The sun slowly rose over the quiet village of Rivenwood, its golden light spilling over cobblestone streets and ivy-covered cottages. Birds sang their morning songs, and the gentle murmur of the river added a soothing backdrop. For the villagers, it was the start of another peaceful day. For Elias, it was the start of another nightmare.

He awoke with a sharp gasp, his chest heaving like he'd been running for miles. His body was drenched in sweat, the cool autumn air doing little to ease the heat burning inside him. He clutched at his chest, feeling the familiar jagged scar that split the skin there. It wasn't just a dream. It never was.

The battlefield came back to him in flashes—bloodied skies, the deafening clash of steel, and the suffocating stench of death. And then, the shadowed figure loomed above him, the cold steel of a blade piercing his heart.

Yet here he was. Alive. Again.

Elias sat up, rubbing his temples as the pounding in his head intensified. He glanced around the small, shabby room. A wooden bed with creaky joints, a splintered table, and a cracked mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. The reflection in the mirror showed a man who looked like a ghost—pale skin, unkempt black hair, and eyes shadowed by centuries of exhaustion.

"Not again," he muttered under his breath.

The scar. It was always there. No matter what life he woke up in, no matter what body he was forced to inhabit, the scar followed. It was the mark of his curse, a cruel reminder that death was not his escape.

---

The village of Rivenwood was already bustling by the time Elias stepped outside. Merchants called out to passing villagers, advertising their goods as the smell of fresh bread and roasted meat filled the air. Children weaved through the crowds, their laughter carrying over the clatter of wooden carts. To anyone else, this was a picturesque morning in a sleepy little town. To Elias, it was just another temporary refuge.

"Morning, Elias!" a cheerful voice called out.

He looked up to see Clara, the baker's daughter, waving at him from her family's stall. Flour clung to her apron, as usual, and her round face glowed with kindness.

"Morning," he replied, forcing a polite smile.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Clara said with a teasing grin. "Bad dreams?"

"Something like that," Elias muttered, keeping his tone light. He'd learned the hard way to avoid revealing too much.

"You should try my mother's chamomile tea," Clara offered. "It works wonders. Puts me right to sleep."

"I'll keep that in mind," Elias said quickly, already taking a step back. Clara was too kind for her own good. Kindness invited curiosity, and curiosity was dangerous.

As he moved away, he caught the edge of her frown. He hated being cold to people like her—people who meant no harm—but he didn't have a choice. The less they knew about him, the better.

---

He made his way through the town square, keeping his head down. Rivenwood was small enough that strangers like him stood out, but Elias hoped his claim of being a wandering traveler would be enough to keep questions at bay. He'd only been here for two weeks, but he could feel the weight of eyes on him whenever he walked through the village.

That feeling of being watched grew stronger as he passed the central fountain.

He stopped, his instincts screaming at him. Slowly, he turned his head—and saw the figure.

A cloaked figure stood near the fountain, its black hood hiding its face. But Elias didn't need to see its eyes to feel its cold, piercing gaze.

His breath hitched. No. Not here. Not now.

The figure tilted its head, as if studying him. The shadows beneath the hood seemed alive, writhing and shifting.

Elias took a step back, his heart racing. He knew this presence all too well. These figures always appeared when the cycle began anew, and their arrival never meant anything good.

He blinked—and the figure was gone.

---

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, but the unease lingered like a shadow over Elias's thoughts. Even as the sun set and the streets emptied, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

He sat in his room that evening, staring into the cracked mirror. His own reflection looked foreign, like a stranger wearing a mask of his face. Slowly, his fingers traced the scar on his chest, the jagged line burning like a brand.

Why now? Why this life?

The curse had followed him for as long as he could remember. Life after life, death after death. Every time he was reborn, he carried fragments of his past lives—memories that felt like jagged shards cutting into his soul. He had tried everything to break free. Rituals. Bargains. Even death itself. But no matter how far he ran or how many times he tried to end it, the cycle always began again.

A whisper broke the silence.

"Do you remember?"

Elias froze. His head snapped toward the window, but the room was empty. The whisper lingered, soft and chilling, as if the air itself had spoken.

"Who's there?" he demanded, his voice sharp. He reached for the dagger he kept under his pillow, his fingers tightening around the hilt.

No answer.

The room seemed darker now, the shadows stretching and shifting. Elias stayed awake for hours, his grip on the dagger never loosening. But nothing came. Eventually, exhaustion won, and he fell into a restless sleep.

---

The next morning, a knock at the door woke him. He stumbled to open it, still groggy and on edge.

Clara stood there, holding a basket of freshly baked bread. "Thought you could use some breakfast," she said with her usual warm smile.

Elias hesitated. "Thanks," he said, taking the basket.

"You sure you're okay?" Clara asked, her smile faltering. "You look like you haven't slept at all."

"Bad dreams," Elias lied, forcing a weak smile. "I'm fine."

"If you ever want to talk…" She trailed off, her concern evident.

Elias nodded and closed the door. He set the basket on the table and stared at it for a long time. Clara didn't deserve to be dragged into this. No one in Rivenwood did.

---

By mid-morning, Elias had made his decision. He couldn't stay here.

The figures, the whispers—they were just the beginning. Whatever came next would be worse. He'd seen it before. Villages burned. Innocent people died. And it was always because of him.

Packing what little he had—a change of clothes, a few coins, and his dagger—Elias prepared to leave. As he stepped outside, the crisp morning air filled his lungs. The village was still quiet, just beginning to stir.

He glanced back at Rivenwood one last time, his heart heavy with guilt.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Then, without looking back, he turned toward the forest. The trees swallowed him whole, their shadows closing in around him as he disappeared into the unknown.