The darkness wasn't empty. It was a liquid, suffocating mass, saturated with the smell of iron and old incense. Hayjin floated within it, weightless, deprived of his body, reduced to a pure, aching lump of consciousness.
He no longer felt the cold of the Alius forest, nor the searing sting in his side. There was only a dull, rhythmic vibration coming from the Mark on the back of his neck. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It wasn't the beat of his childish heart; it was the pulse of something far more ancient awakening within him.
And with that pulse came memories. They weren't sharp like photographs, but blurred and distorted, like images reflected on rippling water.
[FLASHBACK]
The city. Not the gray, indifferent city he knew, but an older one, lit by gas lamps that hissed in the fog.
Hayjin saw himself as a child, but not the eight-year-old boy he was now on Alius. He was older, perhaps ten or eleven. He was in the living room of their small house. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of tobacco and a sweet, almost cloying scent of burning sandalwood.
Hayjin felt small, but protected. He heard a crystalline laugh and turned. A woman with raven hair, eyes shining with infinite kindness, was lifting him into the air. "Look how tall my little warrior is!" she said, and the sound of her voice was like music.
His father, a man with a constant smile, always happy a smile that transmitted absolute security. He took Hayjin from the woman's arms and set him on his shoulders. "One day, Hayjin, you will see the whole world from up here. And you won't be afraid of anything."
Those were moments of blinding happiness. Afternoons spent chasing each other through the grass, the smell of apple pie wafting from a cozy kitchen, the warmth of a hand stroking his head before sleep. It was a family. His family.
But deep within his consciousness, the "real" Hayjin screamed in confusion.
"What… what is happening to me…?"
"Who are these people? I… I don't remember ever having a family…"
His memories of London were made of solitude. He remembered never having known his mother's face or a father's warmth. In his memory, his childhood was a black hole of indifference.
"Why am I seeing this? Why am I smiling at these people I don't know? Why do I feel I love them if I've never seen them?"
The images began to blur. The parents' faces distorted, becoming smears of color. The sun became too bright, almost painful. Hayjin tried to grab that gentle hand, but the woman's skin began to crumble into black ash.
His father sat in a worn armchair, staring into the void. His mother, in a clean apron and hair tied back, leaned over him, passing a wet cloth over the back of his neck.
Hayjin approached slowly. "Mom... is Dad sick?"
The mother turned sharply, gasping. She tried to smile a strained, painful gesture that never reached her terror-filled eyes. "No, sweetie. Daddy is just... tired. He worked hard at the factory."
But Hayjin saw it. When his mother lifted the cloth, there on the pale skin of his father's neck black as pitch and pulsing with a violet light was the exact same symbol Hayjin wore now. The Mark of the Cult.
The memory exploded in a flash of white, painful light. The liquid darkness tore open, dragging Hayjin upward with unprecedented violence.
Strangely, however, Hayjin didn't remember living through any of this. He didn't even remember ever having parents.
"What… what is happening to me…"
"Who… who are these people…"
"I never had this. I never had these moments. Why now? Why in my head?"
The psychological doubt was more piercing than the physical pain. It was as if someone were rewriting his past, injecting doses of artificial happiness into a soul that knew only gray.
The blinding white of the memory faded, giving way to a dark wooden ceiling. Hayjin snapped his eyes open, his breath coming in small, strangled hisses. His heart pounded in his chest with such violence it made his ribs ache.
FLASHBACK ENDING
"No... no…" he murmured, small hands clutching the wool blankets.
"Hey, hey... calm down. It's okay, you're safe."
Hayjin bolted upright, but his head spun so hard the room seemed to flip. He was in a small, warm room, lit by the soft morning light filtering through a sheltered window. The air smelled of resin and bread.
He gasped, his breath coming in a choked rattle. The light that greeted him wasn't the bluish glow of the cave, nor the bioluminescence of the forest. It was a warm, golden light filtering through thick glass.
Hayjin sat up abruptly, but the dizziness was so strong he had to lean against the wooden wall behind him. The ceiling was low, made of massive beams blackened by smoke. The air smelled of lavender, freshly baked bread, and a pungent scent of medicinal herbs.
"Where... where am I?" The thought was a confused whisper. "Where…? Where is the city…? No... I was in the forest... they hit me…"
He tried to recall the events of the previous night, but the memories were painful fragments: the Assassin's blade, the blood soaking his side, the desperate run through the bioluminescent trees, the face of Rhaegalur.
"Oh, thank heaven! Honey, he's awake! Come quickly!"
Hayjin flinched, turning toward the voice. A young woman stood in the doorway. She was quite young, with a gentle face marked by a genuine expression and hair gathered in a clean cap. She wore a rough hemp apron and held a clay bowl.
It was the man's wife, Elara. She approached the bed with light steps, placing the bowl on a wooden side table. Her smile was genuine, full of a relief that warmed the air of the room.
"Stay calm, stay calm," she said softly, reaching out to touch his forehead. "You're safe here. You've slept for two whole days. We were a bit worried, but luckily everything turned out fine, haha."
"It's incredible that a child like you managed to save himself like that. Impressive."
Hayjin stared at her, confused. "Child? She said child." He looked at his hands resting on the rough wool blankets. They were still tiny. Thin fingers, small knuckles. Panic overwhelmed him again. "It wasn't a dream. I'm still in this body. I'm still on Alius."
"Where... where am I?" he croaked, his childish voice still shrill, lacking the depth of his adult voice.
Elara looked at him with a mix of curiosity and slight compassion. "You are in our home, in the Silverwood Valley. My name is Elara, and my husband found you in the forest the other night and saved you. You were in a very bad way, dear."
Hayjin closed his eyes for a moment, trying to process the information. "Silverwood... Alius... the forest..." The memories of the flight began to sharpen. He remembered the kick he gave the cultist, landing at the feet of the man with the long red hair, the sensation of warmth when Rhaegalur took him in his arms.
"The man... the man who helped me... where is he?" Hayjin asked, his voice trembling slightly.
Elara gave a reassuring smile. "My husband is outside. He's checking the perimeter of the property. After what happened the other night... well, he wants to make sure there are no unwanted guests. But he'll be back soon. He wanted to be the first to see you awake."
She leaned over him, adjusting the blankets. "Now you must rest a bit more, dear. You lost a lot of blood, and your body needs time to recover."
"A lot of blood…"
Hayjin instinctively brought his hand to his right side, where the Assassin's blade had pierced him. He expected to feel the sting of the wound, the sticky fabric of bandages, the dull pain that had accompanied him for hours.
But he felt nothing.
He lifted the rough hemp tunic Elara had put on him. His small, pale skin was perfectly intact. Not a scratch, not a scar, not a single trace of the deep cut that just a few days ago had brought him to the brink of death.
"How… how is this possible?" he thought, eyes wide with horror and wonder. "I was dying. I felt the blade tear my flesh. I saw the blood soak the grass. How is it possible that it all disappeared in two days?"
He pressed his fingers to see if he felt internal pain. Nothing. Only the soft texture of a child's skin. Anxiety pressed on his chest. This world didn't follow the rules of biology he knew. Here, death and healing were different concepts.
"Elara…" he murmured, looking up at the woman. "How... how did my wound heal so fast? I was almost dead…"
Elara looked at him for a long moment, and for the first time, her gentle smile seemed to crack slightly, revealing a shadow of slight concern. "My husband used his powers to heal you, dear. He is very powerful when it comes to healing superficial wounds."
"Superficial? That wound wasn't superficial," Hayjin thought, clenching his fists under the blankets. "She lied to me. But why?"
Before he could ask more questions, the cabin door creaked open. Rhaegalur's massive figure stood in the doorway, blocking the sunlight. He wore the same clothes as the other day, but now that Hayjin was awake and conscious, he perceived the aura of ancient power emanating from him. He wasn't just a hermit; he was a force of nature.
Rhaegalur placed his axe near the door and approached the bed. His face, marked by scars and a red beard formed by a wide goatee, was serious, almost stern, but his eyes softened slightly when they met Hayjin's.
"Is he awake, Elara?" he asked, his deep voice seeming to make the wooden walls vibrate.
"Yes, Rhae... no, sorry. Yes, my love. He just woke up. He asked for you."
Elara stood up, making room for her husband. Rhaegalur crouched down to his level, placing his massive hands on his knees. He stared at Hayjin for a long moment, as if reading his soul.
"Do you remember me, young man?" Rhaegalur asked, his voice no longer the thunderous roar he had used with the cultists, but a calm, steady sound.
Hayjin nodded slowly. "Yes… thank you… thank you again for saving me…"
"It was the least I could do," Rhaegalur replied, a shadow of sadness passing over his face. "No one should be treated the way they treated you. Those people... they have no respect for life."
Hayjin stared at him, feeling the Mark on his neck pulse slightly, as if recognizing the man's presence. "Who are you? And what is this place? I saw... I saw flames…"
Rhaegalur smiled thinly, a gesture that lit up his stern face. "My name is Rhaegalur. But to the inhabitants of this valley, I am just Silas. And this place... this is my home. You are safe here, young man."
He straightened up slowly, crossing his arms over his massive chest. "Elara told you to rest, and she's right. Your body has suffered a terrible trauma, even if you don't see it on your skin anymore. You need time to regain your strength."
Hayjin clutched the blankets between his small fingers, knuckles white from the effort. Rhaegalur's gaze was an abyss of calm that almost irritated him; in that moment, Hayjin wanted to scream, to shake him, to demand every single truth the man seemed to guard behind his tired eyes.
"Why do you call me Hayjin?" the boy asked, his voice trembling with frustration mixed with anger. "How did you know my name before I even opened my mouth? And that... that monster who hit me... why did he speak my language? Why did it seem like he knew me?"
Hayjin's cry pierced the warm air of the room, thin and shrill a sound that disgusted him deeply. With a superhuman effort, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to make him black out, he kicked away the wool blankets. His small, pale legs trembled like twigs in the wind as he tried to plant his feet on the wooden floor.
"Hayjin, stop! You're still weak!" Elara exclaimed, stepping forward with outstretched hands, but he brushed her away with a sharp, almost violent gesture.
"Don't touch me! Don't call me that as if you know me!" Hayjin managed to stand, but the world swung violently. He grabbed the edge of the table, knuckles white, his breath a whistle of anxiety. "I don't belong here. I don't belong in this... this ridiculous body! I have to go Home. There's someone waiting for me!"
He turned toward the door, staggering, driven by a psychotic frenzy. In his mind, if he could just get out of this house, he would find the alley. He would find the rain. He would find his body lying on the asphalt and crawl back inside, waking up from this delirium.
Rhaegalur sighed, a deep sound that seemed to shift the very air of the room. He ran a hand through his grizzled hair, then rested it on the edge of the bed. His presence emanated a physical, almost palpable heat that contrasted with the ice Hayjin felt in his heart.
Rhaegalur didn't move. He remained crouched, an unshakeable mountain of rock, watching the child who was desperately trying to walk toward an exit that led nowhere.
"There is no way to return to your world, Hayjin," Rhaegalur said. His voice was flat, devoid of pity, but laden with a truth that weighed like lead. "And there is no city beyond those woods. There is only Alius. And those madmen you left behind."
Hayjin stopped, turning slowly. His child's face was distorted by a grimace of pure rage, tears of frustration streaking his cheeks. "What do you know? You're just a woodsman in some shithole in the world! How do you know what my world is like? How do you know who I am?"
Rhaegalur rose to his full height, shadowing the light from the window. His shadow swallowed Hayjin. "I know what your world is because I have seen the gates open and close for centuries. I know who you are because the Cult of the Mark makes no mistakes when they choose a Bearer. They are fanatics, murderers, parasites of the soul... but they never miss their prey."
Hayjin felt his blood run cold. "The Cult... you know who they are."
"I know them better than you can imagine," Rhaegalur continued, taking a step forward. "And I know that 'return' you dream of is an illusion. The bridge between this world and yours was destroyed the moment the Assassin's blade touched your heart. You don't come back from a death of the soul, Hayjin. You cannot re-enter a body that has already been killed."
"You're lying!" Hayjin screamed, hurling a wooden cup against the wall. The dull thud of wood against wood was the only outlet for his helplessness. "You just want to keep me here! You want to use me too, just like Cross! Everyone wants a piece of me, but I just want my life! Give me my life back!"
His legs gave way. He collapsed to his knees, small hands pressed against the floor. The Mark on his neck began to burn not with a reassuring heat, but with a lancing sting that caught his breath. It was the sign of his imprisonment. It was the proof that Rhaegalur was right.
Rhaegalur knelt before him again. This time he didn't try to touch him. He let Hayjin vent his rage against the floor, let the sobs shake that body too small to hold such immense pain.
"Hate me if you must, if it helps you stay awake," Rhaegalur whispered. "But accept reality. For now, you cannot return. For now, your only priority is not to be found. Because if Cross takes you back before you understand what you have inside... then you won't even be a memory anymore. You will just be an extension of their will."
Hayjin looked up, eyes red and filled with a lucid hatred. "And you? What do you want from me? Why would a powerful man like you waste time with a child like me?"
Rhaegalur stared at him for a long time, and for an instant Hayjin saw a spark of something like regret in the man's eyes. "Because I have a debt I must settle with myself."
Hayjin didn't answer. The strength that had pushed him to stand was gone, replaced by an ancestral exhaustion. The child's body was claiming its tribute. His mind, saturated with trauma and revelations, began to shut down.
Elara approached, placing a gentle hand on her husband's shoulder, then gave Hayjin a look full of an almost maternal tenderness—a tenderness he didn't remember ever receiving. "Listen to him, dear. We will give you all the explanations you want, I promise. Rhaegalur is not a man to break his word. But now drink this broth and sleep. We will be right here when you open your eyes, don't worry."
Hayjin looked from one to the other. His mind told him not to trust them, to run, to seek some scrap of logic in this absurdity. But his instinct or perhaps the Mark itself whispered that these strangers were his only protection against the Cult.
Hayjin wanted to ask more questions. He wanted to ask about the Mark, about Cross, about the Assassin, about Alius, about how he had incinerated those cultists with a simple snap of his fingers. But the weight of the awakening and the painful flashback were taking their toll. His vision began to sway, his head felt like lead.
He stared at Rhaegalur for one last, fleeting moment. He saw his massive, reassuring figure, smelled the wood and smoke emanating from him. And for the first time after years of loneliness and failures in London, Hayjin felt a sensation he no longer recognized.
Hope.
He took a few sips of the warm broth, feeling the heat spread through his tired limbs. The tension that had held him as tight as a violin string began to dissolve. He let himself slide under the heavy wool blankets, which smelled of sun and cleanliness.
As his breathing became slow and regular, he saw Rhaegalur stand and exchange a whisper with Elara at the threshold. The candlelight cast their shadow on the walls a vision that, for the first time in his life, didn't seem threatening, but a sanctuary.
He closed his eyes, letting the darkness welcome him again, but this time it wasn't dense and suffocating as before. It was a soft, protective darkness, like an embrace promising never to let him go.
And in his mind, before falling into sleep, he saw Sarah. She was laughing and handing him a note.
"You'll make it, Hayjin. You're stronger than you think."
"I hope you're right, Sarah," Hayjin thought. "I hope you're right…"