It began with the rain again.
It always did.
I had been lying beneath a broken bridge for two days, too weak to move. The fever had come quietly just a shiver at first, then a burning that crawled up my spine like fire dressed in ice. My body couldn't decide if it wanted to burn or freeze, so it did both.
The city above me sounded distant, blurred by the rainfall. I could hear the rhythm of footsteps, the splash of wheels through puddles, and somewhere far off, a woman laughing. The world kept going, and I was left behind stuck between breaths.
The hunger had stopped hurting. That's how I knew it was bad. When you starve long enough, even pain gets tired of you.
At some point, I must've started dreaming with my eyes open. The sky above the bridge looked wrong too wide, too deep. The raindrops slowed, hanging in the air like beads of glass. I blinked, but they didn't fall. Everything had gone still, except for a sound I couldn't place a low hum, like someone whispering a song from beneath the earth.
Then light. Faint at first, golden, pulsing under my skin. It wasn't bright it felt alive, like something breathing inside me. My heartbeat followed it, uneven, frightened. I reached out with trembling fingers, and the air rippled around my hand. Warm. For the first time in days, I wasn't cold.
A shadow appeared across from me tall, half-formed, more smoke than flesh. Its eyes shone like embers through the fog. It didn't move, just watched me. I couldn't tell if it was curious or disappointed.
When it spoke, the voice wasn't sound. It was inside me under my ribs, in my blood.
"Wake."
The word burned. My body convulsed. For a heartbeat, I thought the fever had finally killed me. But then I realized something terrifying — I didn't want to die. Not yet. Not like this.
I tried to speak, but my throat was sandpaper. All that came out was a whisper.
"Who are you?"
The shape tilted its head, almost amused.
"You are not ready."
And then it was gone. The rain fell again, as if it had only paused to listen.
When I woke, the world had changed back to its usual ugliness. Mud. Rot. Rats chewing on scraps near my feet. My fever had broken, sweat soaking through my torn shirt. I could move again, barely. The warmth inside me was gone or maybe it had sunk deeper, hiding somewhere I couldn't reach.
For a while, I wondered if I had dreamt everything. But when I touched my chest, right over my heart, I felt something faint a rhythm that wasn't mine. Slow. Steady. Patient.
Like it was waiting.
I tried to stand and nearly fell. My legs trembled from weakness, but I forced them to obey. The rain had stopped; the sky was pale and empty. The city smelled of wet stone and smoke.
As I walked, the world felt sharper. Every sound, every flicker of movement. I could hear the drip of water from rooftops, the scratch of claws on wood, the murmur of mana lamps far away the ones the nobles used to keep their streets glowing blue. I shouldn't have been able to feel that. But I did.
Something inside me had changed.
I made it as far as the old market square before my body gave up again. I sat down against a cold wall, breathing slow, careful breaths. Every inhale hurt. Every exhale felt like it carried a piece of me away.
People passed by without looking. I'd stopped expecting them to.
But one man did pause —l an old beggar with one eye, sitting across the street. He stared at me for a long moment before speaking, his voice cracked and low.
"You saw something, didn't you? I can tell. The fever dreams… they always leave a mark."
I didn't answer. He chuckled, coughing halfway through.
"Don't worry, boy. The world's full of things that talk to the dying. Most of 'em forget you once you live through it."
He leaned back, his one eye gleaming.
>"But if it didn't forget you… then you'll learn soon enough."
I wanted to ask what he meant, but my vision blurred again. The world tilted. The last thing I saw before darkness was that man's grin sad, knowing.
When I woke again, night had fallen. The beggar was gone. Only the imprint of his words remained, echoing in my head.
The fever dreams leave a mark.
Maybe that was all I was now a mark left by something that had already moved on.
But as I lay there under the stars, I swore I could still feel that golden pulse deep in my chest quiet, steady, alive.
And even though I didn't know what it meant, I clung to it.
Because in a world that had already thrown me away, that small, stubborn heartbeat was the only thing that still felt like mine.