Early Evening
Way's Day
12th of Avril, Year 824 of the Silent Age (The era following the sealing of Arcane Magic)
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A sound like bone snapping under his heel caused Projo to freeze, every muscle in his body going rigid. A string of silent curses filled his mind as he glanced down at his own clumsy feet.
Just a twig.
He crouched and listened.
Nothing but the whisper of the wind through the high canopy.
He let out a sharp breath.
Ahead, the tracks were a mess—a child could follow them. He ran a hand over his short, dark hair and adjusted the longsword on his hip, the weight of it uncomfortable and foreign.
At least he knew the blade would be sharp.
Quality, boy, his mentor Bram's voice echoed in his head. You either make something right, or make it worthless.
He'd been hearing that same reminder for fifteen years.
Projo stepped off again, following the messy tracks.
His world was the forge, a place of stone floors and ringing steel. Out here, in the dense green chaos of the forest, the world was a conspiracy of noise. The damp, earthy smell of moss and decay was a poor substitute for the familiar scent of coal smoke and hot iron.
There was no reward for what he was doing, not one he knew of anyway. He was only here because a hired hand had stumbled into the City of Greatbridge a little over an hour ago, completely manic about a bandit raid on the farm he worked at.
"They killed them!" The man had blustered, clothes torn and face wrought with terror. "The Mister and Missus, I saw both their bodies!"
But the plea had fallen on deaf ears.
"They made their choice years ago," the guard captain had said. "They set up their farm just beyond the protection of the city guard, they knew the risks."
Projo had been mid-argument with Bram about a dream he'd had once again when the farmhand's yelling caught his attention.
"Someone should help him," Projo said stubbornly, seeking an outlet for his pent up frustration.
"It's not your fight, boy!" Bram shot back. "You're a smith, not a sell-sword! And you're certainly not some mage, so stop with this dream nonsense!"
Projo had almost given up, too, seeing the logic in his mentor's words.
Until…
"Please!" The farmhand yelled out to anyone that would listen. "They took the farmer's daughter! Mira! Please!"
Projo locked eyes with the man for a long moment, then glanced at the guards.
They were hesitating—already shifting back towards ignoring the man.
Projo had grabbed the iron sword they'd finished yesterday, brand new in a sleek leather scabbard. He lashed the belt around his waist as he strode toward the farmhand, Bram screaming behind him something about ungrateful orphan apprentices.
So here he was, tracking through the forest after riding the farmhand's horse as hard as he could—regret slowly starting to seep in.
He didn't regret choosing to chase down a girl that had been kidnapped, he always felt the need to do the right thing if he had the chance.
But he didn't really have a plan.
He knew how to swing a hammer better than almost anyone. A sword though…
It can't be that difficult, can it? Projo thought to himself. I'll just… I'll just swing it really really hard.
He found their camp a few minutes later, a miserable little clearing where three rough-looking men were sorting through what they had stolen, a fire burning low nearby.
Tied to a tree at the edge of the camp was a girl, but not as little as he had expected.
It was a young woman—early twenties he guessed, same as himself—but he wasn't sure on account of having little experience around women. She had some bruises on her face and arms, a cut across one arm as well, but she looked more or less unharmed besides that. Her eyes burned with a fierce defiance as she watched the three men.
Projo studied them for a moment, but he didn't know any strategy or tactics. He just knew the girl would only suffer more if he did nothing. He had a sharp blade and a lot of experience swinging a hammer.
Hopefully that would be enough.
He drew the longsword, and with a roar that was more frustration than fury, he charged.
The trio looked up quickly and drew blades—squaring up on instinct.
He met the first bandit's blade with a heavy, unskilled block, holding the sword like a slab of iron. The jarring impact shuddered up his arm. The bandit stared back with a look of shock, and Projo kicked him hard in the knee.
He took the opportunity and swung—hard.
The man raised his sword to block, but Projo sheared straight through it. The metal snapped in two with a crack, and the longsword sank into the bandit's shoulder.
The second came at him from the side while Projo was trying to yank his sword free. A wild slash carved a fiery line across Projo's bicep—immense pain immediately searing through his body.
Projo grit his teeth in anger, pivoted, and drove his fist into the man's face with a sickening crunch of breaking cartilage. The adversary hit the ground face-first and didn't get back up.
I'm doing it! Projo thought, as he finally pulled his sword out of the corpse. Just one left!
The last man was different—he was obviously the leader. He moved faster—seemed smarter with his blade. Projo tried a couple swings but the man just kept dodging—eyeing Projo's movements carefully.
He feinted high, and as Projo brought his sword up in another clumsy block, the leader ducked under it—
The air vanished from Projo's lungs in a wet gasp.
A searing, cold fire spread through his chest as a long, thin dagger was driven through one of his lungs.
His eyes went wide, adrenaline flaring.
Without thinking, Projo grabbed the man's wrist in a final, desperate act. The bandit tried to yank the blade free, but Projo kept both him and the dagger in place.
With his last ounce of strength, he brought his sword down, raking the blade across the man's neck and opening a deep gash.
They collapsed together in a heap.
Silence fell upon the clearing, thick and heavy.
Projo lay on the ground, the forest canopy swimming in and out of focus. He could feel the hot, sticky blood pouring from his chest, each ragged breath a gurgling struggle.
He knew the wound was fatal.
His fingers fumbled for the cheap healing vial in his pouch, the only one he had. He rolled onto his back, the tip of the dagger hitting the ground and pushing partway out.
It felt like hell.
He managed to uncork the vial and down the contents, but it was like a drop of water on a bonfire. The bleeding slowed for a half-second, then resumed its steady, life-ending flow.
Fuck.
This was it, then. His first real quest—not even really a quest. Just some half-assed impromptu adventure.
But either way—his last.
A wave of cold despair washed over him. He had failed. A hazy, dream-like image of his mother's face, a memory from a life he could barely recall, flickered behind his eyes.
Through the blur, he saw movement.
The captive girl. She had somehow worked her hands free of the ropes and was staring at him, her eyes wide with fear. The cut on her own arm was bleeding freely again.
She began to crawl toward him—expression set with resolve.
No, he tried to say, but his lungs wouldn't let him. You can't touch me. I'm cursed.
She reached him, and her hands came forward.
Projo's mouth opened, but the breath seemed locked in his chest by the dagger.
Please don't. I already failed and got killed, I don't want the curse to kill you too.
Her hand touched his chest, pressing down on the bare bloody skin where his tunic had been torn away.
The world instantly went white.
He felt it—the strange feeling he'd felt years ago when he'd accidentally grasped a girl's hand. A strange, magical transfer of energy from deep within.
But it was different.
There was a silent explosion of energy, violently jolting through him like a lightning strike and a starving man's first taste of food. Projo's eyes flew open as the surge ripped through him.
The girl gasped too, and he saw the cut on her arm begin to visibly knit together from something unseen.
Projo felt a deep, ravenous hunger being sated—one he'd never even known he possessed. The dagger, still lodged in his chest between muscle and bone, was pushed outward by the contracting tissue. It clattered onto the forest floor.
The bleeding didn't stop completely, but it slowed to a sluggish ooze.
Startled by what was happening, the girl quickly snatched her hand back. The effect was instantly severed.
He wasn't healed, not even close. But he was no longer at risk of dying, at least in the next couple minutes.
They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, wordless.
And finally, Projo sucked in air, realizing he now could. He gasped again, a ragged, desperate intake that was blessedly free of the blade's oppression he'd felt only moments before.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his eyes locked on the girl. She was staring back, her expression a mirror of his own terrified confusion.
"Are you… a healer?" Projo managed to rasp, the words scraping his raw throat. It was the only explanation that made any sense.
She shook her head, her brown hair sticking to the grime on her cheek. "No. I've never… I can't do magic. That was you—it had to be."
"No," he whispered, shaking his head. A cold dread from long ago spread through his chest. "I'm cursed."
Her eyes narrowed. "Cursed?"
He nodded quickly. "I've felt something similar before, a long time ago. Ten years, maybe."
He looked away from her, shame washing over him. "I thought… I thought you were going to get hurt when you touched me. The last time… the girl, she ran."
"Hurt?" The girl—Mira, he remembered her name—looked down at herself as if seeing her body for the first time. Her eyes widened.
"No. If anything, I feel… more awake. More alive." Her gaze fell upon her forearm where the cut had been moments before, now only a minor scrape. Then she looked herself over, her hands patting her own sides and shoulders.
"My bruises… they're gone too," she said, her voice filled with awe. She looked back at him, her expression shifting from fear to wonder. "You healed me."
Projo couldn't process the words. Healed? Curses didn't heal. They destroyed. He pushed the confusion away, falling back on the one clear thought in his head: survival.
He moved to stand up, his muscles screaming in protest. "Come on," he grunted, ignoring the sharp pain in his chest. "Let's get you somewhere safe. Who knows if they have friends around."
He took a shaky step, but she stopped him, her hand darting out to grab his. He flinched, bracing for the jolt, for the sickening lurch of energy.
But nothing happened.
They both froze, their eyes dropping to their joined hands. The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of his ragged breathing. The effect wasn't repeating.
Finally, she broke the silence, her voice soft but firm. "You're still bleeding."
He looked down. She was right. A dark, sluggish patch of red was continuing to soak through his torn tunic from the half-sealed wound.
He tried to tough it out. "I'll be okay," he said, though the pain was a grinding, constant agony.
She refused to let go, her grip surprisingly strong. "You got stabbed in the chest!" she insisted. Using his hand for leverage, she pulled herself to her feet, her shorter frame moving closer to his.
He instinctively took a step back. "What are you doing?"
"Just… just let me try something," she said gently.
Before he could protest, she reached up with her free hand and hesitantly ran her fingers through his messy, sweat-dampened hair. He flinched, but then a faint, barely-there tingle sparked through him—the ghost of the sensation from before. It was just a flicker, but it was there.
"What are you…" Projo started to say again, but the look on her face made him lose focus.
"Whatever that energy was—that healed us," the girl said. "It felt… warm. Intimate. I don't know how else to describe it."
"Intimate?" Projo stared at her wide eyed and bleeding.
"Yes, almost as if…" Her eyes darted between his, then her brow furrowed in concentration.
"Look," she said suddenly, her tone firm. "You're still bleeding pretty bad, but whatever just happened undeniably healed us. It doesn't seem like a curse to me, curses don't feel like… that." A faint blush appeared on her face as she finished speaking.
"You're not... scared of me?" he asked, the question barely audible.
"No," she shook her head, eyes wide as she gazed up at him. "You just saved my life." Then she glanced at his chest wound. "You don't want to die, right?"
Projo swallowed hard. "No."
"Good," Mira said, moving toward him.
"Wha—"
Their lips met.