They called him the God of War—not because of the name he bore, but because of the face no one had ever seen, and the victories he never claimed.
The sky was torn apart by steel and fire. Dusk burned in the shadow of arrows tipped with magic, while wings of darkness sliced through the air above. Dust and blood thickened into a crimson mist, cloaking the battlefield like the curtain of death.
And in the midst of it all—on land that had long forgotten silence—he stood.
Upright. Untouched. As though untouched by the world's ruin.
Alaric Sylvaran.
A name etched into every song of triumph, yet his face… never among them.
A silver mask covered his features, gleaming under firelight and lightning. No eyes could be seen. No rage. No sorrow.
Only cold stillness.
And the long sword he wielded like an extension of his own soul.
His black cloak whipped violently in the storm of hooves and screams.
But each motion held a strange grace—unfitting for a battlefield.
He was like a shadow of night moving beneath the day, never meant to exist, yet impossible to ignore.
He gave no commands.
He sought no glory.
He simply moved—like a curse fallen from the midnight sky.
One slash. One fall.
No blood clung to his blade.
No cries followed him.
Even his comrades kept their distance, never daring to stand beside him.
They called him the God of War.
But he was just a man, lost in memories, searching for something long forgotten.
Then—as the world dimmed, as the heavens wept with blood, as the earth groaned like a dying beast—he saw light.
Someone stood across the burning land.
Unaffected by flames.
Untouched by death.
Their robes flowed like mist, and their eyes...
those eyes—eyes he shouldn't have remembered, yet could never forget.
Their gaze met.
Only a breath of time. But enough.
Enough to stop the storm.
Enough to unravel him completely.
And as he took a step forward—
the world collapsed again.
The sky screamed.
Blue fire rained from heights no mortal could reach.
Ancient magic shattered the air.
The earth split.
Armies vanished before they could scream.
And that luminous figure—disappeared, as though never there at all.
Alaric tried to follow.
He ran through the storm.
He shouted into silence.
But the world had already severed the path.
Then everything turned black.
---
When he opened his eyes, the world had changed.
There was no roar.
No steel.
No death clinging to the air like breath.
Only forest.
Deep. Silent. Untouched by time.
And he… was lying beneath a tree.
A massive tree.
Its roots wrapped around the earth like the fingers of a sleeping god.
Its branches reached high enough to hide the sky.
Its leaves rustled softly, like a woman's voice whispering words he couldn't understand, yet somehow calmed him.
The air was damp.
Mist clung to his skin.
And the morning light… was strange.
Alaric rose slowly.
His joints trembled—not from pain.
But from emptiness.
"Where… am I?"
"Who… am I, truly?"
Only the wind replied.
And behind its breath, the forest seemed to speak in silence.
He touched his chest. His heart still beat.
But something inside him was missing.
Something vital.
He tried to remember.
Smoke. Fire. War. Those eyes.
But when he tried to form them into a story…
they fell apart.
His memory was fog.
A painting blurred by rain.
A name washed from a gravestone.
He stood. One step. Then another.
The ground beneath him was soft with moss, wet with dew.
But unfamiliar.
And yet…
he was not afraid.
Not lost. Not broken.
For his heart whispered—
this place knew him.
This forest… was calling him home.
And deep inside, he knew:
He was not finished.
There was still something—someone—he had to find.
A name.
A vow.
And the light that once stood in the heart of darkness.
So he walked—uncertain yet unwavering—leaving behind the shadow of war, and stepping into the shadow of trees.
Toward the one thing he could not name, but would never forget.
His steps were slow, but resolute. Each footfall stirred the scent of damp earth and aging leaves. Birds did not sing, but the rustling of branches and the breath of wind wove a quiet song—foreign, yet strangely familiar.
Through the low-hanging mist, sunlight slipped between the leaves of towering trees, casting ribbons of gold that danced across the mossy forest floor. The trees rose like ancient pillars, their trunks wide and wrapped in vines, bark damp with the memory of rain.
Alaric paused.
His hand reached up, instinctively touching where his helm had once been. The metal mask—gone. Vanished, though he couldn't remember when. For the first time in years, his face was bare to the world.
He touched his cheek. Cold with morning dew. Then, his eyes—sharp, silver—met a faint reflection of himself in a puddle nestled between roots.
His long, silver-white hair flowed loosely behind him, caught in the breeze like silk threads woven by a forgotten god. Once hidden beneath layers of armor and shadow, now it shimmered under the filtered light.
His broad shoulders carried the poise of a warrior born not only from discipline but from countless battles. Not merely strong—he was balanced, composed. Muscles honed by purpose, carved like marble, yet living, breathing. His every movement bore rhythm, the silent cadence of a blade trained to waltz through war.
"This is my body... yet it feels like it belongs to someone else."
He looked down at his hand. A palm that once held nothing but steel... now trembling, faintly—startled by its own heartbeat.
"I was supposed to die… wasn't I?"
Then, like a memory whispering from the edge of sleep, he saw them again—those eyes. Luminous. Calling, yet unreachable. That light amidst the fire.
"Who are you…?" he asked in silence. "Why does it feel like everything began with your gaze?"
A deer passed far ahead between the trees. Alaric watched it disappear into the mist, then knelt, touching the earth. He saw his own footprints. Heavy. Deep.
"Am I truly alive, or is this only the next verse of that same curse?"
The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers growing beneath the roots.
He walked on. One step. Then another.
Until in the distance, a small hill emerged, crowned by young trees and dense shrubs. And atop that hill stood a single tree—tall, still, ancient. Like an old sentinel who had long ceased waiting.
"Maybe…" he thought, "there, I will find the trail I've lost."
And so, he made his way toward the hill, his silver gaze unwavering. He still did not know who he truly was… but something within him stirred.
A name, like an unfinished spell, pulsed inside him. A name he would recognize—when the time was right.
And before the sky could fully close the day, Alaric stood beneath that ancient tree, and the world seemed to hold its breath once more.
The sky had quieted. But it was no longer the sky he knew.
Alaric looked up.
Above him, vast golden-green leaves layered over each other, forming a canopy so dense it seemed the heavens had been replaced by forest. Sunlight filtered through the gaps like threads of light, suspended in midair with no beginning and no end.
The wind swirled gently, carrying an unfamiliar scent—moist earth, wildflowers, and something else. Something unnamable, like unshaped magic.
"What kind of world is this…?"
He moved slowly, pushing past the low shrubs. The tip of his boot met a still pool of crystal-clear water—so clear it mirrored the leaves above. His steps made no sound, as if the ground itself was cradling him, unwilling to let the silence break.
In the distance, a chime rang—faint, barely real.
He stopped.
"A bell…? But there's no village nearby… is there?"
Then his thoughts caught up with him. He didn't even know where "here" was. Every branch, every stone, every breeze felt... unreal. Too vivid for a dream, too foreign for memory.
He reached out and touched a nearby tree—and his body shuddered.
The bark was warm, almost like skin. Alaric pulled his hand back quickly, staring at his palm. Not burned. Not wounded. But something deep within him trembled.
"This place… is alive."
His steps led him to a great hollow between roots, where sunlight pooled like molten gold. He stepped into it, and the world fell silent.
No wind. No birds. Only the sound of his own heartbeat.
"Why was I brought here?"
"Who pulled me from the battlefield?"
"Or… who did I unknowingly pull with me?"
He clenched the edge of his cloak. It was still intact, but felt weightless—like layers of his old world had peeled away one by one.
And then he heard a voice. Gentle. Faint. Like the rustle of leaves.
"Find me…"
Alaric turned sharply. No one. Just himself and the ancient trees staring silently.
But that voice… it wasn't an echo. It knew him.
He closed his eyes.
"You…"
"...the one I saw in the firestorm..."
His teeth pressed against his lip, trying to tame the rising feeling with no name.
"I'll find you. Even if this world tries to swallow me whole—I'll find you."
He opened his eyes again. His gaze, sharper now, searched the woods—not for direction, but for a thread to follow.
It didn't matter where it led. He had already begun walking.
The world had changed. And his heart, frozen for so long, had started to thaw.
The forest grew thicker.
Branches arched overhead like the ribs of some ancient beast, and the ground sloped downward into a hollow where light barely touched. The silence there was heavier, as if even time held its breath.
That was when he felt it.
Not a presence, but... a pull.
Alaric stopped mid-step. The air trembled around him—not with sound, but with something deeper. A vibration in his bones, like a voice beyond hearing.
And then it came.
"You are not meant to walk alone."
His heart froze.
"Who's there?" he whispered aloud, though his lips barely moved.
No reply.
Only the trees. Only the shadows between them. But they were moving—subtly, like breath.
And then, in the corner of his eye, something flickered.
A shape.
Small. Swift. Pale as smoke.
He turned sharply—but it vanished behind the bark of a twisted tree.
"You've forgotten me," the voice said again, now clearer, closer.
"But I remember."
"Am I dreaming?"
His mind rebelled, but his instincts whispered another answer.
"No," came the reply.
"You're remembering."
Alaric took a cautious step forward. At the base of a nearby tree, he found it—an old sigil carved into the bark. Not recent. Not human.
A spiral surrounded by feather-like strokes, glowing faintly with blue light.
When he reached out to touch it, warmth bloomed beneath his fingers—and then—
A flash.
An eye. Bright gold. Staring back from the void.
A presence rushed into him—not violent, not cruel, but vast. Familiar.
Then the world steadied.
He staggered back. Breath ragged.
"What are you…?" he muttered.
"A ghost? A guardian? A curse?"
Silence.
Then soft laughter, echoing only in his head.
"I've been many things. To you—I'll be a companion. For now."
"Why me?"
"Because you heard me."
Alaric stared into the forest. Something had changed. The trees no longer seemed like strangers. The path ahead didn't look random.
"Fine," he said under his breath.
"Then speak. Walk with me."
And as he took his next step, the presence followed—like a shadow not cast by light, but by memory.
Far behind him, the sigil still glowed faintly, then faded into bark once more.
Alaric's steps led him to a narrow crevice between the ancient tree roots jutting from the earth. A thin mist crept slowly, covering the ground like the breath of a sleeping creature.
The air warmed. The wind stilled.
And suddenly—he saw it.
Something stood there. Just beneath the arching roots that towered like a natural stone gate.
The creature... was neither human nor beast. Its body was small, no taller than Alaric's knee. It shimmered faintly, as if made from morning dew and moonlight. A pair of curved horns swept back, slender and sparkling like crystal. Thin wings, looking like wisps of mist, quivered softly on its back.
But the most striking were its eyes.
Glowing golden—without pupils—staring straight into him.
They gazed at each other in silence.
"Are you the one who called me?" Alaric's voice was barely a whisper.
The creature didn't answer with its mouth. Yet its voice echoed clearly... inside his mind.
"I have waited long. Though you no longer remember me."
It stepped forward. Its feet left no footprints, but the ground beneath seemed to hum softly, as if it recognized the touch.
"My name has vanished from the world. But once, before the war shattered sky and sea..."
"...you gave me a name."
"I...?"
Alaric pressed his hand to his forehead. A sharp pain pierced behind his thoughts. Faint images flickered—an outstretched hand, a child's laughter, a winged shadow flying through a blue sky...
But all sank away again.
"It's alright," the creature said. "Time will bring it back."
It fluttered its wings gently, like the whisper of autumn leaves.
"For now, call me whatever you wish. I will follow you."
"Why me?" Alaric narrowed his eyes. "Are you a forest spirit? An ancient soul? Or just a shadow of my own mind?"
The creature smiled, though its mouth barely formed.
"I am what was lost. And so are you. Therefore, we walk together—until both are found again."
The sounds of the forest returned—the distant chirps of birds in the canopy, the rustle of grass stirred by the breeze. But Alaric knew the world had just changed.
He was no longer alone.
And even though he did not yet know where his steps would lead, the path ahead felt clearer than before.
So he walked. Together with the nameless creature. Toward forgotten memories. And a future waiting to be known.