The dream began in a haze, as dreams often do—soft, fleeting, wrapped in warmth and light.

Sid Montcroix found himself sitting at the long wooden table in his family’s cottage, a place that once felt safe. His mother, as radiant as ever, hummed a lullaby while stirring a pot of stew over the hearth.

His father, strong and dependable, laughed heartily at something Sid’s younger self had said, the sound rich and full of life. His younger sister ran around the table, chasing an imaginary butterfly, her laughter echoing through the house. It was a picture of pure happiness, a life untouched by the cruel hands of fate.

Sid watched, not as a participant but as an outsider, a ghost tethered to the memory. He wanted to reach out, to join them in their joy, to feel that sense of belonging once again. But as he moved closer, the scene shifted.

The sunlight streaming through the windows dimmed. Shadows crept along the walls, inching closer, swallowing the light and warmth. His mother’s humming faded, replaced by silence so thick it pressed on his ears. His father’s laughter echoed, distorted, before dying away completely.

One by one, his family disappeared, dissolving into the darkness like sand slipping through his fingers. The fire in the hearth flickered once before extinguishing, leaving the house cold and empty. Sid was alone. He reached out, desperate to pull them back, to feel their presence one last time, but his hands grasped at nothing but air.

You are already dead, a voice whispered, low and insistent. It was his voice, but it felt foreign, hollow. The darkness pressed in on him, suffocating, crushing. Sid wanted to scream, to fight against the void, but his body wouldn’t respond. He was paralyzed, trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t escape.

And then, suddenly, he awoke.

Sid shot up in bed, gasping for air as if he had been drowning. His heart pounded in his chest, the echo of the dream clinging to him like a shadow. His breaths came in ragged, shallow gasps as he looked around wildly, trying to reorient himself. He was drenched in cold sweat, his clothes clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

His room was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the moon filtering through the small window. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he had truly woken up, or if this was just another layer of the nightmare. His hands trembled as he brought them to his face, feeling the dampness of his sweat, the warmth of his breath.

“I’m…alive?” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the stillness.

But how could that be? He remembered dying. He remembered the weakness overtaking his body, the illness that had ravaged him for years finally claiming him. He had lain in that bed, unable to even muster the strength to say goodbye to Elara, knowing that his time had come. He had felt his life slipping away, had felt the coldness of death creeping over him like a blanket of frost.

Yet here he was, breathing. Alive.

Sid threw off the thin blanket that covered him and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He expected the familiar weight of fatigue to pull him down, expected his muscles to ache from even the smallest movement. But there was nothing. No pain. No weakness. He stood, slowly at first, testing his balance. His legs didn’t buckle beneath him. In fact, they felt…strong.

A wild, incredulous laugh escaped his lips as he took a few shaky steps. He had been bedridden for so long, confined to the four walls of his room, unable to even stand without collapsing. But now, he was walking—no, moving—with a vitality that he hadn’t felt in years.

Sid stumbled toward the small mirror hanging on the wall, his hands trembling as he reached for it. He stared at his reflection, and for a moment, he didn’t recognize the boy staring back at him. His skin, once pale and sickly, had a healthy flush to it. The dark circles under his eyes, the gauntness of his cheeks, were gone. He looked…alive.

“What is this…?” he murmured, running a hand through his hair, feeling the strength in his fingers, the smoothness of his movements. There was no pain. No discomfort. It was as if the illness had never existed. As if he had been reborn.

He stood there for a long moment, staring at his reflection, trying to make sense of it all. His mind raced, scrambling to process what had happened. He had died. He was sure of it. The fever had burned through him, and then there had been nothing. But now, here he was, standing, breathing, healthy.

His heart pounded in his chest, not from fear, but from exhilaration. He felt alive in a way he had never felt before. His body, once frail and broken, was now full of energy. He clenched his fists, feeling the strength in his muscles, the power that surged through him. It was intoxicating.

Sid’s eyes drifted to the wooden sword hanging on the wall—the same sword his father had used to train him in the ways of knighthood before the illness had stolen that future from him. He hadn’t touched it in years. His father had died before he could truly teach him, and Sid’s illness had made sure that he could never pick up a sword again.

But now…

On impulse, Sid grabbed the sword from the wall, the familiar weight of the hilt resting comfortably in his hand. He stepped outside into the cool night air, the moon casting a pale glow over the fields that surrounded their home. The wind rustled through the trees, a gentle whisper that carried with it the promise of something new.

Sid swung the sword. Once, then twice. Each swing was sharp, precise, cutting through the air with a force that thrilled him. His muscles moved fluidly, no longer hindered by the weakness that had once plagued him.

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He swung harder, pushing his body to its limits, testing the newfound strength that coursed through him. Each movement was smooth, effortless, as if his body had been waiting for this moment, for this rebirth.

He ran.

Sid sprinted across the fields, his feet pounding against the earth, faster and faster, feeling the wind whip against his face. He pushed himself harder, testing the limits of his endurance, the thrill of the movement sending a rush of adrenaline through his veins. For the first time in years, he felt free—truly free.

The exhilaration of it all—the running, the swinging, the sheer physicality of it—was overwhelming. Sid laughed, a wild, joyous sound that echoed through the night. He was alive. He was alive. And more than that, he was whole.

But with that joy came a sobering realization. The life he had known, the one marked by sickness, by weakness, was over. The boy who had lain in bed, waiting for death to claim him, was gone. That boy had died.

As Sid stood there, breathing hard from exertion but filled with a sense of renewed purpose, his eyes drifted back to the small house in the distance—his childhood home. The place where he had lived and dreamed, where he had once believed in a future that now felt like a distant memory.

That life, the one defined by illness and despair, was no longer his. He could never go back to being the boy who waited helplessly for death. He was something new now, something stronger. And that boy, the weak, sickly Sid Montcroix, had to be buried.

With determined steps, Sid walked back to the house. He moved through the rooms, gathering what little belongings he had left, his mind resolute. His father’s old coat, his mother’s locket—small remnants of the life that had once been. He placed them in a bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked outside.

He stood before the house, the place where his father had taught him the ideals of knighthood, where his mother had cared for him, where he had once dreamed of becoming something more. Now, it was nothing but a shell, a reminder of the boy he had been.

With steady hands, Sid struck a match, watching the tiny flame flicker to life. The fire danced in his eyes as he tossed the match into the dry wood of the house. The flames caught quickly, spreading through the walls, licking at the roof, consuming everything in their path.

Sid watched as the fire roared to life, the heat radiating from the burning house. It was a funeral pyre for the boy who had died, for the life that had ended. He stood there, silent, resolute, as the house collapsed in on itself, the flames reducing everything to ash.

And then, as the last embers flickered and died, Sid turned away from the ruins of his old life and walked into the night.

He had been given a second chance.

And he would seize it.

Sid Montcroix watched the flames devour the last remnants of his childhood home. The wooden beams creaked and groaned under the weight of the fire, sending plumes of smoke spiraling into the sky. It wasn’t just a building being reduced to ash; it was the past he could no longer bear, the weakness he’d outgrown. As the embers flickered and died, so too did the sickly boy he used to be.

“I’m not that weak anymore,” Sid whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire. His hands, once trembling from illness, now felt steady and strong as they gripped his father’s small sword.

But as he turned away from the inferno, he couldn’t completely erase the memories of his father or his best friend. They were gone, lost to time and fate, but they weren’t forgotten. The sound of his father’s deep laugh echoed in his ears, while his best friend’s teasing smile flashed across his mind. Those were the pieces of his past he would carry with him, the parts he refused to burn.

With a final glance at the smoldering ruins, Sid set off toward the dark forest that loomed just beyond the edge of his family's land. The forest was a place of mystery and fear, but to Sid, it promised something more—freedom. His legs, once weak and useless, now carried him with confidence into the unknown.

As the trees closed in around him, their tall, twisting trunks casting long shadows, the reality of his situation began to settle in. He was alone now, truly alone. There was no one left to rely on, no more safety nets.

“Guess it’s just me now,” Sid muttered, his voice a mix of excitement and trepidation. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword, feeling its weight. “Just me and this.”

The deeper he ventured into the forest, the more he felt the shift in the air. The thick canopy overhead blocked out much of the sunlight, leaving only streaks of golden light to cut through the gloom. The forest was alive with sound—birds chirping, leaves rustling, and the distant trickle of a stream. Yet, beneath it all, there was an eerie silence, as if something was watching him.

But Sid wasn’t afraid. The sickness that had kept him bedridden for so long was gone, and with it, the fear that had once defined him. His body felt stronger than it ever had before, every step more confident than the last.

Sid stopped and knelt by a patch of dirt, examining the faint imprints of tiny paws. Rabbits. He grinned. “Alright, time to test this new body.”

He hadn’t hunted before, not with his own hands. His father had tried to teach him once, but he had been too sick to truly learn. Now, though, he had no choice. He needed food, and the forest wasn’t going to offer him a warm meal on a silver platter.

Sid crouched lower, moving silently along the trail, his heart beating steadily in his chest. The rabbit came into view—a small, gray creature nibbling at a patch of grass, oblivious to the predator stalking it.

Sid took a deep breath, his muscles tensing. With a swift motion, he lunged forward, bringing his sword down in a clean arc. The blade sliced through the air, and the rabbit fell limp, its life snuffed out in an instant.

He stared down at the kill, feeling a strange mixture of pride and guilt. He had survived this moment, proved to himself that he could. But survival came at a cost. There would be more deaths—more sacrifices.

“I guess this is the price of living,” he murmured, wiping the blade clean on the grass.

By the time the sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Sid had caught three rabbits. His stomach rumbled in anticipation of a proper meal. Finding a suitable place to rest, he knelt down, gathering wood for a fire. As the flames flickered to life, the forest around him seemed to grow darker, the night closing in.

Sid sat by the fire, roasting one of the rabbits over the flame, savoring the warmth. His thoughts wandered back to his father, imagining how proud he would be to see him now—alive, thriving.

But his thoughts were shattered by a sudden scream that cut through the forest like a blade. Sid’s body went rigid. Instinct took over, and he doused the fire with dirt, plunging his camp into darkness.

From his hidden spot, Sid carefully crawled toward the source of the noise. His heart pounded in his ears as he peered through the thick foliage. Up ahead, he saw the flickering light of torches. A group of men—bandits, by the looks of them—were attacking a merchant caravan.

Sid's breath caught in his throat as he watched the bandits swarm the wagons, their swords gleaming in the fading light. The merchants' guards fought valiantly, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. One by one, they fell, their blood staining the dirt road.

Sid’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. I should stay hidden. It’s none of my business. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he saw a woman clutching her child, her face pale with terror. The boy reminded him of his younger self—helpless, vulnerable.

“Dammit,” Sid whispered. He knew he couldn’t stay hidden. His legs tensed, ready to spring into action, but his mind hesitated.

What could one person do against so many?

“This is suicide,” he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible. Yet, despite his doubts, Sid’s feet moved forward, carrying him closer to the fight. His heart raced, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

One of the bandits barked orders to his men, his voice loud and commanding. “Leave no one alive! We take everything!”

Sid’s jaw clenched. He scanned the area quickly, searching for an advantage. He could hear his father’s voice in the back of his mind: Fight with your head, Sid. Brute strength isn’t always the answer.

He glanced up at the trees, noticing the low-hanging branches that stretched over the road. A plan began to form in his mind. Sid sheathed his sword and quietly climbed a nearby tree, moving swiftly through the dense leaves until he was positioned directly above the ambush site.

From his vantage point, Sid could see the bandits more clearly. There were six of them, armed with swords and knives, moving with the efficiency of seasoned killers. But they hadn’t noticed him—yet.

Sid took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Alright, Sid. Time to see if you really have what it takes.”

He waited for the right moment, watching as one of the bandits stepped directly beneath his branch. Without a second thought, Sid dropped down, his sword flashing in the dim light. The bandit’s eyes widened in shock as Sid's blade found its mark, silencing him before he could cry out.

Sid landed silently, crouching behind the fallen bandit. He glanced around, making sure no one had seen him.

“Five left,” he whispered. The odds were still against him, but Sid had no intention of going down without a fight. He would survive this, just like he had survived death itself.