The warmth was stifling. Not the physical kind, though the swaddling clothes and constant fussing of my… family, I supposed, contributed. It was the warmth of affection, of expectation. A suffocating blanket woven from smiles and cooing noises. I needed air.
So, I waited. I waited until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and bruised purple. I waited until the soft snores of my new parents filled the small cottage. Then, I moved.
It was clumsy, awkward. My limbs felt foreign, unresponsive. Each movement was a conscious effort, a battle against protesting muscles and uncooperative nerves. But I persevered. I had to.
The window latch was stiff, resisting my fumbling fingers. A surge of frustration, alien and unwelcome, threatened to overwhelm me. I pushed it down, replacing it with the cold calculation that had served me well for centuries. Leverage. That was the key.
With a final click, the latch gave way. I pushed the window open, a rush of cool night air filling my lungs. It was a welcome change from the stale, saccharine atmosphere of the cottage.
The world outside was a tapestry of shadows and whispers. The scent of damp earth and pine needles filled the air. It was a far cry from the battlefields I remembered, but it was freedom.
I dropped to the ground, landing with a muffled thud. My ankles protested, a sharp stab of pain reminding me of my fragility. I ignored it, focusing on the task at hand. Escape.
I moved quickly, staying within the shadows, my bare feet padding softly on the dirt path. The village was small, nestled in a valley surrounded by dense forest. I knew I couldn't stay here. The longer I remained, the greater the risk of detection, of being drawn back into that suffocating embrace.
The path led me to the edge of the forest. The trees loomed tall and imposing, their branches interlacing to form a dark canopy overhead. It was a daunting sight, but I welcomed it. The forest offered anonymity, a place to disappear.
I plunged into the darkness, the undergrowth scratching at my skin. The forest floor was uneven, treacherous. I stumbled frequently, my progress slow and painful. But I pressed on, driven by a primal instinct to survive.
After what felt like an eternity, I reached a clearing. A narrow dirt road cut through the trees, leading towards the unknown. I hesitated for a moment, considering my options. To remain in the forest was to invite starvation and exposure. To follow the road was to risk encountering other people.
I chose the road. It was a gamble, but one I was willing to take. The road represented a chance, a path away from the life I had been thrust into.
I walked for hours, my legs aching, my stomach growling. The moon was my only companion, its pale light guiding me through the darkness. The silence of the forest was broken only by the rustling of leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl.
As dawn approached, I spotted a caravan in the distance. A string of wagons, their canvas tops billowing in the wind, lumbered along the road. Merchants, no doubt, transporting goods from one town to another.
I approached cautiously, keeping to the shadows. I had no desire to interact with them, but I needed information. Where were they going? How far was the nearest town?
As I drew closer, I heard the sounds of shouting, the clash of steel. Something was wrong.
I crept forward, peering through the trees. The caravan was under attack. A group of bandits, their faces masked, were swarming the wagons, their swords flashing in the morning light.
The merchants were putting up a fight, but they were outnumbered, outmatched. I watched as one of them fell, a crimson stain spreading across his chest. Another was dragged from his wagon, screaming for mercy.
A cold fury, ancient and familiar, began to stir within me. I had seen this before, countless times. The senseless violence, the casual cruelty. It was a stain on humanity, a constant reminder of its depravity.
I told myself to stay hidden, to remain detached. This was not my fight. I had my own survival to worry about. But the image of the fallen merchant, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky, burned in my mind.
I couldn't stand by and watch.
I moved swiftly, silently, emerging from the trees like a wraith. The bandits were too focused on their looting to notice my approach.
The first bandit fell without a sound, my hand clamping over his mouth as I drove a shard of sharpened flint I had found on the road into his neck. He slumped to the ground, his eyes wide with surprise.
The other bandits turned, their faces contorted with rage. They charged towards me, their swords raised.
I met their attack with a speed and precision that belied my age. My movements were economical, deadly. Each strike was calculated, aimed at a vital point.
I disarmed one bandit with a flick of my wrist, then used his own sword to run him through. Another lunged at me, his blade aimed at my heart. I sidestepped his attack, then kicked out his knee, sending him crashing to the ground. I finished him with a swift blow to the head.
The remaining bandits hesitated, their confidence shaken. They had expected an easy victory, not a whirlwind of death.
I pressed my advantage, attacking relentlessly. I moved like a predator, circling my prey, waiting for an opening.
One by one, the bandits fell. Their screams echoed through the forest, a testament to my ruthlessness.
Finally, only one bandit remained. He was young, barely more than a boy. His face was pale with fear, his hands trembling.
He dropped his sword and fell to his knees. "Please," he begged, "don't kill me."
I stared down at him, my expression unreadable. I could see the fear in his eyes, the desperation in his voice.
A part of me wanted to show him mercy, to spare his life. But another part, the ancient, pragmatic part, knew that I couldn't afford to be sentimental. He was a threat, a loose end.
I raised my hand, ready to deliver the final blow. But then, I hesitated.
I saw a flicker of something in his eyes, something that reminded me of myself. A desperate desire to survive, a willingness to do whatever it took.
I lowered my hand. "Get out of here," I said, my voice cold and hard. "And never let me see you again."
The bandit didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet and fled into the forest, disappearing into the shadows.
I turned to the merchants, who were watching me with a mixture of awe and fear. They were alive, thanks to me. But they also knew that I was not one of them.
"Thank you," one of them said, his voice trembling. "You saved our lives."
I nodded curtly. "Don't mention it," I said. "Just point me towards the nearest town."
They told me of a town called Oakhaven, a few days' journey to the north. They offered me food and water, which I accepted gratefully.
As I prepared to leave, one of the merchants approached me. "You have a gift," he said. "A talent for fighting. You should put it to good use."
He told me of an academy, a place where young people were trained in the arts of magic and combat. It was called the Argent Academy, and it was said to be the finest institution of its kind in the land.
"They accept students from all walks of life," he said. "Perhaps you should consider applying."
The Argent Academy. The name resonated with me. A place of knowledge, of power. A place where I could learn to control the strange abilities that were beginning to stir within me.
It was a long shot, but I had nothing to lose.
"Where is it?" I asked.
The merchant smiled. "Follow the road north," he said. "You can't miss it."
I nodded and turned to leave. As I walked away, I knew that my journey had just begun. The road ahead would be long and difficult, but I was ready. I had survived for centuries, and I would survive this too.
The Argent Academy awaited. And I, Elias Vorne, was coming.