In the year I turned twelve, the world ended for me—not with dragons or war, but with the wet, ripping sounds of claws tearing through flesh and the sharp copper stink of blood soaking the pine-needle floor of our cottage. My parents, both mid-rank adventurers who'd always come home laughing with minor scratches and pouches of silver, never returned from that routine goblin-clearing quest. I found what was left of them at dusk: Mother's bronze shield dented and smeared, Father's sword snapped halfway, their bodies half-devoured under a thin blanket of fresh snow. The village healer made me close their eyes. I remember the cold slime of blood on my fingers and the way the wind carried the faint, sweet rot of monster guts long after the corpses were burned.
I wept for a full year. The kind of crying that leaves your throat raw, your eyes swollen shut, and your chest hollow. The village folk were kind enough—bringing bread, stew, mending clothes—but no one took me in. My parents had been orphans themselves, wanderers who'd settled here late, so there were no grandparents, no aunts waiting to claim me. I was alone in the small timber house that still smelled of Mother's dried lavender and Father's oiled leather.
They'd left enough, though: a modest purse of gold from years of quests, a shelf of herb jars, a locked chest with spare armor and minor magic trinkets they'd meant to sell. I learned quickly how to stretch coin, how to barter firewood for milk, how to mend roofs and tend the tiny garden so I wouldn't starve. The winters were brutal—wind knifing through the cracks, the hearth's smoke stinging my eyes as I huddled under patched quilts that still carried their scent. Summers brought the buzz of blackflies and the heavy perfume of wildflowers growing over their graves at the edge of the village.
Eight years passed like that. I grew tall and lean from hauling water and chopping wood, my hands calloused, my childhood softness burned away. The boy who once begged for bedtime stories about heroes became a quiet young man who spoke little, kept the house tidy, and nodded politely to neighbors. On clear nights I'd sit on the roof, breathing the cool resin of pine and distant woodsmoke, watching the same stars I'd known in my previous life—back when I'd been someone else entirely, someone who died at a desk under fluorescent lights, crushed by endless overtime.
My name in this life is Elaric Voss. Twenty-five years old now, and though the grief has settled into a steady ache rather than a storm, it never truly leaves. The house is paid for, the garden thrives, and I've even begun taking small jobs—repairing tools, guiding travelers through the safer woods. But every time I pass the overgrown path where my parents died, I taste iron on the air again and feel the old hollowness open inside me.
Still, I'm alive. Reborn with memories no one else carries. And in a world of magic and monsters, that has to count for something
Elaric Voss jolted awake in the dead of night, a dull throb pulsing behind his temples like a distant hammer on anvil. He pressed his calloused fingers against the ache, exhaling a long, ragged sigh that hung in the chill air of the empty house. Moonlight filtered through the warped shutters, casting pale silver stripes across the bare wooden floorboards that creaked faintly under his shifting weight. The room smelled of old smoke from the cold hearth, mingled with the faint, lingering traces of lavender his mother once hung in bundles from the rafters—now faded, like everything else.
The silence pressed in, heavy and absolute, broken only by the soft hoot of an owl outside and the distant rustle of wind through pine needles. He sat up on the narrow straw mattress, the coarse linen sheets rough against his skin, and glanced around the shadowed space: the empty chair by the dying embers, the single table with its lone wooden cup, the hooks on the wall where his parents' cloaks once hung. No warm voices, no laughter echoing from the kitchen. Just emptiness.
Heat stirred low in his belly, a restless ache born of too many solitary nights. With a quiet grunt, he loosened the drawstring of his woolen trousers, the fabric whispering as it slid down. His hand found his cock—already half-hard from fragmented dreams—and he began to stroke slowly, deliberately. The skin was warm, velvety under his palm; each upward pull sent a faint shiver through him, a soft slick sound in the quiet room as precome beaded at the tip. He closed his eyes, trying to summon memories from his old life: flickering screens, endless streams of bodies moving in impossible ways, moans piped through headphones late into the night.
But here? Nothing. No illustrated tomes hidden in tavern corners, no painted scrolls peddled in markets, no enchanted crystals that could conjure illusions of desire. Just his own rough hand and fading imagination. Minutes stretched into frustration; his strokes grew faster, more desperate, muscles tensing in his thighs, breath coming in shallow huffs that clouded faintly in the cold air. Yet release hovered just out of reach, mocking him.
A growl of pure aggravation tore from his throat. He released himself, cock throbbing uselessly against his stomach, and slammed a fist into the thin pillow beside him. Feathers puffed out from a split seam, drifting like snow in the moonlight. "Damn it," he muttered, voice cracking. "Damn it all." Tears welled hot and sudden, spilling down his stubbled cheeks, tasting of salt when they reached his lips. He punched the pillow again, harder, the muffled thump echoing his helplessness.
"If Dad were still here," he whispered to the empty room, voice breaking, "he'd drag me to the tavern, laughing that big laugh of his... shove a mug in my hand, introduce me to some merchant's daughter with freckles and a shy smile. 'Go on, lad,' he'd say, clapping my back. 'Live a little.'"
The words dissolved into sobs—deep, wrenching ones that shook his shoulders and burned his chest. "Mom... Dad... I miss you. Gods, I miss you both so much." The tears soaked the pillow, warm at first, then cooling against his cheek. Exhaustion finally claimed him; his breathing slowed, hitching now and then, until sleep dragged him under once more into merciful darkness. The house remained silent around him, holding its secrets and its ghosts
Elaric Voss lay tangled in the sweat-damp sheets, his breathing slow and heavy, the faint salt tracks of dried tears still crusting his cheeks. The room was steeped in midnight chill; frost feathered the edges of the windowpanes, and the dying embers in the hearth glowed a dull, sullen red, casting long shadows that danced like uneasy memories across the walls.
Then the air shifted—grew thicker, warmer, as though someone had opened an oven door in winter. A soft, silvery glow blossomed near the foot of the bed, accompanied by the faint scent of wild lavender and oiled leather, the very smells that had once filled the house when it was alive with voices. Two translucent figures materialized out of the light, their forms shimmering like moonlight on rippling water.
His mother, Mira, appeared first: her auburn hair still braided the way she wore it on quests, her adventurer's cloak hanging weightless around her shoulders. Beside her stood his father, Torren—broad-shouldered even in death, his beard neatly trimmed, the old scar across his brow catching the ghostly glow.
Torren's translucent face crumpled as he looked down at his sleeping son, taking in the rumpled bed, the swollen eyes, the lingering evidence of solitary frustration. A deep, sorrowful sound—half sigh, half groan—escaped him, echoing strangely in the quiet room.
"Oh, my boy," Torren whispered, his voice soft yet resonant, like wind through hollow reeds. "I'm so sorry. I should've arranged a match for you the moment you turned twenty. A good girl from the village—someone strong, kind. I failed you, son."
Mira rounded on her husband at once, hands on her hips, her ghostly eyes flashing with familiar fire. Even in death, her temper crackled like a hearth flame. "I told you!" she hissed, poking a transparent finger into Torren's chest—it passed right through, but he flinched anyway. "I told you a hundred times our boy needed a companion, someone to warm his bed and his heart! And now look at him—crying himself to sleep because he can't even find release properly. He's going to die a virgin, Torren! A single, lonely dog till the end!"
Her voice rose into a wail that rattled the shutters faintly, a sound laced with grief and exasperation. Tears—impossibly bright, like liquid starlight—spilled down her cheeks and vanished before they hit the floor.
"How will our family line continue?" she cried, throwing her hands up. "All our battles, all our savings, and for what? No grandchildren to tell our stories to!"
Torren sighed again, the sound heavy and defeated, carrying the weight of eight lost years. He reached out as if to rest a hand on his son's shoulder, but his fingers dissolved into mist inches from Elaric's skin. "Peace, Mira," he murmured. "We can't change it now. We're only echoes… permitted this one glimpse, perhaps."
The ghosts lingered a moment longer, their glow dimming as sorrow settled over them like falling ash. Then, slowly, they faded—lavender and leather scents thinning, the warmth retreating—until the room was cold and empty once more, save for the soft, unaware breathing of the man they had left behind
Elaric Voss woke to the pale gray light of dawn seeping through the shutters, the air in the room still sharp with overnight frost. His body felt heavy, limbs stiff from restless sleep, and as he shifted under the thin wool blanket, he became aware of the insistent ache between his legs. Glancing down, he saw his cock straining against the loose fabric of his trousers—rock-hard, throbbing with the relentless demand of morning wood, standing proud and unyielding like a soldier at attention.
A fresh wave of despair crashed over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears to come, anything to release the pressure building in his chest—but nothing. His ducts were empty, wrung dry from the night before. All that escaped was a dry, broken wail, low and mournful, the sound of a lone dog howling at an indifferent moon. It echoed off the bare walls and died quickly in the cold silence.
With a groan, he pushed himself up, the straw mattress rustling beneath him. His bare feet hit the icy floorboards, sending a shock up his legs. He shuffled to the washbasin in the corner, the wooden bucket still holding yesterday's water—now skin-cold and faintly metallic on his tongue when he splashed it over his face. He scrubbed roughly at his skin with a scrap of lye soap, the harsh scent burning his nostrils as suds stung his tired eyes. The chill water did little to calm the persistent erection; if anything, the shock made it twitch defiantly.
Dressed in simple clothes—a faded linen shirt that hung loose on his lean frame, wool trousers tied with a worn cord, and sturdy boots scuffed from years of solitary walks—he moved to the small hearth. He attempted breakfast again, cracking two eggs into a dented iron pan over freshly kindled flames. The fire crackled and popped, sending up curls of pine-smoke that stung his throat. Almost immediately, the eggs sizzled too fiercely, turning rubbery and brown at the edges while the yolks stayed stubbornly raw in the center. The smell of scorched fat filled the room.
"Damn it," he muttered, scraping the mess onto a wooden plate with the spatula. He stared at the ruined food, scratched the back of his neck in frustration, then shoved the plate aside. "I still can't cook. Unbelievable."
He blew out a long breath that fogged briefly in the cool morning air. "Fine. Whatever. Who cares?" The words tasted hollow even as he said them. He grabbed his patched cloak from the hook by the door, the familiar weight of it settling over his shoulders like an old companion, and stepped outside.
The village stirred awake around him: woodsmoke drifting from chimneys, the distant lowing of cows, the crisp bite of frost on the wind carrying the scent of baking bread from the direction of the square. His stomach growled audibly. With a resigned shrug, he pulled the door shut behind him and headed toward the restaurant—the warm, noisy tavern at the heart of the village where the smell of fresh porridge, sizzling bacon, and spiced cider promised at least one thing he couldn't ruin himself.