He laid his back against the gnarled trunk of the ancient fig tree, its bark rough against his skin. The sword lay between his arms, the edge stuck in the ground, his right elbow resting lightly on the hilt. The boughs of the tree stretched out like a protective canopy, their lush green leaves rustling gently in the warm breeze, filtering the harsh sunlight that tried to penetrate their dense foliage.

It is said that many hermits and priests became enlightened under this very fig tree, with some claiming it has stood here since the creation of the world. Most of these seekers hailed from the neighboring monastery, where they revered this ancient tree as a sacred sanctuary. Each of them, in their final stage to sainthood, would meditate here for a week, as they claimed their prophet did before slaying the dragon that terrorized a certain village.

He felt heavy, as though the weight of his own body pressed down, pulling him into the roots of the fig tree, which twisted and coiled like snakes in an intimate embrace beneath him. Something thick and wet surrounded him; it was blood, and he realized he was losing consciousness.

As he began to slip into stupor, a soft thud came his way. The sound—unmistakably the footfalls of bare feet—approached steadily, bringing with it a sense of calm rather than danger. He opened his closed eyes with great difficulty; a slender figure stood before him, tall and poised. Clad in a simple yet dignified robe of deep saffron, the coarse fabric draped loosely from his shoulders, brushing gently against the ground.

The wide, flowing sleeves concealed his hands. A leather belt cinched the robe at his waist, securing it in place. From this belt hung a small pouch containing the few meager possessions he carried: a wooden idol of Kelsar, a few worn scraps of parchment, and a well-used quill. Apart from these, he held a wicker basket in his right hand.

Before he could make out the figure in front of him, he lost consciousness.

He woke up to the sight of a chandelier made of wrought iron. The air was filled with the scent of incense and beeswax. The flickering light from the candles mounted on the candelabras created dancing shadows on the walls. Tapestries adorned the space, particularly depicting their

prophet Keslar. One particularly striking tapestry showed Kelsar fighting a dragon against the creatures of the Netherworld. This Monastery was the only place where monks were trained as warriors—warriors of immense will and stature, capable of defeating the fiercest knights. And dragons, if the legends were true.

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Kastiel turned his head, and there, on a wicker chair, sat a person hunched over a book, a tome made of dark brown leather mottled with age spots. The monk turned his gaze from the book to the wooden pallet. He was silent, and Kastiel scrutinized him from the pallet; the monk's hazel-blue eyes penetrated him with an inscrutable look.

"Where am I?" he mumbled incoherently.

"Keslar Monastery," the monk with hazel-blue eyes responded with a stoic calm before turning his focus back to the tome.

Kastiel waited a moment and tried to sit up, but a robust and sturdy hand barred his action. Even if the hand hadn't stopped him, he wouldn't have been able to do so. He felt nauseous, woozy, and giddy.

"Where's my sword?" he queried.

There was no response. Kastiel felt as if he had no more spirit left to speak. He closed his eyes and sank back into unconsciousness.

The next time he opened his eyes, he found himself surrounded by an assembly of monks. Their robes fluttered softly, a sea of saffron in the dim candlelight. The hazel-blue eyes were missing among them. His body ached, and he wanted to slip into sleep again. Out of the gathering, an elderly man stepped forward. Unlike the others, his head wasn't shorn but crowned with tousled locks of silvery hair cascading down to his shoulders.

The man stood out not only for his hair but also for the hilt of a sword protruding from behind his shoulder, glinting faintly in the candlelight.

"From the looks of everything, I infer you are a swordsman. I also realize you are not from this part of the world—a vagabond," he said.

The silver-haired man was weathered, dressed in a simple, minimalistic robe that flowed loosely around his body. Subtle lines suggested reinforced leather patches on his shoulders and forearms, with hints of chain mail beneath the robe. A wide belt wrapped around his waist, securing a sheathed dagger and adding a practical touch to his otherwise unadorned attire. He wore sturdy, well-worn boots, the scuffed leather showing years of travel. A long, dark cloak hung from his shoulders, cascading down to the ground, with a barely visible dragon symbol embroidered near the hem, representing his connection to the Keslar Monastery and its legendary dragon lore. He took a step closer, his eyes sharp as they scrutinized Kastiel, almost as if peeling him away from the pallet.

Kastiel's throat was dry, his body still heavy with fatigue. "Who are you?" he rasped, the words feeling like gravel on his tongue.

"I'm the one who has to ask that question. So, who are you, swordsman?"

Kastiel feigned not to hear the question, or perhaps the question never reached his ears. "Where the fuck am I?" he growled abruptly.

The silver-haired man showed no reaction, nor did the monks surrounding him. "Watch your tongue, youngling," he warned sharply.

Kastiel calmed down. He tried to speak again but found his strength failing him once more. His head throbbed, and he felt like the pallet he lay on was about to give way beneath him. Why was he here? How had he come to this place? The last thing he remembered was the village of Riven... and the blood. So much blood.

"Rest now, swordsman. There will be time for answers later," the silver-haired man said, as Kastiel once more plunged into unconsciousness.