Dawn crept slowly across the Whispering Forest, its pale gold rays piercing emerald covers older than any kingdom carved by man. The mist lay low around the forest floor, moving like living spirits unwilling to rest their vigil. The birds had not yet begun their morning calls, and the air—usually brisk at this time—held its breath as if it were watching with silent longing.
A boy lay motionless on the dew-drenched moss, half buried beneath ferns and fallen leaves. His dark hair clung to his forehead, wet with sweat or rain—perhaps both. A red gash crossed his ribs, and his clothes were scorched as if he had walked through fire. On his chest, slightly glowing in the dim light, lay a silver line: the head of a roaring lion surrounded by a ring of stars.
His eyelids fluttered.
First the pain—sharp, relentless, cutting like a blade between his senses. Then the sound: the faint, eerie whisper of the trees, too rhythmic to be mere wind. They spoke in a language he knew but could not decipher.
Awaken… heir to the light…
He caught his breath. A sudden flow of images—shattering, violent—rushed through his mind: a great hall on fire, a crown falling from a blood-soaked hand, a scream of a woman swallowed by darkness. An immense force pulled him away, and then—
Nothing.
The boy gasped and quickly stood up, holding his head.
The voices disappeared. All that remained was silence.
His chest rose and fell rapidly as he searched the forest with wide, unfocused eyes. He didn't know this place. He didn't know why he was bleeding. He didn't know—
He didn't know his own name.
Realization came like a blow. Fear—cold and unpleasant—squeezed his chest. He tried to piece together the last thing he remembered, but every thought melted into mist.
"Where… where am I…?"
His voice cracked, raspy with thirst. He managed to steady his breathing, forcing himself to look around. Moss-covered rocks dotted the plain. Towering silverwood trees formed a wide circle around him, their barks glowing faintly with runic designs. There was power here—ancient, patient power.
There was a rustling nearby.
The boy froze. His hand instinctively reached for a weapon he didn't have.
A shadow moved between the trees—quick, graceful, silent.
Then a voice, sharp and commanding:
"Don't move."
An arrow whistled through the air and stopped, its tip only inches from the boy's throat. He froze.
From the shadows emerged a young woman—tall, elegant, and unmistakably even. Her hair was pale as moonlight, braided over one shoulder. Her emerald eyes, fixed in calculation, studied her with the precision of a seasoned hunter. She was dressed in forest leathers and a cloak patterned like moving leaves.
He shot a second arrow.
"Human," he said, his tone cautious. "You are bleeding on sacred ground. Tell me your name."
The boy swallowed, his throat tight with uncertainty.
"I don't... know."
The elf's frown deepened. "You are lying."
"I swear—I don't remember anything."
After a long, tiring moment, he lowered his bow slightly, even though he couldn't breathe easily.
"Stand up. Slowly."
He stood up, his legs weakening. His vision was blurry, and he almost fell again, but the elf stepped forward and grabbed his arm—reluctantly, as if his instinctive desire to help was resisting him.
"You are about to die," he whispered. "But you see something..." His eyes drifted to his chest. "The symbol. Where did you get that?"
He looked down. The silver symbol glowed faintly, warm against his skin.
"I don't know," he whispered.
Before the elf could answer, the forest's surroundings changed. The air grew cold. A presence—cold and unnatural—passed across the plain. The boy shivered.
The elf's stance changed instantly. He pushed her behind him and drew his bow again.
"Turn back," he ordered. "Someone is coming."
From the gathering fog emerged shadows—crooked, rust-shaped with eyes that glowed faintly blue. Clad in rusty armor, their movements were swift and unnatural.
Dead.
But not the mindless vagabonds of folk tales—these had sigils etched into their withered foreheads, pulsing like rotten light.
The elf took a deep breath. "Guards so deep... so deep in the woods? Impossible."
One of the skeletal soldiers hissed, his jaw cracking.
The boy felt something stir inside him. A heat. A pressure. A flash of light beneath his skin.
He took an involuntary step forward.
"Stand behind me!" the elf shouted.
But the boy didn't listen. The heat grew until it was unbearable—a blazing light trapped beneath his ribs. The dead rushed forward.
And then—
The light shone.
Blinding. Pure. Clear.
Mist settled. The trees trembled. The dead screamed, their bones breaking, then scattered in the ash carried by the wind.
The boy fell to his knees, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his forehead.
The elf stared at him, his bow lowered, shock piercing his composure.
"You..." he whispered. "What are you?"
He looked into her trembling eyes.
"I don't know," he repeated softly. "But I think... someone wants to kill me."