'Elyas.'
The name drifted through the void like a leaf on a dark pond. 'Whose name is this? Mine, I suppose.'
The world was an endless canvas of total darkness, but it was not empty.
It was painted with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tiny flaming dots.
Each one flickered with a rhythmic pulse—a heartbeat of light in the nothingness. Elyas could feel them, not with skin, but with a strange, sixth sense.
Each dot possessed its own consciousness, a tiny spark of "self" wondering the same frantic questions: 'Who am I? What am I doing here?'
One of those dots was Elyas.
He reached into the empty space where his memories should have been, trying to grasp the threads of a life he knew he must have lived.
He searched for a face—a mother's smile, a friend's laugh—but the harder he gripped, the faster the memories dissolved like smoke.
He tried to remember where he had come from and how he had ended up in this cosmic abyss, but the void offered no answers.
Suddenly, the silence shattered.
It began as a low hum that quickly escalated into a deafening roar.
Thousands of sounds—the wet, heavy thumping of hearts—touched his ears. It wasn't just one heart; it was a symphony of them, beating in a chaotic, terrifying rhythm that vibrated through his very essence.
Then came the heat.
Elyas let out a silent scream of agony as a scorching, white-hot pain lanced through his being. It felt as though he were being forged in a furnace.
The fire started at the very crown of his head and began a slow, agonizing crawl downward.
It melted through his thoughts, his spine, and his limbs, moving all the way to his toes.
Every second felt like a decade of torture. He was no longer a spark; he was a single nerve ending being set on fire.
For five minutes—a duration that felt like an eternity of suffering—the pain reigned supreme.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the light started to fail.
One by one, the other flaming dots began to disappear, snuffed out like candles in a gale. The darkness surged back in, and Elyas felt himself falling.
"Aaaaaauuuh!"
The scream tore through the quiet of the woods, raw and desperate.
Elyas bolted upright, his lungs burning as they took in their first gulp of freezing air.
His hands flew to his torso, fingers digging into his own skin.
He felt the ribs beneath his chest, the muscles of his arms, and the heat of his own blood.
He was frantic, clawing at himself as if trying to confirm he was still solid matter and not just a flickering spark in a void.
The ground beneath him was no longer a vacuum.
His palms pressed into cold, damp dirt and the sharp edges of crushed grass. A pungent, earthy smell filled his nostrils—the scent of decaying leaves, wet pine, and wild moss.
"Where... where the hell am I?" he croaked. His voice sounded foreign to him, heavy and cracked.
He forced his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Above him, a canopy of gargantuan trees stretched toward a purple-black sky.
Their branches were thick and gnarled, looking like the twisted fingers of giants reaching down to grab him.
The forest was vast, an expanse of shadows that seemed to go on forever.
He scrambled to his feet, but his legs felt like jelly. He began to pace in a small circle, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He pinched the skin of his forearm, twisting it hard.
The sting was sharp, localized, and undeniably real.
A small red mark bloomed on his pale skin.
'This isn't a dream,' he thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. 'How is this possible? I remember... I remember a white room. I swear I was in a hos—'
Snap.
The sound of a dry branch breaking echoed through the clearing.
Elyas spun around, his eyes wide and wild. He peered into the dense thicket of a nearby oak tree.
"Hey. Are you okay?"
The voice was deep, resonant, and unmistakably human.
Elyas froze, his muscles locking up in a primal fear response.
Out of the gloom stepped a figure that looked like it had been ripped from a history book.
It was a man in his late forties, his chest and shoulders covered in a suit of interlocking chainmail that clinked softly with every movement.
A heavy longsword hung at his hip, its pommel worn from years of use.
Elyas stared at him, his mouth hanging open.
He tried to form words, to ask for help or an explanation, but the terror of the situation had stolen his speech.
The stranger approached with cautious, measured steps.
Seeing that Elyas wasn't an immediate threat, the man reached up and pulled off his heavy steel helmet, tucking it under his arm. His face was weathered, scarred by wind and war, with a salt-and-pepper beard.
He took one look at Elyas's trembling form and his brow furrowed in genuine bewilderment.
"Hey, did you not hear me, lad?" the soldier asked, his voice dropping into a rough growl. He stepped closer, scanning the empty clearing behind Elyas as if looking for a caravan or a group of bandits.
Finding none, he turned his gaze back to the shivering young man.
"How the hell did you get all the way out here in the middle of the Blackwood? And more importantly... why the fuck are you naked?"