It had been a long time since Ethan's sense of time had begun to blur. Months had passed, though he could only measure them by the changes in his growing body. His eyesight was now nearly perfect, which put him at about six months old, or so he recalled from some magazine he had once read.
Something he hadn't considered, however, was that people rarely remembered their infancy. Second life or not, Ethan was no exception.
Memories slipped through his mind like water through sprawled hands. Events from only days ago were hazy, and anything older than a month might as well have never happened. Even his very identity—Ethan Hale—often drifted beyond reach. It was only when a familiar voice called to him that the pieces snapped back together.
At the moment, he was in the midst of one such lapse. His name felt foreign, his thoughts scattered. Worse still, he found himself looking forward to being nursed…
'W-Where… are you?!'
Suddenly, an orchestra of melodic syllables caressed his ear drums, each note laced with warmth.
"Lóthmar velith broydenath thu… consartes?"
Relief surged through him as his memories rushed back, both of his past life and this one. He opened his eyes to find himself nestled in his mother's arms, her expression pale and terrified.
She had good reason to be afraid. Her six-month-old child was drenched in cold sweat, panting like he'd woken from a nightmare. And this wasn't the first time.
At present, they were staying at Hargette's inn... hotel? No, it was too shabby for that. Inn suited it better.
Although he had trouble preserving his memories, whenever they came back, they were crystal clear. As if he was looking through a picture book.
Thanks to this unexpected boon, Ethan was picking up the local tongue at an impressive pace. And so, he had learned the kindly matron's name—Hargette—as well as those of his family. His twin sister was called Elaine, and his older brother, Draven.
Their mother's name, however, remained a mystery. Draven had introduced himself plainly—"Ic es Draven!", simply meaning "I'm Draven".
While people often repeated both his and Elaine's names while doting on them.
Always in that strange singsong baby voice, which Ethan found amusing. His smile only encouraged them, prompting even more enthusiastic repetition.
There wasn't much opportunity to learn of his mother's name, seeing as Draven would simply refer to her as "Yona", which just meant mom. While Hargette spoke a little too quick for him, so learning anything from her was a bust as well.
His musings ended when his mother, still stricken with worry, gently undressed him and inspected his tiny body for injuries.
After confirming he wasn't physically hurt, Ethan's mother let out a heavy sigh.
"Semble que nos mest portar te al mestre de curas, Elly…"
Ethan tried to piece the words together. 'We… need to—uh, go? That word means go, I think…'
No matter how sharp his memory was, learning a language purely through overheard conversation was no easy feat. Still, he managed to catch the gist. They were going somewhere—and where else would you go when you were sick?
The doctor.
Ethan gave her his brightest smile, hoping to reassure her. But instead of easing her worry, it only made her chuckle softly. She pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek before dressing him again.
They left their room at the inn, his mother pausing to call for the kindly matron. From the tone of her voice, Ethan guessed she was asking Hargette to watch the children while she was away.
The matron frowned, asking why she was leaving. Ethan's mother explained, and though he couldn't follow every word, the way Hargette glanced at him with concern told him all he needed to know, she had said he was sick.
With that, his mother descended the stairs to the first floor, which doubled as a bustling tavern.
The place was always crowded, a blend of commoners and slum-dwellers alike. Miss Hargette's inn seemed to welcome everyone. Sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and chatter filled the air—yet when his mother appeared on the staircase with Ethan in her arms, the noise softened.
Heads turned toward her, expressions ranging from empathy to pity. A few, however, carried a different weight. They carried greedy, lingering looks that made Ethan's stomach twist.
One such man rose from his seat. Bald-headed and round-bellied, he looked painfully ordinary, the kind of face one could forget in seconds. Beside him sat a youth, likely his son, who tugged at his sleeve, urging him to sit back down.
His mother ignored the man until he began to approach. Only then did a wary tension flicker across her features.
Before he could reach them, a massive hand landed on his shoulder.
The hand belonged to a giant of a man, nearly seven feet tall, with shoulders like a bear's and neatly kept ginger hair. He shook his head once, voice firm but calm.
"Yon hodie, Jib."
''Not today,' huh?' Ethan translated roughly in his mind.
The bald man grumbled, backing off to rejoin his son, who looked both embarrassed and relieved. The giant turned then, flashing Ethan and his mother a warm, disarming smile.
The man bore a truly remarkable mustache...
Ethan's mother's face lit up at the sight of him. She greeted the mustached gentleman with genuine delight, her earlier unease melting away.
Ethan didn't know the man's name, but he had seen him a few times before. Strangely, he felt fond of him. The way Miss Hargette treated him like a strict older sister to a wayward brother, only deepened that impression.
The giant chatted with his mother for a while, ruffled Ethan's hair with his enormous hands, and finally walked with them to the inn's exit.
---
A pale lilac washed over the city of Sickle, the magnificent castle gleaming like an exquisite gemstone.
From atop the city walls, the view was almost tantalizing. The colossal black barrier stretched beyond sight, encircling the settlement and boasting the vastness of human endeavor.
Yet the illusion shattered the moment one looked downward.
Beneath the shining castle sprawled a sea of ruin. Endless rows of tattered shacks leaned on the brink of collapse. Peasants shuffled weakly through the streets, beggars littered every corner. For every passable street or half-decent neighborhood, ten more lay rotting, forsaken by the gods themselves. Uneven roads, roofless hovels of worm-eaten timber, misery stitched into every shadow.
Here, people starved, suffered, and died—while the upper echelons feasted and drowned themselves in luxury.
Watching it all stood a young man upon the wall. He let out a long sigh.
"Such is the way of the world…"
He felt bad for all the poor souls who had to bear this cruel fate. "Yes... Pitiful, really."
But those days were behind him. He was a knight of Gymes now! And a Sigiled at that!
Ordinarily, bearing the mark in a place like Sickle was a death sentence. The city, though situated near the borders of the bastion, was poorly defended. It could not afford to protect mere acolytes—unless, of course, one bore the sponsorship of a noble.
And Tyrn did.
He had yet to be fully marked, ordered instead to stand by. Still, he found himself savoring the sensation of the world's offer when it came.
"The world wishes to mark you... Do you consent?"
The voice, deep and weathered, like that of a battle-scarred warrior, always filled him with euphoria. To accept meant being hunted by an Aghorath harrier, yet even that did not shake him. He would be protected by a Herald, after all.
Around him, soldiers manned cannons, eyes on the horizon. Tyrn smirked at their efforts. Feeble, mundane tools, straining to mimic the glory of the Sigiled.
"Get your head straight, Tyrn! Back to your post!" a burly soldier barked.
Snickers rippled through the ranks. Tyrn snapped back, "What are you laughing at, lowborns?!"
A massive hand slammed against the back of his skull. He spun, murder in his eyes—only to meet the gaze of a mountain of a man.
"C-Colonel Fors, sir!"
The Sigiled commander of the northern wall grinned. "You're not a Siggie yet, boy. Until daddy says otherwise, you're just as shitborn as the rest." His grin dropped, voice like ice. "So unless you'd like me to throw you off this wall… back to your position. Son."
Then, louder, "That goes for all of you! Positions! Now!"
The soldiers scrambled, weapons ready, eyes scanning the endless green plains of Valtherra.
Tyrn scoffed under his breath. Always the same. Nothing but grassland as far as the eye could see.
Or so he thought.
A speck of black marred the horizon. It came from the direction of the colossal bastion walls. But that was impossible. The walls—raised by the mighty Veilin—stood hundreds of kilometers tall, guarded by legions of Sigiled. They were impregnable.
Squinting, Tyrn watched the speck swell larger, far too quickly. Murmurs spread. One soldier called out,"Colonel! Incoming!"
The dot swelled into a shape, and then—Tyrn made the mistake of blinking.
A deafening boom shook the wall as something struck. Stone trembled beneath Tyrn's feet.
He turned toward the sound—only to freeze. The entire cannon crew stationed beside him was already massacred, reduced to mangled gore.
The abomination was hovering—No... It simply hung in the air, like some sort of mistake.
It's leathery wings spanned at least ten meters in length, looking more like a patchwork of pale, membranous folds than something used for flight. They moved unevenly, not with the rhythm of flight, but with spasms—like an animal convulsing yet somehow staying aloft.
It's body, if you could call it that, wasn't so much shaped as it was assembled... A torso stretched far too thin, it's skin taut as if forcefully pulled over it's flesh, something moving underneath.
The abomination had three wings, three beaks, and five glossy white trembling sockets where it's eyes should be. A crow, if crows were born from the nightmares of eldritch horrors.
In One of its beaks slouched Colonel Fors. A Bearer of the Sigil, reduced to carrion in an instant.
Then, without warning, it vanished. The soldiers didn't even have time to scream before they were torn apart.
The thing did not descend. It did not strike. It simply was, and wherever it was, men ceased to be. Flesh ripped, bones cracked, organs burst into air as if the laws of body and gravity had lost interest.
A cacophony of corpses, inestines, brain matter, and viscera coated the tiled floor.
It was then that the canons fired at nothing. The men that had loaded them being digested in the creature's stomach.
Now... it was upon Tyrn. The young man had long soiled himself. Yet he couldn't bring himself to cry... he wasn't afraid.
Actually, he felt nothing at all... He was dead after all. Died of shock... Pitiful, really.
The crow-thing devoured him whole, filth-stained trousers and all, then turned its five sockets toward the city.
It had sensed something. A particular heart, rich and warm, hidden among the swarm of insects below.