James jerked awake, his heart slamming against his ribs.
A sharp gasp tore from his throat as he stared at the ceiling, the echo of those words still ringing in his ears.
A thin sliver of light slipped through the window.
Dawn.
He sat up slowly, head heavy, thoughts tangled, and went through the motions of getting ready on pure instinct. The dreams had been coming more often lately. Strange, fragmented things that slipped away the moment he tried to grasp them.
But last night's had been different.
Sharper.
Clearer.
James slapped his cheeks a few times. The sting cut through the haze, grounding him back in his body.
Today was the day.
His seniors from the guild would be here any minute.
He packed quickly—almost frantically.
It took less than a minute.
When he finished, James let out a soft sigh and shook his head. Everything he owned fit into a small bundle: a spare set of clothes, a rusty old sword, and a pendant.
That was it.
The clothes had been given to him by the innkeeper—a woman who'd taken pity on him when he stumbled in three months ago. Back then, "rough" didn't even come close. His hair had been a knotted mess, leaves still tangled through it. His clothes were torn nearly to rags. He'd been so malnourished that his face looked hollow, his eyes sunken—like a ghost that hadn't realized it was already dead.
She'd fed him.
Given him clean clothes.
And in exchange for helping around the inn, she'd offered him a bed in the back.
The sword and the pendant were the only things he owned that truly belonged to him.
The sword was old. Rusted. Probably worthless. And yet—somehow—it had survived every fight over the past few months. It hadn't broken. Hadn't chipped. Hell, he'd never even had to sharpen it. No matter what it cut, the blade kept its razor edge, as if the rust were nothing more than a disguise.
The pendant was simpler. A thin silver chain holding a small moon-shaped charm.
He couldn't remember where it came from.
It had simply been on him when he woke up.
No explanation. No memories to match.
In fact, he didn't have any memories from before four months ago.
*4 Months Ago*
Cold pressed against his skin.
That was the first thing he felt.
The second was the smell.
Blood.
James's eyes snapped open.
Red filled his vision—dark, sticky, and thick beneath him. He was lying in a pool of it. When he tried to move, his arm slipped, making a wet sound that sent panic racing through his chest.
He sucked in a sharp breath and pushed himself up.
His body screamed in protest. Every muscle felt weak, heavy, like he'd been beaten and dragged across the ground. His clothes were torn to pieces, long rips exposing bruised skin and half-healed cuts.
He looked down at himself, heart pounding.
The only thing untouched was the pendant around his neck.
A thin silver chain. A small moon-shaped charm.
It felt cold against his chest—and strangely familiar.
That thought unsettled him.
Slowly, he lifted his head and looked around.
Bodies were everywhere.
Men. Women. Children.
They lay scattered across the clearing, twisted and broken. Some had wide, empty eyes frozen in terror. Others looked like they'd been torn apart by something far stronger than any human.
His stomach twisted violently.
He barely managed to turn away before he vomited.
Once.
Twice.
Then again, until there was nothing left but burning bile. He dropped to his knees, gasping, hands shaking as he tried to breathe.
This can't be real.
But the ground was cold. The smell was real. The bodies didn't disappear.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and forced himself to stand.
"What..What happened to these people? And Who… am I?" he whispered.
There was no answer.
He tried to think. To remember anything—a name, a face, a place.
Nothing came.
His head felt empty. Hollow.
Panic threatened to take hold, but something inside him pushed back.
Breathe.
The thought felt natural, like a habit he didn't remember learning.
He took a slow breath in.
Then out.
Again.
His heartbeat slowly steadied.
He looked around more carefully.
The clearing had once been a road. Several horse-drawn carriages lay overturned and broken apart, wood splintered and wheels snapped. Horses lay among them—some dead, some torn badly enough that he couldn't look for long.
But not all of them were there.
He spotted hoof prints leading away from the scene.
Some had escaped the slaughter.
He approached the nearest carriage and looked inside. Supplies were scattered everywhere—blankets, bags, broken crates. He tore open one sack and found dried meat and hard bread.
Food.
Without hesitation, he took it.
In another carriage, he found more supplies—and a small pouch of silver coins. There weren't many, but it was all he could find.
He took those too.
The third carriage was half-crushed, its door bent inward. It took effort to force it open.
Inside, buried beneath torn cloth and broken wood, was a skinny wooden box wrapped tightly in a brown paper. James almost ignored it but a slight tug in his chest made him open it.
Inside lay a sword and a book.
The sword was wrapped in a black silk cloth, the blade itself, old and rusted from hilt to tip. The leather on the handle was worn and cracked. It looked useless and he was sure it wouldn't last long but it was better than nothing.
The book was plain, with a black leather cover.
No title. No markings at all.
He opened it.
The pages were blank.
All of them.
He heard movement to his left.
James froze.
Slow. Heavy.
Is that whatever did this to these people?
If it is… I'm dead.
I need to hide.
His thoughts raced, crashing into one another, but his legs were starting to shake so bad they refused to move.
Then he saw it.
The beast was about the size of a large dog, but that was where the resemblance ended.
It moved on six legs instead of four, its body held unnaturally low to the ground, allowing it to glide forward with unsettling speed.
Its fur was patchy and coarse, stretched tight over a lean, sinewy frame. Two long fangs jutted up past its lower jaw, curving slightly as if they'd grown too large for its mouth. When it opened its jaws, thin strings of saliva dripped between needle-like teeth.
Short, jagged spikes ran along its spine from neck to tail, rising and falling as it breathed. They looked less like natural growths and more like something that had forced its way out from inside.
Its eyes were small and bright, fixed on him with a hungry, animal focus.
This thing didn't roar.
It didn't snarl.
It just circled—patient, silent, and confident—like it already knew how the hunt would end.
James swallowed.
"Too late…" he muttered.
He took a step back.
Then another.
His heel scraped against something solid, and his hand brushed metal.
The sword.
His fingers tightened around the rusted hilt.
Running wasn't an option. He could tell that much just by looking at the beast.
"Screw it," he whispered. "Not like I can outrun that thing…"
He slipped the book into the folds of his tattered robe, then pulled the sword free of the silk cloth.
"…but I'm not letting that mutt turn me into its chew toy. Im at least going to take its jaw.."
He wrapped his hand around the worn leather grip.
And strangely—
The shaking stopped.
The fear didn't vanish, but it dulled, settling somewhere deeper. His breathing steadied. His stance shifted without him thinking about it.
Whatever he was…
Whatever he'd been before losing his memories…
His body remembered how to fight.