Prologue - A Discarded Blade

Silence had returned to the forest, holding its breath for dawn to break. The air caught the faint, silver light before sunrise. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called once—clear and high. A few dry leaves drifted slowly, spiraling.

Beneath them, where the cliff gave way to darkness, Hoche lay—half-buried in frosted soil and shadow. Broken branches lay scattered around, their jagged ends showing the violent fall that brought him there.

He felt nothing.

No—he felt the stabbing throb in his ribs, the sluggish warmth of blood trickling down his side. His right eyebrow was split diagonally—crimson streaks slid past his lashes, clouding the world into a wash of rusty red. The scent of iron and damp soil filled his nose. His throat was dry, bitter with the taste of copper and dust. Somewhere close—too close—he heard the ragged sound of his own breath under the mask, thin and shallow.

Only the pain in his body reminded him that he hadn't died yet. And even that felt dulled, like a blade gone blunt with use. If a hungry beast came, he would be devoured, bones and all. And yet, any trace of will—to tend his wounds, to rise, to survive—had long since bled from his body.

He was now part of the ground. Like an old, weather-worn stone in a forgotten field, too tired to fight the seasons anymore.

…What did I do wrong?

The thought rose like a breath of frost, but it melted away before he could hold onto it. It didn’t matter. Not anymore. His limbs were growing colder. His vision blurred. The world was pulling back, quiet and—mercifully—distant.

He let his eyes fall shut.

And he welcomed the darkness.

But then—

A warmth bloomed in his side.

Faint at first. A gentle pulse, like the last flicker of a fire nearly gone. But it didn’t die out. It grew. It spread—not with fever’s sting, nor the blaze of flame, but with something comfortable. A heat like a warming pan slipped beneath cold sheets. His mind, once weighted like stone, shifted. His senses crept back in. The pain remained—but something had changed.

He was still alive.

Before the thought could settle, a firm hand pressed against his shoulder. Not urgent, but certain. It gave him a light shake, just enough to wake him up.

“Hey. Hey—can you hear me?”

His eyelids flickered. Dim light poured in.

All he saw were shadows and shapes bleeding into one another—deep green of the forest loomed like a wall, and the dark indigo of the sky, veiled in thin cloud. Then the focus shifted. A face came into view—lined, weathered. Grey eyes stared at him. Watchful, cautious… but relieved.

"Good. I thought I was too late."

The voice was calm. Low. His mind struggled to catch up, but he knew what the warmth in his side was. The strange sense of restoration—it was magic. And not just any—it was powerful enough to bring back someone on the edge of death, far beyond the reach of ordinary healers.

…But why?

Once the man saw Hoche begin to stir, he lifted Hoche’s slack body and propped him up against the rough stone of the cliff behind them.

His limbs still refused to obey. But his eyes tracked the man in front of him.

A knight—probably a royal one, judging by the quality of his armor and the confidence in his movements. He had long, gray hair streaked with strands of white, carelessly tied back at the nape of his neck. Middle-aged, broad-shouldered, with arms built from years of swordwork. A warrior, clearly—his sword, worn and half-hidden beneath his green cloak, told its own story.

If this man wanted Hoche dead, it would take only a moment.

But there was no threat in his stance. No sharpness in his gaze.

He drew a cloth from beneath his cloak and dampened it with the waterskin he carried. After wringing it out, he reached for the mask covering Hoche’s mouth.

Hoche stiffened like a cornered animal, but the pain anchored him in place. His mask was a wall, a shield—the last fragile distance he kept between himself and the world.

"Easy,” the knight said, tilting his head as if speaking to a skittish colt. "Just let me wipe the mess off that brave face of yours, alright? We wouldn't want dirt getting into the wounds, would we?"

He peeled away the mask covering Hoche’s mouth, then wiped the dirt and blood from his face. The damp cloth brushed against his skin and the wound with a delicate touch. The knight’s hand was carrying no hurry, no condescension—only a patience careful not to startle a wild creature. Still, Hoche remained tense, every nerve taut, unaccustomed to the touch of another.

“Where are you from?” the knight asked. “You’re not from this kingdom, are you? Were you lost? Or separated from the unit…?”

Hoche’s throat tightened. He wasn’t allowed to say who he was. That rule had been drilled into him since childhood.

The knight didn’t seem to mind the silence. He kept working, wrapping bandages around Hoche’s side with the same gentle precision—each movement careful, not to cause a hint of pain. It unsettled him. No one had ever touched him like this. Not without a reason. Not without a price.

…He wants something. He must. Everyone does.

He’d believed his heart had long since gone numb. But there it was—something small, sharp. A voice from his own heart, long silent, now stirring at last.

…No. I'd rather be free…

His left hand twitched, grasping at nothing. His dagger was gone—had fallen somewhere along the way, lost as it tumbled from his side.

He was too tired to run. Too broken to fight. So he lashed out the only way he could.

His arm jerked—weak, trembling—but enough to slap the knight’s hand away. A feeble gesture. A clear rejection.

The knight’s grey eyes widened. But instead of pulling away, he studied Hoche in silence. His gaze was steady. Not pitying. Not expectant. Just…watching.

Hoche stared back, waiting. For him to give up, to turn away, and leave. That was what people did when he shut them out. That was what he had learned to expect.

But the man stayed.

And then… he smiled.

A fleeting thing—barely there, but unmistakable. Hoche didn’t understand. There was nothing to smile about.

“Well, so be it,” the knight said. He rose to his feet. Finally.

…It’s over.

Or at least, that was what Hoche thought—until something warm and heavy fell across his shoulders.

His breath caught. The knight’s cloak. Deep green, like forest moss after rain, trimmed in faded gold. It smelled like cedar and smoke—warm things. Safe things.

The knight had draped it over Hoche—his own cloak, rich and finely made, now settling over a stranger caked in mud and blood. As though wrapping him in something so cherished was the most natural thing in the world.

Before Hoche could react, the world tilted.

“Wha—?!”

His body left the earth. The battered limbs dangled, a shallow gasp escaping him—then he was pulled securely into the knight’s arms, his head resting against a steady shoulder.

“Your wounds are still fresh,” he said, holding Hoche like a child of his own. “We need to get you proper care at the castle. My horse isn’t far.”

Hoche’s pulse pounded in his ears. Dazed, he stared as the base of the cliff where he had fallen drifted further away. …This was wrong. This was all wrong. He had already accepted his fate. He’d made peace with it.

“…Why?”

His breath trembled as he forced out the words. The knight adjusted his grip as he strode through the forest.

“Why what?”

There was no heat in the question, no demand for answers. And Hoche—he didn’t even know who he was asking anymore.

His right brow throbbed—a slow, dull ache where the knife had spilt skin.

“…Why would you do this?”

A raw, cracked whisper that slipped out before he could stop it. Too soft to be anger, too heavy to be wonder. As if the world itself owed him an answer.

Only the sound of footsteps through fallen leaves filled the silence. After the sound of dry branches crunching underfoot, the knight let out an amused huff.

“Just a whim.”

Hoche wanted to argue. To demand something more. But his eyelids sagged. Warmth pressed in from all sides—the cloak, the arms carrying him, the lingering magic still threading through his veins.

“…I have nothing,” his voice was barely above a whisper. “There’s nothing left of me…”

Silence again. Longer, this time.

And before the darkness swallowed him whole—he heard a quiet, steady voice.

“Then you’ll just have to find something, won’t you?”

Behind them, the first light of dawn slipped over the horizon. A thread of gold touched the treetops, drawing the dark forest out of shadow.