it as if it were a live serpent, the clatter on the gravel unnaturally loud.
"I… I didn't mean to," Rimo stammered, taking a step back. "It was an accident."
Kai, recovering from his astonishment, stepped between Rimo and the glowering Liam. "An accident? That was the cleanest disarm I've ever seen! You didn't even look like you were trying!" He turned to Liam, his mischievous grin returning. "Face it, Liam. You got schooled by the new kid. Maybe you should spend less time on barriers and more time on your grip."
Liam's face flushed red, but Elara's firm voice cut through the tension before he could retort. "That's enough. All of you. Liam, Kai, apologize. Rimo, come with me."
Rimo followed Elara, his head down, feeling the weight of everyone's stares. He expected a scolding, but instead, she led him to a small, sunlit room lined with bookshelves—the orphanage's makeshift library and study.
"Sit, Rimo," she said gently, gesturing to a chair by a window.
"I'm sorry," he blurted out, unable to meet her eyes. "I don't know what happened."
"There is nothing to apologize for," Elara said, taking the seat opposite him. "But we need to understand it. Can you tell me what you felt? In that moment?"
Rimo struggled to find the words. "It was… like my body knew what to do before I did. I saw Liam move, and then… it was like I knew exactly where his sword would be, and how to stop it. It felt… easy." He finally looked up, his golden eyes pleading. "Is that… magic?"
Elara shook her head slowly. "No, not in the way Kai uses magic. What you describe sounds like pure, instinctual combat prowess. Muscle memory so deeply ingrained it's like breathing." She leaned forward, her expression thoughtful. "Rimo, the body often remembers what the mind forgets. Your amnesia may cover your memories, but it seems your training remains."
"Training?" The word felt cold and sharp. "What kind of training makes a kid… like that?"
"I don't know," Elara admitted softly. "But we will help you find out. For now, let's focus on giving you new memories. Good ones." She pulled a slate and a piece of chalk from a drawer. "Starting with this."
The next few weeks fell into a new, comforting rhythm. Mornings were for chores and lessons with Elara. She taught him his letters, and he proved to be a voracious learner, his curiosity a blazing fire that consumed every piece of information she offered. He learned about the four great kingdoms, the reclusive elves of the Silverwoods, the stout dwarves of the Ironpeak Mountains, and the demon tribes that were said to prowl the blasted lands beyond the southern deserts. He learned that a gold crown could buy a horse, a silver mark a good meal, and a bronze penny a loaf of bread.
His friendship with Kai deepened through teasing and shared mischief. Kai, for all his bravado, was fiercely loyal and seemed to have adopted Rimo as his personal project.
"You're thinking too much!" Kai laughed one afternoon as they sparred with practice swords again. Rimo was consciously trying to be clumsy, to mimic the other boys' imperfect forms. "Just yesterday you moved like a master, and today you're swinging like a girl with a wet noodle!"
Rimo forced an awkward swing. "I'm trying to do it properly!"
"Properly is boring," Kai declared, easily parrying the weak attack. "Do what comes naturally!"
But Rimo was afraid of what came naturally. Every time he felt that cold, fluid certainty rise up, he forced it down, remembering the stunned and fearful looks. He didn't want to be a mystery or a weapon. He just wanted to be Rimo.
It was during a quiet moment of respite that the next piece of the mystery slipped through. He had just finished helping in the kitchen and went to the washroom to clean the flour from his hands and face. He splashed cool water on his face, the droplets tracing paths through the grime of the day. He reached for a rough linen towel and patted his skin dry.
As he lowered the towel, his eyes met his reflection in the small, polished metal mirror above the basin. It was him—the blond hair, the light brown eyes, the face that was slowly becoming familiar.
But then, for a single, heart-stopping second, the face changed.
The eyes didn't change color, but the expression within them did. The innocent confusion was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp-eyed intelligence. The line of the mouth twitched, not into a smile, but into a faint, knowing smirk. It was a look of contemptuous amusement, as if the reflection were looking at a foolish child.
Rimo stumbled back from the basin, his heart hammering against his ribs, the towel falling from his numb fingers. He stared at the mirror, but it was just his own terrified face staring back, pale and wide-eyed.
The image was gone as quickly as it had come, but the chill it left behind seeped deep into his bones. The cold feeling he got during danger, the instinctive movements… they weren't just random. They were connected to that—to the thing in the mirror.
He was not just a boy with no past.
He was a boy sharing his skin with a stranger.