The grass danced back and forth across the meadow as wind gently blew against each blade. The overcast clouds caused the light across the meadow to be dim and dreary. Ash blew through the air, lightly coating every surface it came into contact with. In the middle of the ashen grass stood a village that had been burned to the ground, still smoldering from the lingering magic that was left over from the attack.

In the distance, the shouts and cheer of the god forsaken raiders could be heard. It was the only sound in the meadow apart from the wind shaking the grass. In the middle of it all lay a burnt and bloodied young man. His skin had been charred black and he had no hair on his body to speak of. Yet even with his injuries, he was alive. More than alive, he was still conscious.

Unable to move, he was stuck sitting with the pain and anguish of what he had just gone through. Very little of the pain was from the wounds on his body, with most of it coming from the memories of what those monsters had done.

His dehydrated and dried up body managed to let out a single tear as it rolled down his cheek. Then another, and another. It took the husk of a man several moments to realize that it had begun raining across the meadow. The rain put out the small fires that still lingered, and he could feel the dull impact of each raindrop through the burnt skin on his body.

The small impacts brought back the first memory of how it had happened, how the fall of his home had begun. He recalled the gravel that had been sprayed across his body when the monster's horses had come to an abrupt stop. It had stung a bit, but he had been all too eager to greet the people riding into the village. It wasn't often that people came around the rim of the world.

He almost chuckled at that thought. The world's rim. It was an age old term that had stuck around due to it being such an accurate term to describe places such as his village. Anybody who had gotten even a modicum of education would know that the world had no edge, nor any end or rim. It was a sphere, whole and truly.

The memories continued to flood into his mind, bringing with it more stress and despair as the adrenaline started wearing off and the pain began to set in. He remembered asking the men if they would want to buy some rice from the village stock. He had always been a good salesman after all. Not good enough to name himself as such, but good enough to handle the job when the need arose.

The raiders had humored him for a short time as more raiders showed up. By the time the village got the hint as to what was about to happen, it was too late. The rest was a blur of him throwing a few kicks and punches before being engulfed in a ball of fire. From there he was forced to lay there as his home, everything he knew was burned to the ground and plundered for all it was worth.

The sound of metal clashing against metal had resounded through the village when the raiders struggled to put down Woodsman. The village lumberjack had been rumored by many to be in the peak of the foundational stage of cultivation, and many had always seen him as the protector of the people.

The man in the meadow used what little strength he had remaining to turn his head to the left, looking at the corpse of Woodsman. He had put up a fight, taking two raiders down with him, but in the end it hadn’t been enough. It was a shame, really, losing such a talented lumberjack. He had been so good that he had earned his name from the job.

Oh how the man in the meadow wished he could have lived long enough to earn a name. It was common practice in his village, and many rim villages like it, to earn your name. Alas, it was something he wouldn’t live to see, as he heard the sound of horse hooves clopping across the ground in his direction.

‘The raiders are back for more’ he thought. He closed his eyes, not wanting to witness whatever horror was about to happen. When he felt the touch of something on his neck, he inhaled sharply as he expected a blade to sever his head from his body. Instead, he felt the touch disappear after a few seconds, followed by a woman yelling.

“Survivor over here! Healers!” She yelled.

Within the next few seconds after that, he felt more hands touch him, followed by a feeling flowing through his body that felt both refreshing and unpleasant at the same time. He opened his eyes, looking at the people who surrounded him. The woman who had shouted was already walking away, and the apparent healers around him were all channeling some energy into him.

He tried to lift his head to get a better look as the woman walked away, and the energy exerted in that one movement was finally enough for the exhaustion in his body to become overwhelming. His head fell back and hit the ground as he lost consciousness.

_____

When he finally regained his consciousness and became aware again, the world was a fog of white. More than the desire to see, his desire to eat trumped his thoughts. He was ravenously hungry, and that made him wonder how long he had been unconscious for. He tried to turn his head, but a soothing hand gently pushed it back down.

“Stay still for a moment.” A gravely old voice said from beside him.

“Where am I?” He asked, trying again and failing to sit up.

“Sit still.” The voice said more firmly this time. “This will only take a moment.”

It did only take a moment, and the bandages over his eyes were removed. The world quickly shifted from the dim light coming through the bandages to the absolutely blinding light coming from all around the interior of the tent they were in. After his eyes adjusted to the light, he repeated his question to the old man who had removed the bandages.

“Where am I?”

“You are in the rim guards 47th encampment.” The old man said. “You were brought here by the guards who responded to your village's distress signal.”

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“Is everyone else okay?” He asked, already knowing the answer. The answer had been lying right next to him in that meadow, after all.

“No, son. No they are not.” There was a silence between them for a moment as the words sunk into his body. Sorrow filled him as he thought of all of his dearest friends and family that must have been killed or gravely injured. That sorrow was steadily being replaced by anger and hatred towards the raiders, but he did his best to suppress the feeling.

“Where are the others?”

A look of guilt passed over the man's face. He looked as if he was about to speak when the flaps of the tent were pushed to the side and a man in leather armor poked his head in.

“Morrison, you are needed at tent 3.” He said.

The old man turned to him again. “The others, they-”

“It is urgent Morrison.” The armored man urged.

With a loud and exasperated sigh, Morrison stood up and walked towards the tent entrance. He turned to the man in the bed before leaving. “I’ll tell you later, when I get the chance. There is some explaining to be done.”

The bandaged man soon found himself alone in the tent, stewing in his thoughts of sorrow and anger. He tried to keep the feelings to a minimum as he considered what was next, but he couldn’t keep them from welling up and overwhelming his thoughts. Eventually, it was too much for him to handle and he tried to stand up.

His body ached with the movements, and his brain practically begged him to sit back down, but he didn't listen to it. The pain took his mind off his feelings, and he knew which he would rather deal with right now.

Trying to walk was a bit awkward, and he needed to loosen a few bandages around his knees and elbows, but it was not long before he was mobile enough to go on a little walk. He exited the tent, shielding his eyes as the sun beat down hard on the entire camp. It was much brighter than it had been before he passed out. How long had it been exactly?

It didn’t matter. What mattered to him right now was seeing a familiar face. He hobbled over to one of the other white tents, similar to the one he had just been in. He peeked through the flap, seeing a bloodied and broken body of a man that was being healed by healers.

He quickly moved away from the flap. He didn't recognize that person, so he simply moved on to the next tent. There were ten tents in total, so he worked his way through each of them. He got several looks from the people around him, but he ignored them as he went from tent to tent.

Everytime he would peek inside, and everytime he would see somebody in terrible condition. But no matter how many tents he looked in, there was nobody he recognized. He stood in front of the last tent he had yet to check. Tent number 3.

By now, tears were running down his face and soaking the bandages that were wrapped around his neck. The reality that loomed heavily over him was quickly becoming more and more possible as he built the courage to open the last tent flap.

His heart pounded in his chest as he reached out a hand and pulled back the flap. In the bed he saw a man with burn marks all across his body. He was being stabilized and healed by the healers around the bed. Morrison faced away from the entrance, seemingly annoyed as he worked to bandage the legs of the patient.

“What is it now you need- oh.” Morrison cut himself off when he turned and saw the bandaged man standing at the entrance to the tent, tears pouring down his face.

He didn't recognize the man in tent 3. The burn marks were severe and his appearance was definitely altered significantly from normal, but he just knew that it was nobody from his village.

“Where are they…” He asked.

“Lad-”

“Where are they!” He shouted again as he turned to leave the tent. He hobbled as fast as he could across the outpost, searching everywhere he possibly could to find where his friends, where his family, where his entire world might be. They had to be in one of these tents or buildings. There was just no way they were…

He collapsed to his knees as the thoughts in his mind reached a new crescendo. His body shook as he couldn't take it anymore, and he dug his blistered fingers into the dirt. A hand fell onto his shoulder, and he looked up through blurry vision to see Morrison standing just behind him, a solemn look on his face.

“They are dead, lad. You were the sole survivor.” He said, sounding mournful as he shook his head.

“But, all those people…” The man on the ground said, still shaking.

“All dead, at the hands of the raiders.” Morrison said as he helped him to his feet. “Let's get you back to your tent, where you can rest.”

The walk back to the tent felt like the longest walk of his life. Every negative emotion he had ever felt came rushing to him as he tried to cope with the loss of everything he had ever known. Above all else stood the emotions of grief and rage.

Rage towards the ones who had done this. Rage towards the world that would allow this to happen. Rage towards himself, who couldn’t have stopped it.

His thoughts came to a screeching halt as that last thought hit him like a boulder. He knew logically that there was nothing he could have possibly done to change the outcome, but he still blamed himself even if just because he was the only one who lived. Why couldn't it have been a better man, like Woodsman, or a great leader, like the village elder had been.

Why had it been him? The world was cruel, and he may never get an answer. His thoughts once more were put on pause as he sat back down in his bed, sleepiness hitting him hard.

“What is your name?” Morrison asked.

“My name?” The bandaged man responded.

“Yes, your name. What people call you.”

“I… never really had a name.”

“You never-” The healer looked contemplative for a moment. “I forgot the rim villages rely on earning your name. Tell you what, you choose what we call you. What do you want your name to be?”

He thought about that for a moment. A name. He had never had one, but had always wanted one for as long as he could remember. Perhaps he could have been Seller if he had become a better trader. Maybe he could have been Cook, as he had always been handy in the kitchen.

None of that mattered now though, as he needed to think of what he wanted to be called. He hadn’t done anything to necessarily earn a name, so he couldn’t think of one. Well, that wasn’t true. He had done something extraordinary out of the ordinary. He was the sole survivor of the bandit raid.

Sole survivor. He thought for a moment about that. Then it clicked in his head as he finally had a name for the first time ever in his life. It was admittedly the only one he could really think of at that moment, but he felt it in every fiber of his being that it was the right one. “You can call me Sol.” He said with determination. It was at this moment that he made a vow to himself. Never again in this life or the next would he do anything but his best to keep something like this from ever happening again.