The dusky veil hung heavily upon the battlefield, heavy with the acrid scent of smoke and remnants of anguish. It still seemed as if the clash of steel rang, a haunting reminder of what once was unleashed. Amongst the carnage, one flower stood-white and delicate against the backdrop of death, untouched by the horrors surrounding it. It was then that one golden tear fell—a tear from the heavens, bright as a sunbeam, now and then glancing through the murk that enveloped the whole.
And as the tear finally fell delicately onto the fragile petals, it slid down, its golden colour shimmering in the dying light. It fell from the flower, caressing the earth before being absorbed by the soil. Then, all of a sudden, it was still. The world was still, so blissfully unaware that the real change had only just begun.
Days melted into the horizon, and the flower stood still, almost untouched by the miracle that had just unravelled. Time stretched endlessly, with every second a gentle reminder of the desolation that surrounded it. Yet deep within the roots of the flower, a gentle transformation started to stir.
The roots, firmly fastened in the soil, stirred with their revitalized energy as they gradually furled in response to the essence of the golden tear coursing through the earth.
Beneath the surface, an inaudible symphony was calling them to the lifeless body of a boy, upon whom still the weak resonance of life trembled. The moon sank low, casting cold silvery light on the scene-incongruous with life, as some pale flower set against the bonds of utter desolation.
As the roots brushed against his cold skin, their contact told of the beginning of a very strange transformation-one that brought to question the entire principle of life and death. In that brief instant, the spirit of the flower instinctively wrapped itself into the boy, feeling the residual bits of heat left in him.
The roots began their insidious permeation into his body, merging its vitality with the remnants of his in a silent exchange, igniting a profound process that would alter both their fates.
The roots burrowing deeper by the second wrapped around his heart and stirred an electric force humming in the silence. It pulsed within him—a heartbeat that grew with each held breath. The world seemed to shift. Time was standing still, almost as if to watch in awe this amazing stunt to take back what had never been truly its own.
On this quiet battlefield of bodies claimed by death, the flower's struggle lit a spark of hope-a gentle rebirth in defiance of life's cruellest blow. The roots continued with their purpose, their lives dancing in an eternal waltz as old as life itself. A bond born not out of choice but out of instinct, which allows testing of the very limits between life and death.
In that sanctified moment of death and rebirth, the field of war changed. The choking atmosphere lifted, and in the thick darkness, a spark shone.
When morning finally began to break on the horizon, the dead body of the boy stirred; he sat up, holding the head of his brother in his arms, his eyes closed as if within some sort of fragile balance between life and death. The sun's early rays fell across the landscape, showing the aftermath of the battlefield, casting a gentle warmth over him.
The focus returned to the face of the boy, shrouded in soft, warm dawn light. His eyes, previously clouded with lifelessness, began to spark with scraps of consciousness. The golden tear that had melded with him vibrated inside him; with each heartbeat, a surge of clarity flowed through his body and dissipated the heavy fog of death. The sun rose and painted the sky with bright orange and gold hues, stirring a new life-one that had hitherto been burdened by a sad, grey past but now was dimly lit with the promise of a better future.
The battlefield had fallen into an unholy silence. At first light, the boy awakened with limbs that stirred uncertainly, as if he were waking into an unfamiliar body.
His eyes were no longer clouded now, but bright with life, as if spilling over with all the life that was anew coursing in him. He cradled his brother's head in his arms-skewed, decapitated, and mangled-and looked down at him, his face incomprehensible. No flicker of recognition, no murmur of grief, nothing but that same heavy feeling of pieces from another person's memory.
There were moments from another life that danced within his memory-ethereal and far away: a burst of laughter, the comforting warmth of tears, the hard clench of anger. They slipped by like ghosts, and though they filled the empty space in him, they were disassociated somehow, like dreams that fade upon waking. The flower inside him, new-awakened and new-knowing, struggled with these foreign emotions-struggling to control them, yet failing to understand their root. Emotions and sensations, the detritus of life lived, churned about him, but none broke surface to expression. He was neither elevated nor depressed. He simply existed-in a state above life, and under life.
The quiet, faraway shuffling sound of feet then pierced the stillness and took her into its notice.
From the shadows of the battlefield emerged a band of men-scavengers, furtively making their way through the carnage with eyes aglow with greed as they sifted through the remnants left behind by the fallen. In front came one man, Kael; his features were rugged, marred by a cruel smile. His eyes settled upon a boy who sat silently amidst devastation, cradling a head in his hands.
"Well, well, well. What do we got here?" Kael's voice cut through the air, laced with mockery. "A survivor, eh? Just sitting around so calmly as if he had nowhere else to be."
The boy didn't move or respond. His bright, clear eyes were on Kael, but they seemed to look right through him, as though he was totally unconscious of the man's presence. The flower that was inside him, not having fully grown, held no sense of danger or conflict. It simply witnessed, silently taking in this new phenomenon.
He leaned forward, going into a crouch before the boy. He waved his hand before the child's face, a sneer spreading across his features. "Hey! You there, kid? Or has the shock rendered you speechless?"
The boy said nothing. He was absolutely still. He felt the nearness of the man's hand and the shadow that its palm cast across his face, but without the slightest instinct to speak or any urge to respond. In him, the flower felt this, too-the proximity, the soft murmur of a voice-but knowing nothing about what to do.
"Kael, somethin's amiss," one of the brigands whispered, pressing forward. His gaze was cautious as he looked upon the boy with his blank expression. "Just look at him—he's not even squirming. It's as if he's. broken."
Kael's eyes narrowed, and the grin fell from his face, to be replaced by a flicker of frustration. "Broken or not, he's still worth something. Slavers in Azeroth will pay good coin for a healthy child. Whether mute or not, they don't care."
Kael reached out, catching the boy's chin in his rough palm and forcing the younger to meet his eyes. Wide, they set on his without one blink, revealing not a whit of fear or defiance. It seemed to him that nothing lay behind the eyes, just that bright false clarity with no whisper of human soul.
"See? Not a single twitch," Kael spat, his tone bitter with annoyance. "Are you deaf boy? Mute?" The boy said nothing. His eyes were fixed unblinking. Kael's fingers tightened, and he rocked the boy's chin back and forth, but the flower would not budge. It acknowledged weight - felt rough grip-yet resisted without cause. No words formed in his mind.
One of the bandits stirred uncomfortably. "Kael, maybe we should just leave him alone. He's strange. What if he's diseased? Certainly we don't need such trouble.
Kael shot him another fierce glance. "Sick or not, he has worth. A brat this fit can go for a price, and you lot are too scared of a silent brat?" With that, he hoisted the boy to his feet, his grip unyielding. The boy stumbled but made no resistance; his limbs were like puppets under instinctive control of Kael. "He is mute. Nothing else. Now, gag him."
Kael thrust him forward, and the robbers closed in, binding his hands in a grip as hard as stone. The tethers dug into his wrists, and at that, he did nothing: no wince or struggle of any kind. His face was as detached as a cloudy sky, staring with eyes open wide, as if nothing on this earth could ever pierce the thick, grey fog that enfolded him.
The rest of the thieves exchanged nervous looks, unnerved by the boy's standoffishness, but none dared to question Kael once more.
They further encouraged him, guiding him to walk with them as they continued their foraging. His body moved instinctively, yet deep inside, the flower watched and waited. The world was full of sensations-voices, rustling feet, and the cold kiss of air on skin-but none of these had yet disclosed its meaning. There was only the learning.
And in its belly, a nebulous awareness flowered that indeed it was now alive, inside this body, and what was happening next was merely a continuation of its ongoing life.
Because he was dragged through the battlefield at Rivermarch, thick with the noxious scent of blood and rotting matter, the bandits continued with their relentless scavenging.
The clang of metal, the muffled cursing, and far-off shouts intertwined with the general aura of evil that befogged them. Each time the boy's shining eyes caught fire in their direction, a cold shiver ran down their backs. He didn't say a word. Expression closed. Yet, in his arms lay the head of his beheaded brother-one stark contrast to the life coursing through him.
At the head of the group, Kael tried to dispel the oppressive atmosphere that had fallen over them all. "You guys hear what is going on in Rivermarch?" he asked, trying to break the heavy silence. "Since their father fell sick, the first and second princes are at each other's throats. It is chaos here!
Thug 1, the muscular one in the bunch, his face coarse and rough from a life of hardship, interrupted, "Exactly! I've heard that Aldric is mustering the Magic Knights, while Valen summons the court mages. They're tearing apart the kingdom!"
The leaner, more scarred Thug 2 hunched in closer. "Do you really believe those fake magical knights will stand a chance against the mages? I have it from a source that the wizards serving under Valen can summon storms and conjure fire walls. Aldric may have strength, but they are hardly a match for genuine magic."
Kael snorted, a derisive sound, but his expression turned serious as he added, "Mages are not invincible, you know that. We have seen them fall in battle. Aldric's troops have trained hard, and his magic knights are among the best you will ever face. They have held the line, for the most part, better than anyone could have hoped.
Better than anyone expected?" Thug 1 replied, scratching his head thoughtfully. "Valen may lack strength in battle, yet he possesses the cunning for it. Aldric, on the other hand, is merely a brute, and it would seem he boasts more pride than intelligence. What good are muscles and swords if he cannot outwit his opponent?
Kael nodded, turning back to face the boy. "Indeed, but the war supersedes the bounds of magic and strength. Aldric holds the favour of the common folk. They will rally around one who can protect them, especially now that Aedan has gone missing."
"Aedan, the youngest prince?" Thug 2 asked, one eyebrow cocked. "I heard he was trying to teach himself some magic, but apparently, he doesn't have any talent. He can't even light a candle! What kind of mage is that supposed to lead anyone?"
Kael shut his eyes and a shadow danced upon his face. "That is the problem. Without him, there's no one left over to speak for the people. Aldric will do what he can but he lacks the skills of a mage. The nobles are getting restless and they're looking for someone with true power to back them.
The boy remained still, his ears absorbing the conversations that swirled with the dust stirred by their feet. He felt in his bones the weight of their words-fears, ambitions, desperation-but meanings wove through the air, still cloaked in residual haze, strange memories tagging at his consciousness. A flicker of a family filled with laughter and warmth, flashed across his mind in jarring juxtaposition to grim reality around him.
"Look at him," Thug 1 said, turning to steal another glance at the boy. "Not so much as a flinch. Got a screw loose or something? How's a kid make it this far without screaming?" His voice shook slightly, leading to a bubbling unease that swept through the group.
Kael shrugged, though a hint of uncertainty crept into his tone. "Perhaps he's just in shock. Or maybe he's hiding something." Whatever it is, he's our ticket to a little money. We should get going before other scavengers spot us."
As they walked, a storm of emotion overcame the boy: pain throbbing in great swells, the caustic burn of ash coating his tongue, a chilling terror that gripped him-and yet he said nothing. Inside, the flower struggled to comprehend these strange emotions, sifting through the mess for some semblance of identity.
"You hear the stories? Thug 2 spoke, trying to lighten the mood. "They say mages can control the elements: air, earth, water. Some even whisper about mind readers." He sounded bemused, a tinge of doubt in his tone.
"Mind readers? Ha! Those are just stories meant to keep children up all night," Thug 1 guffawed, though a shadow of doubt seemed to pass behind his words. "What good does a bunch of mind games do against steel?
"Maybe," Kael said, staring into the horizon, "but let us not belittle the power of a well-placed spell. We must be cautious. This battlefield is rife with survivors and vengeful spirits." He looked back at the boy, the brightness in his eyes unnerving in the faint light. "If he has any tricks hidden away, we may be in for a world of trouble."
They bound the boys hands, the rope eating painfully into his skin. He said nothing, his body going limp in their grasp. Yet the gleam in his eyes was undaunted, almost unnerving. The bandits shifted uneasily, their laughter sounding too loud, as the boy continued his silent watch of the world, observing with a depth that seemed to reflect a profound, unspent wisdom.
in the midst of their banter, the boy's eyes seemed to hold a flicker of awareness to a world once familiar. Every word spoken by the bandits echoed deep in his core, the fragments of memories-maybe long forgotten-braiding together in the tapestry of recollection. He was but a shell, slowly coming to understand the chaos, pain, and tenuous hope behind Rivermarch's faceless shroud.