When he opened his eyes, he found himself falling from the sky.
At first, he did not feel afraid.
The sky was wide and clear, and the wind brushed his face with a steady coldness. For a moment he thought he was floating. That this was nothing more than a long, strange dream.
Then he tried to breathe.
Air rushed harshly into his throat and he understood that he was truly falling.
The world lay far below him. A vast green expanse that seemed to move slowly, as if it were breathing. He did not know how long he had been in the air, nor from what height he had fallen.
He also did not know who he was.
The thought appeared slowly.
First he searched for a name. He found none. Then he tried to remember a face, a voice, anything that belonged to his life.
Nothing answered.
—What…?
His voice came out weak, and the wind carried it away.
That was when he noticed the weight in his chest.
He looked down.
A sword was piercing his body.
It was enormous.
The steel was wide and crude, far too large for the body of a boy. It had no ornaments or noble shine; it looked made for breaking things rather than fighting. The handle was long, wrapped in dark leather, and emerged just below his sternum.
But the strangest part was at the tip.
The end of the sword did not finish in a clean blade. Embedded there was the broken head of a gigantic spear, as if both weapons had been forced together.
The metal was fractured. Old.
The boy tried to move, and the iron vibrated inside his chest with a deep sound.
He expected the pain to tear him apart.
But it did not.
Yes, it hurt. The pain was deep and hot, buried between his ribs. But it was not the pain of someone who was dying. Something in his body resisted in a way he did not understand.
Blood flowed.
But it also stopped.
He looked closely at the edge of the wound. The flesh seemed to tighten around the steel, closing slowly.
As if the body refused to surrender.
—That's not normal…
The words slipped out like a thought.
He stared at his hands.
The right one was normal. Pale, thin, with small marks across the knuckles as if he had fought or worked with them.
The left one was not.
His left arm was completely black.
From the tips of his fingers to his shoulder.
It did not look burned or stained with ink. It was simply black, like a shadow attached to his skin. Beneath that dark surface ran thin lines that were barely visible.
He opened and closed his hand.
The lines glowed faintly.
A pulse.
Nothing more.
The boy stared at his arm for several seconds.
For some reason he was not as surprised as he should have been.
It also felt… familiar.
He did not know why.
The wind pulled at his clothes.
He was wearing a white tunic far too large for him. The sleeves covered part of his hands and the cloth struck his body with every gust of air.
It was not his size.
It was as if he were wearing someone else's clothes.
The collar had slipped to one side, revealing his collarbone and part of his shoulder.
It looked like a uniform.
But he did not remember from where.
An uncomfortable sensation crossed his mind.
It was not a memory.
It was something smaller than that. An impression. Like hearing a familiar word in another language and knowing it should mean something.
Table.
That was the word that appeared.
Round table.
He did not see the scene. He did not remember faces. Only a brief sensation: dark wood, several people nearby, quiet voices.
The impression vanished before he could catch it.
The wind filled his head again.
Below, the world no longer looked distant.
The trees were beginning to stand out one by one.
And something else.
A clearing.
In the middle of the forest stood a small village.
Wooden cabins.
Log fences.
Smoke rising from several chimneys.
It was a hunters' settlement.
One of them was the first to see him.
The man was walking near the palisade when he looked up after hearing the whistle of the wind.
He raised a hand to his forehead to block the sun.
—What is that?
Another hunter approached.
—A bird?
—No —the first said slowly—. That is…
More men looked up.
One dropped the knife he had been using to skin a deer.
—It's a person.
Silence fell over the small square.
The oldest man of the group appeared between the houses, holding a long spear.
—What's happening?
One of the hunters pointed at the sky.
The old man followed the direction of the finger.
It took him several seconds to understand what he was seeing.
The boy.
The sword through his chest.
The black arm.
The white tunic fluttering in the air.
The old man frowned.
—That is not natural.
The men began gathering near the palisade.
—Is he going to crash here?
—Looks like it.
One of the younger men spoke from the back.
He did not say it loudly.
But the word weighed in the air.
—What if he's an awakened?
No one answered.
The old man raised his spear.
—Bows.
Three men obeyed.
Bowstrings tightened.
Above them, the boy kept falling.
Now he could see their faces.
He could see the spears.
The houses.
The trees rising toward him faster and faster.
His breathing grew short.
The pain in his chest remained constant.
He looked at the sword one last time.
Then at the ground.
He understood something simple.
The fall was going to kill him.
The world became clear.
The village.
The hunters.
The forest.
And the earth rising to meet him.
Then came the impact.