The room was silent so silent that even the faintest creak of wood felt like a thunderclap.
In that stillness, a young man stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and the first thing that greeted him was not the darkness, nor the faint golden glow of the lantern on the wall, but a wave of agony so sharp it tore through his skull like a blade.
He groaned, clutching his head with trembling fingers, his breath ragged and uneven. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was or who he was.
And then, like a shard of glass driven into his mind, an image flashed before his eyes.
It wasn't the room.
It wasn't now.
He saw himself or someone who looked like him standing amidst chaos. Shadows twisted in the corners of a half-ruined hall. Figures lunged at him, weapons drawn, faces warped with rage. His chest heaved as he fought them off, each movement desperate and violent. When the tide of enemies pressed in too close, he opened his mouth and uttered words strange, alien syllables that tasted of lightning and blood.
A circle of light burst around him. And then
The memory shattered.
The pain in his head eased almost instantly, leaving him panting, sweat beading on his forehead. He blinked rapidly, his gaze adjusting to the dim light of the room. His surroundings came into focus walls of warm, aged timber, the faint smell of pine and dust in the air, and the distant, almost musical chirp of night insects.
Turning his head, he caught sight of the window.
Beyond it, a perfect full moon hung in the sky, flooding the world in silver light. Its glow spilled into the room, painting everything in cold, dreamlike radiance.
For a long moment, he simply stared, his thoughts tangled and fraying. What is happening to me? The question clawed at the edges of his mind. His breathing was still unsteady as he pushed himself upright, the mattress creaking beneath his weight.
The room was small but not cramped. Beside the bed stood a simple wooden table, and on it lay a book its cover worn smooth, its pages yellowed by time. Something about it called to him.
He reached out and opened it.
Lines of text greeted him, written in a script both familiar and foreign. He could read most of the words his eyes traced them easily enough but their meaning refused to settle in his mind. No memories stirred, no recognition sparked. It was as though he had read these lines hundreds of times before, and yet… they belonged to someone else entirely.
Whose book is this?
Flipping through the pages, his gaze caught on a name written in an elegant, deliberate hand: Morvain Celestyr.
His breath caught.
The name struck him with strange force, resonating deep in his chest. Is that… me?
The question had barely formed before the pain returned sharp, merciless, stabbing behind his eyes. Another fragment of memory unfurled, jagged and incomplete.
A boy.
A voice calling that very name.
A sense of urgency, of running toward something or away from it.
Then, nothing.
He gasped, pressing his palm to his forehead as if he could force the memories to stay. They slipped away like water through his fingers. His pulse thundered in his ears.
When the pain finally receded, he sat in the silence for a long while, his thoughts chasing themselves in circles. The conclusion crept up on him slowly, like a shadow at his back.
Amnesia.
It fit.
It explained the gaps, the fragments, the emptiness where his life should have been. But it didn't explain why. Why had his mind been torn apart? Why had he seen that other version of himself or was it even him at all?
The "dream" from earlier tugged at his mind. It had felt too vivid, too real to be a simple figment of sleep. The blood in his ears, the weight of the weapon in his hands, the taste of those strange words he could still feel them lingering.
If that man wasn't him, then who was he? And why did it feel as though their fates were tangled?
He whispered the name under his breath. "Morvain Celestyr…"
And that was when he heard it.
A whisper not from his own lips, but from somewhere else. Close. Too close. It slid into his ears like cold water.
Morvain Celestyr.
His head snapped up, eyes darting around the room. The walls stood still, the shadows in the corners unmoving. The night air through the window was cool and still.
Yet the voice had been right there, at his ear.
His heart pounded. He swallowed hard, forcing his breath to steady. "Who's there?" he demanded, though the words felt weak against the oppressive quiet.
No answer.
He rose from the bed, the old floorboards groaning beneath his bare feet. His eyes scanned every corner, every shadow. Nothing stirred.
But the name continued to echo in his mind, faint and insistent, like a bell heard from miles away.
Morvain Celestyr.
Each repetition sent a shiver down his spine. He wasn't sure if it was calling to him or warning him.
He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself. His gaze drifted once more to the book, its open pages seeming almost to breathe in the moonlight. The words swam faintly on the paper, as though resisting his attempts to read them.
Something in his gut told him the answers were there in the ink, in the parchment, in the name written in that graceful hand.
But another part of him whispered that opening the wrong page might awaken something far worse than his lost memories.
Outside, the moon hung heavy in the sky, watching.
The whisper came again.
Soft.
Relentless.
Morvain Celestyr.
And this time, he wasn't sure if the voice came from outside the room… or from somewhere deep within himself.