Aren’s consciousness flickered back to life, a brief pause before his brain fully engaged. He jolted upright in bed, his eyes darting around, assessing his surroundings. His previous awakening had erupted into a brutal, life-or-death struggle against a mercenary. This time, he was prepared for anything. Yet, contrary to his grim expectations, he found himself alone in a small, almost pitiful room. Two narrow beds were the primary fixtures, along with a single, rickety wooden clothes rack by the door. The room was constructed of rough-hewn timber, its walls formed from massive logs, chinks filled with knotted ropes to keep out the drafts. The floorboards were long and uneven, some jutting up at odd angles, threatening to trip the unwary. The gear, along with a gleaming sword, lay on the floor beside the second bed. Aren recognized them instantly—the belongings of the guard, his savior. The door was firmly shut. A sense of tranquility hung in the air, broken only by the distant murmur of voices and the occasional burst of laughter from below.
Aren released a slow, steady breath, allowing a measure of calm to settle over him. The frenzy from the previous night was finally receding. As the tension washed away, the recent events made their presence known, sending waves of pain through the joints of his right arm and a lingering irritation in his throat. He carefully massaged his aching shoulder, hoping to ease the throbbing ache. The effort brought slight relief. He cautiously approached the small, square window, wanting to get a better understanding of the situation outside. The moment he touched the latch, a loud, grating screech ripped through the relative silence as the window swung open. Aren had intended to be as quiet as possible, carefully controlling his movements, but the aged wood protested, the noise escalating with every inch he moved the pane. Damn it! he thought, bracing himself for the possibility that the noise would draw unwanted attention. Yet the sounds from downstairs continued unabated, indicating that no one had paid any mind to the racket.
The window offered a limited view of a small village nestled below. A jumble of modest wooden houses, their thatched roofs sagging with age, dotted the landscape, connected by a network of well-worn dirt paths that snaked between gardens bursting with colorful flowers and herbs. Villagers, clad in simple tunics and trousers, went about their daily routines, some tending to small plots of land, others heading towards the nearby fields with hoes slung over their shoulders. The scent of woodsmoke and freshly baked bread mingled pleasantly in the crisp morning air. Beyond the settlement, a river snaked its way through the landscape, flanked by a dense, ancient forest. The position of the village, set slightly below the edge of the forest, obstructed a clear view of the horizon.
He was still absorbing the tranquil scene when a creak from the door behind him sent him spinning around, prepared for an attack, only to find his guardian standing in the doorway. The man was dressed in simple, roughspun garments, similar to those worn by the villagers, and was carrying two wooden pints.
“You’re awake!” The guardian’s voice was laced with a hint of relief. “I couldn’t rouse you no matter what I tried. Had to carry you up to the second floor of this tavern.” He approached Aren slowly, extending one of the pints towards him. Aren accepted the offering, using his healthy left hand to support the weight of the pint. The liquid within was most likely mead.
Aren hesitated for a moment, unsure what to say. He couldn’t remember this man, yet the guardian was acting as if they were long-time friends. But then a thought struck him—it would be wise to thank him, instead of just standing there like an idiot.
“Thank you for saving me,” Aren said, taking a sip of the mead. The honeyed brew burned his throat initially, but an instant later, a soothing warmth spread through his body, chasing away the lingering chill.
The guard was grim and quiet. He placed himself down on the other bed, taking a deep gulp of his mead. After his swallow, nearly half of his pint was gone.
“I was just doing my duty, young master,” he replied, his voice thick with grief. “I… I couldn’t save your parents and siblings. I am so sorry…” His words trailed off, lost in a wave of sorrow.
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So I had a family. These mercenaries didn’t target only me. What could my family have possibly done? Although Aren couldn’t recall his family, questions flooded his mind. His amnesia made understanding his situation crucial, and knowing his past was key. He paused, observing his rescuer, who was devastated. Should he hide his amnesia or be truthful? Keeping it secret was pointless; it would soon become apparent. But how could he tell this grieving man that he remembered neither him nor his family? Aren decided that the only way forward was through.
“To be honest,” he began, sitting on his bed and facing his guardian, “I think I’ve lost my memory… I can’t remember anything before yesterday’s attack.”
The guard lifted his head, his eyes wide with disbelief, the half-full pint frozen halfway to his lips. “Nothing, Young Master? Nothing at all?” He leaned forward, his gaze intense, searching Aren’s face for any hint of a jest or deception. He found only a disconcerting blankness, a void where recognition and familiarity should have been. “But… Your family… The attack… You remember nothing of that?”
Aren shook his head slowly, uneasy with his lack of emotional response. “The first thing I remember is waking up during the attack.”
Theron’s hand trembled, nearly dropping the pint as he set it down on the floor with a dull thud. He ran a hand through his neatly trimmed beard. “By the gods,” he whispered, more to himself than to Aren. He fell into deep thought for a moment. “It might be related to that Ether Pulse. It was incredibly powerful; I’ve never sensed anything like it. I thought the Ascendant had caused it, and I rushed to flee with you. Do you at least remember who I am?” He looked at Aren, a spark of hope flickering in his eyes.
“No,” Aren replied, his voice flat.
The color drained from Theron’s face. “Gods have mercy,” he breathed, his gaze distant, unfocused. He was silent for a long moment, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. “I… I am Theron,” he finally said, his voice hoarse, “Commander of your family’s guard, your… Your instructor, your protector… I swore an oath to your father, to House Stillbrook, to keep you and your family safe…” He looked at Aren, his eyes filled with pain, as if he was reliving his failure again in that moment.
Aren felt a surge of empathy. This guy’s a wreck. I need to cheer him up. He was starting to like Theron; he respected the man’s unwavering loyalty.
“Your oath still holds. I’m here, after all. Even if I don’t remember you, I am grateful.”
The simple words worked wonders. Theron picked up his pint and finished it in one gulp. His eyes lit up with renewed purpose.
“Then I will uphold my oath and protect you, the last Stillbrook!” He stood tall. “Forgive me, Master Aren. My grief overwhelmed me. I didn’t think about how hard this must be for you, with your amnesia. Ask me anything.”
How little encouragement some people need to completely change the mood. He considered what he needed to know most to navigate this new world. “My family… you said they were killed. Who were they?”
“You are Aren Stillbrook, Count Cassian Stillbrook’s eldest son. Your family rules a county in the Stormborn Dominion. I don’t know why anybody would attack your family—they were loved by both the common folk and Duke Darius Stormborn.” Theron sat back at the edge of the bed. “After we left the Stillbrook estate, I brought you to the nearest village. We are now in a tavern. We weren’t followed, so it is unlikely they will come after you again, at least not any time soon. Stillbrook County is now without governance…”
“Alright, I got it,” Aren cut him off. His amnesia erased any emotional ties he might have had to his family or his inheritance. Now that he knew who he was in this world, and the reasons for the attack were unknown, he had to understand more urgent things first. He remembered how a single altercation with an enemy left his right arm completely useless, even though he had successfully won the fight. Now how can I ask this without sounding like a maniac? he wondered.
“It’s rather a weird question, but why am I so weak? I’d be dead right now if it weren’t for you.” Curiosity born from Arthur’s spirit, restless within its borrowed body, demanded an answer.
Theron hadn’t anticipated such a question. He was still grieving, having held the Stillbrook family in deep affection. It stung that the young master seemed so cold in the face of such a tragedy. Yet, as a guard, his duty was to protect and help the last Stillbrook above all else. He suppressed his emotions and responded:
“You’ve been frail since birth. The gods did not bless you with a strong physique, but they gifted you a sharp mind and wisdom beyond your years. You spent much of your time in the library, studying Ether and the history of Atheria. I trained you in swordsmanship, riding, and even some martial arts, but you didn’t take to them easily.”
A deep sense of disappointment crossed Aren’s face, turning almost to self-resentment. He took a large gulp of mead, ignoring the pain in his throat, doing his best to put aside the disturbing thought of his weakness. “What is Ether and Atheria?”