"Who is that?"
The question spun in his head, bouncing against fragments of memory that refused to settle. He remembered the dungeon. The dripping water. The darkness pressing in from all sides. But the man… this man… he didn't belong to the darkness. Not here.
And yet… there was something familiar in the way the man stood, the way his gaze measured him not with curiosity, not with malice, but with the certainty of someone who had seen Rowan before.
Rowan's mind clawed at the fragments he still had. Bits of his past teased him, flickering at the edges of his awareness: a shape of a key in someone's hand, a name whispered in confidence, a feeling of… expectation.
Expectation.
Could this man know him? Could he be connected to what had put him in the dungeon, or worse what had taken the memory he couldn't recall?
Every instinct screamed caution. He wanted to step back, to disappear into the shadows, to make sense of the fear tightening his chest before he faced whatever this was.
But even in the haze of missing memories, Rowan made a choice. Not a decision of courage or defiance. Just… observation. Calculating, measuring.
He would watch. He would wait. And he would learn what he could before the answers or the danger found him.
The man remained silent, watching him like a shadow cast in flesh. Rowan's fingers flexed at his sides, restless, seeking an anchor in his own body. The memory gaps weighed on him, shaping every move, every hesitation.
If I step forward… if I speak… what do I risk?
His mind answered in fragments: nothing, maybe everything, and something he couldn't yet name.
What if… we know each other?
The thought made his stomach tighten. If they had a history, if this man knew him well, then Rowan's memory loss could be more dangerous than the dungeon ever was. Any weakness, any hint that he didn't remember… it could be used against him.
He forced his voice out, steadying it against the tremor that wanted to escape:
"What do you mean… by that?"
The man tilted his head slightly, studying him as though Rowan had just spoken exactly the line he wanted. There was no rush in his movement, no tension. Just quiet observation, calm certainty.
Rowan's fingers flexed at his sides. Every memory fragment he had scrambled in his mind. If he knows me, and finds out I can't remember… that could be… bad. Very bad.
And yet, he had to know.
The man's lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly, as if amused or perhaps approving.
"You took longer than expected," he repeated, slower this time, letting the words sink into the empty spaces of Rowan's mind. "I had wondered if you would even make it here alive."
Rowan's stomach clenched. Even make it here alive…? The implications were not lost on him. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand straighter, forcing his mind to work even as the fog of missing memories pressed in.
Before Rowan could move another muscle, the figure in front of him stepped forward to the master a presence that seemed as natural here as the walls themselves. A presence he had gotten used to. It was none other than the person who had freed him from the cage.
He walked past Rowan to the master and knelt.
"I greet you, my Lord," the guard muttered.
"Stand up, Colin," the mysterious man said.
"Thank you, Master," Colin replied as he excused himself from the room.
"Master."
Rowan froze, a chill crawling up his spine. Master… That word, so familiar, so weighted, slammed against the fragments of memory he had left. It was the same term he'd heard in his scattered recollections the one whispered in fear, in expectation, in moments he couldn't fully place.
And the man standing there, calm, deliberate, unflinching, could only be that master. The master they had spoken of… the one I've been trying to remember.
And in that stillness, Rowan realized: whatever had put him here, whatever had stolen his memories, this man was at the center of it.
The master's gaze lingered on Rowan for a moment longer, as if measuring something unseen. Then, without urgency, he turned.
"Come," he said simply.
No explanation. No command in his tone, yet it carried expectation.
Rowan hesitated. Every instinct told him to stay alert, to question, to resist but his body moved anyway. Slow. Cautious. He followed.
The corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit by iron sconces fixed into the stone walls. Their flickering flames cast long, shifting shadows that seemed to breathe with every step. The air here was different cleaner than the dungeon, yet still heavy, controlled.
They passed several doors. All identical. All closed.
Finally, the master stopped before a door at the end of the hall. With a quiet push, it opened.
"Inside."
Rowan stepped through.
The room was… different.
Not a dungeon. Not quite freedom either.
Stone walls still enclosed the space, but they were smoother here, cleaner, almost polished. A single wooden table stood at the center, sturdy and worn, with a chair placed opposite it. A second chair sat across, positioned with intention, as if this room had been prepared for conversation.
A narrow window lined with iron bars allowed pale light to filter in, softening the room just enough to make it feel less suffocating than the cell. A faint draft carried the scent of old wood and something warmer something almost… lived in.
But Rowan's chest still tightened.
"Sit," the master said, gesturing lightly toward the chair.
Rowan paused for a fraction of a second, eyes flicking between the man and the room. No restraints. No chains. And yet, the control in the air made resistance feel pointless.
Slowly, he moved forward and lowered himself into the chair. His body protested immediately, muscles still weak, trembling faintly beneath him.
The master remained standing for a moment, studying him.
Then he spoke.
"You look worse than I expected."
The words were calm. Observational. Almost detached.
Rowan's jaw tightened slightly. He didn't respond.
The master stepped closer, his expression unreadable.
"You'll be sent food," he continued, as though discussing something trivial. "And water. It would be… inefficient to let you deteriorate further."
Rowan blinked.
Food?
The word echoed strangely in his mind, foreign and distant.
Why…?
His thoughts scrambled, trying to make sense of it. This man this master had put him through something brutal enough to break him… and now he was offering food? Care?
It didn't fit.
Nothing about this fit.
Rowan's fingers curled slightly against the table as he studied the man in front of him. Calm. Composed. Indifferent.
That was the part that unsettled him the most.
Not cruelty. Not anger.
Indifference.
Why does he not care?
If Rowan had truly passed some kind of test, if he mattered in any way, shouldn't there be something more? Recognition? Satisfaction?
Instead… this.
Measured actions. Controlled tone. As if Rowan was nothing more than a task completed.
And yet… he feeds me.
The contradiction gnawed at him.
Was it mercy?
No… it didn't feel like that.
The master's gaze lingered on Rowan, quiet and measuring, as if weighing something unseen.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, thick but controlled, pressing against Rowan's thoughts.
Then, almost as an afterthought, the master said,
"Did you get the sigil?"
Rowan blinked.
The word meant nothing.
Sigil…?
His mind reached for it instinctively, searching through the empty spaces where memory should have been. Nothing came. No image. No meaning. Just a hollow absence that made his chest tighten.
His fingers curled slightly against the table.
Should I know that?
A flicker of unease passed through him. If this was something important, something expected, then not knowing could be dangerous.
Rowan opened his mouth, hesitating, caught between answering and revealing too much.
"I"
He stopped.
The master was already watching him.
Not expectant. Not impatient.
Knowing.
Something in Rowan's chest sank.
He's already figured it out.
The realization came quietly, but it hit harder than any accusation. Whatever answer Rowan could give… it didn't matter. The master had seen enough.
The faintest shift crossed the man's expression not disappointment, not surprise just acknowledgment.
"I see," he said simply.
No follow-up. No pressure.
Rowan's thoughts stumbled over themselves. What does that mean? What did he expect me to say? What is a sigil?
But the master had already turned away.
"We'll continue this later," he added, voice calm, final.
Without another word, he moved toward the door. His steps were quiet, controlled, as if nothing about this moment required urgency.
The door opened with a soft creak.
Then closed behind him.
Silence returned.
Rowan sat there, unmoving, the word still echoing in his mind.
Sigil…
It felt important.
Dangerously so.
But no matter how hard he reached for it… there was nothing.
Next Day
Light crept slowly into the room.
Rowan stirred.
His body felt… different.
Heavy, but not from weakness this time. Full.
The memory came back in fragments: the food. Plate after plate. The way he had eaten without thinking, driven by something deeper than hunger. He hadn't stopped, couldn't stop, until there was nothing left.
A dull ache lingered in his stomach now, the kind that came from excess, not deprivation.
Then.
A soft clink.
Rowan's eyes snapped open.
A figure stood near the table, quietly gathering the empty dishes.
For a moment, Rowan didn't move. His mind was slower now—not from confusion, but from the unfamiliar weight of rest and food settling into his body.
The man spoke without looking up.
"You're awake."
His tone was calm. Neutral.
Rowan pushed himself up slightly, wincing as his muscles protested.
"Yeah…" His voice was rough, unused.
The man continued stacking the plates with quiet efficiency.
Rowan watched him carefully. Another servant?
"You should clean yourself," the man said after a moment, as if stating something obvious. "There's a bath prepared down the hall. I'll show you."
Rowan blinked.
A bath.
The word felt strange, almost distant, like something from a life he couldn't fully reach.
"…Alright," he said slowly.
The man finally straightened, turning slightly toward the door.
"Matthew," he added, almost as an afterthought.
Rowan frowned faintly.
"What?"
"My name."
A pause.
Rowan gave a small nod.
"Rowan," he said instinctively, then hesitated. The name still didn't feel entirely his, even if he knew it was.
Matthew didn't react. He simply gestured toward the door.
"Come."
Rowan slid off the chair, his legs steadier than before, though still not entirely reliable. He followed, slower this time, more aware of his surroundings.
The corridor felt less suffocating now, but no less controlled.
They walked in silence.
After a few turns, Matthew stopped beside another door and pushed it open.
Warm air drifted out.
Inside, a simple bathing space had been prepared water already drawn, steam rising faintly into the air.
Rowan paused at the entrance.
Prepared… for him.
The thought unsettled him more than it should.
"You'll go to the barracks after," Matthew said, as if continuing a routine Rowan was already meant to understand.
Rowan's head turned slightly.
"Barracks?" The word felt out of place. Military. Structured. Not something he expected after… whatever this was.
Matthew didn't elaborate.
"When you're done."
That was it. No explanation. No context.
Rowan stood there for a moment longer. The word lingered in his mind.
Barracks…
Military. Training. Order.
None of it matched the dungeon. None of it matched the test.
So where did he fit in all this?
They reached a heavy door.
Matthew stopped and pushed it open.
Noise spilled in immediately sharp, alive, overwhelming.
Steel striking steel. Voices. Movement.
Knights.
The word settled into Rowan's mind with quiet certainty.
Men in armor moved with purpose, blades flashing as they sparred in pairs. Others trained alone, striking at wooden posts worn smooth from repeated blows. The air carried the scent of sweat, metal, and dust raw, alive, disciplined.
This wasn't a prison.
But it didn't feel like freedom either.
Rowan stepped forward cautiously, eyes scanning everything. Barracks… training… knights… The pieces tried to fit together, but his memory gave him nothing to anchor them.
A sharp laugh cut through the noise.
"Oi."
Rowan turned.
A man approached, his stride loose, almost careless, but there was something off about it. Too confident. Too unrestrained.
Red hair, wild and untamed, caught the light as he moved. His grin was sharp, almost feral, like he found something amusing no one else could see.
His eyes locked onto Rowan. And didn't let go.
"Well, well…" he said, voice laced with amusement. "So this is the one?"
Rowan didn't respond immediately. His body tensed instinctively, reading something dangerous in the man's presence.
The knight stopped a few paces away, tilting his head as if inspecting him.
"You look like you'd collapse if I breathed too hard," he added with a short laugh. "That's what passed the test?"
The words hit, but Rowan held his ground. Barely.
Test again…
"Say something," the man pressed, grin widening. "Or are you just going to stand there like a corpse?"
Rowan's jaw tightened. His mind raced not with anger, but calculation. Who is this guy? Another test? Or just… like this?
Before he could respond, another voice cut in.
"That's enough, Enzo."
The tone was calm, firm.
Rowan glanced past him.
Another knight stood a short distance away, posture straight, expression controlled. There was no chaos in him only discipline.
"Don't start something you don't need to," he continued, stepping closer.
Enzo clicked his tongue, clearly annoyed, but didn't look away from Rowan.
"Relax, Colin. I'm just having a look."
Colin's gaze shifted briefly to Rowan, assessing, but unlike Enzo, there was no mockery in it. Just quiet observation.
Rowan felt it immediately.
Two very different kinds of danger.
Behind them, other knights continued their training, though a few had started watching. Subtle glances. Pauses between strikes.
Rowan became aware of it all at once.
Eyes on him.
Judging. Measuring.
Why am I here…?
Enzo took a step closer, just enough to invade Rowan's space.
"You don't look like much," he said, voice lower now, almost disappointed. "Kinda ruins the mystery."
Rowan met his gaze this time. Not confidently, but not backing down either.
"I'm not here to impress you," he said quietly.
There was a pause.
Then Enzo smiled wider.
"Good," he said. "Because you won't."
A beat.
Then he turned away, like he'd already lost interest.
"Try not to die during training," he added over his shoulder.
Colin exhaled softly, watching him go before looking back at Rowan.
"You'll want to get used to him," he said. "He doesn't get better."
Rowan said nothing.
His eyes drifted across the barracks again the training, the knights, the structure of it all.
This wasn't random.
There was purpose here.
And somehow… he was part of it.
Training Begins
"Pick it up."
The voice was calm. Measured.
Rowan looked down at the wooden sword at his feet. He bent slowly, picking it up the weight unfamiliar in his hand.
"Grip it properly."
Rowan adjusted his hold, glancing briefly at the others for reference. It still felt wrong like his fingers didn't quite know where to settle.
"Like this."
Colin stepped forward, adjusting Rowan's grip with precise movements. Firm, but not harsh.
Rowan watched closely, trying to commit it to memory.
"Now," Colin said, stepping back. "Swing."
Rowan inhaled and brought the blade forward.
It was off immediately. Too slow. Too loose. No control behind it.
Colin's expression didn't change.
"Again."
Rowan reset. Swung.
Worse.
Again.
His foot slipped.
His breathing started to roughen not from exertion, but from repetition without progress.
Why can't I get this right?
Frustration crept in, quiet but sharp. His body wasn't responding the way it should. It wasn't just lack of skill it felt deeper than that.
Like something was missing.
"Enough."
Rowan stopped immediately, lowering the sword. His arms trembled slightly from the effort.
Colin stepped closer, studying him not critically, but thoughtfully.
"You've never trained before," he said. Not a question.
Rowan hesitated.
"…I don't know."
A brief pause.
Colin's gaze lingered for a second longer, then shifted away.
"Then you'll start from the beginning," he said simply. "Everything."
No judgment. No encouragement either. Just a statement.
"Put it down."
Rowan did.
And just like that, it was over.
"Training resumes tomorrow," Colin said, already turning away.
That was it.
No correction. No acknowledgment beyond necessity.
Rowan stood there for a moment longer
His arms still faintly trembling, his breathing uneven, Rowan watched as the training yard came back to life steel clashing, voices rising, movement resuming as if nothing had happened.
As if he hadn't just failed.
He stepped back slowly, giving space to the others. No one stopped him. A few cast brief, dismissive glances before returning to their own drills.
Rowan's gaze dropped slightly.
…How did I survive in that prison for so long?
The question pressed harder now. Nothing about him his body, his skill, his instincts matched the idea of someone who had survived anything worth calling a "test." Yet here he was. Alive.
His jaw tightened faintly as he turned away from the training ground, the noise fading slightly with distance. Behind him, the rhythm of practice continued. Uninterrupted.
A short distance away, near the edge of the yard just far enough to be out of the main flow, two figures remained still. Watching.
Enzo leaned against a wooden post, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Rowan's retreating figure. The usual amusement was still there, but thinner now. Sharper.
"…That's him?"
Colin stood beside him, posture straight, gaze steady. He didn't answer immediately.
Enzo let out a quiet scoff. "He can't even swing properly."
Rowan, now further away, slowed slightly, as if trying to steady himself unaware of the eyes still on him.
Colin's gaze followed him.
"He lacks foundation," he said.
"That's not what I'm talking about," Enzo muttered.
A pause. Then, quieter, more serious:
"…How did he survive?"
The question lingered. Colin didn't respond right away.
In the distance, Rowan disappeared past the edge of the training ground. The noise of clashing steel filled the silence between them.
"You've seen that place," Enzo continued quietly. "People don't just walk out of it."
Colin's expression didn't change.
"He passed," he said.
Enzo exhaled slowly, pushing himself off the post. His eyes narrowed slightly, still fixed on where Rowan had been.
"…And that's what came out of it?"
No answer came. That, more than anything, unsettled him.
Enzo let out a faint, humorless chuckle.
"Yeah…" he muttered, his gaze sharpening.
"Something's off."
Colin finally looked away.
"Yes," he said quietly.
"It is."
Colin didn't mutter another word, just calmly watched Rowan, who was heading to the baths.
The water was warm more warmth than he had felt in days. Steam curled around the small bathing area, carrying away the scent of sweat and dust from the barracks. Rowan let the water run over his arms, over his shoulders, letting his muscles relax against the simple stone basin.
For a moment, he let himself think about the day the swing he couldn't manage, the way his body had refused him, the way every instinct had felt wrong.
How did I survive that test? The thought hovered, unanswerable.
A knock echoed softly on the wooden door. Rowan froze, fingers gripping the edge of the basin.
"Rowan," Matthew's calm voice called from the other side. "The master requests your presence."
Rowan's chest tightened. The warmth of the bath didn't reach his bones now; it was replaced by that familiar, nagging unease the same one that had shadowed him since the dungeon.
He swallowed and pushed himself upright, water dripping down his arms. Of course. He wants me again.
Rowan moved to the door, pausing for a brief second to steady his thoughts. Step by step, he followed Matthew, leaving the bath and the brief, fleeting comfort it had brought behind him.
What does he want from me this time…?