The alley was narrow. The wind was spreading like an infection, slow and creeping. It sounded like a quiet whistle.
Eryn remembered the knit scarf given to him. The warmth during lonely nights. It was the mother of Alyssa who had gone day and night to make it. Each winter a new shirt. Blood came from those knitting-needles, those shirts dried with drops.
"This isn't my blood," Eryn whispered. His voice was soft, almost like a breath
.
Then he heard it—the sound of metal. Clink, clink. It got louder and louder. Eryn turned his head. He saw people wearing shiny metal armor. They walked toward him.
"He'll do," the approaching voice echoed.
"If he don't make a mess like the others," another responded. It was gruff, emotionless.
"That would be a nice surprise, wouldn't it?"
"I'd pay good coin to make it easy for once."
They laughed together, dry. One of them kicked Eryn's side with his boot, rolling him to the side. The boot slammed into his ribs. He winced in pain, no sounds, no energy to respond. He blinked at the armored figures, their faces covered by shadow and the dull shine of metal.
"He's alive," the first voice said.
"What do we do if he dies on the way?" the other voice asked.
"Pick him up. Let's go."
They grabbed Eryn. Their hands were rough. Eryn groaned. It hurt to move.
"Wait," Eryn said. His voice was weak, little more than a whisper.
One of the people looked down at him. "What is it now?"
Eryn opened his mouth. Nothing came. His head slumped forward, and the words slipped away. They started walking, dragging him along. The city blurred around him, a haze of shadows and shapes. People on the streets glanced at him, then looked away.
He closed his eyes and let darkness take him.
The cold mechanical voice returned: Goal complete.
"Initializing reward..."
"Skill: Sound Mimicry: You can mimic the sounds of life and the non-living."
"Congratulations on surviving."
The voice came back to Eryn as he slept in the arms of the stranger. The shoulders were cold and tough like the jagged rocks of Veldria. Eryn's shirt dried, the wind biting his health every second.
"Health Critical. Seek immediate attention."
The voice echoed in the last fading spark of Eryn's consciousness, swallowed by the cold wind.
"Where did the frost get you?" A voice echoed, it was distant, like a memory. "Get inside, the fire is well and the soup is hot."
The words pulled at him, but Eryn couldn't tell if they were real or a fragment of something gone. His body heavy, aching with each shallow breath. He floated in darkness, tethered by faint memories.
There had been a fire one. He remembered the frost and the flame after. Not the cruel, biting cold that gnawed his bones. A real fire. Warm and alive, like the heart of a home. Alyssa's mother had built it each morning, bringing it life with patience.
Eryn could see her now, her hands rough from knitting, but stead stacking wood. She would blow the flames till they danced.
"Don't stand there, boy," her voice sharp but not unkind. "Bring in the kindling."
He listened, but stumbled over the snow. His arms would be full of twigs and branches, his cheeks red and stinging from the Veldria cold. Alyssa would laugh by the fire, her needle flashing as she picked up where her mother left off. Together they made everything Eryn wore.
"Its another scarf,' She said, holding the fresh knit yarn still on the needles. "Don't lose it Eryn."
The memory of those days blurred. The darkness faded for a moment. It wasn't the hard cobblestone of the alley he felt. It was soft, warm. He didn't have a clue. The feeling was faint.
Then came the voice, "he's breathing. We need to work fast."
It wasn't Alyssa's voice, nor her mother's. It was unfamiliar, harsh and steady.
Eryn tried to open his eyes, but they kept close. His body felt far, as though it belonged to someone else.
He sank back into his memories. The fire crackled, and the room smelled of soup. Alyssa's father sat in the corner, whittling a piece of wood into something.
"Eat," Alyssa's mother had said, setting a bowl of soup in front of Eryn. Her apron stained, hair coming loose from its braid. "You'll need your strength to help on the roof tomorrow."
The soup was hot and savory, pushing the chill that had settled in his bones. He could still taste it now, or thought he could. It was a memory so vivid it felt real, more real than the faint glow that flickered at the edges of his awareness.
The glow grew stronger. There was warmth now, not the memory of it, but something real. A fire? He wasn't sure. His body in something coarse but comforting. A blanket. The straw beneath him scratched at his skin, but it was a welcome irritation, proof that he was still alive.
Voices murmured around him. He couldn't make out the words, but there was an urgency to them. Hands touched him, turning him, lifting him. The pain flared, sharp and bright, dragging him closer to the surface of consciousness.
"He's waking," one of the voices said. It was a woman, but not Alyssa. Not her mother. The thought brought a pang of sadness, sharper than the pain in his ribs.
Eryn tried to hold onto the memory. He could see Alyssa's face, her smile, the way she teased him but always with kindness beneath it. She had been strong in a quiet, steady way, like the trees that bent under the weight of the snow but never broke.
She had been alive.
Now she wasn't. He didn't know how he knew, but he did. The fire, the soup, the warmth—they were all gone, buried beneath the cold and snow.
"Eryn." Her voice came to him, soft and clear, as though she were standing right beside him. "You're stronger than you think."
The fire roared. Eryn forced his eyes to a sliver, enough to see the outline of a woman and a shadow of her face. She wasn't the women in his dreams. Her hair dark, she was sharp. But there was something in the gleam of her eyes.
"Drink this," she said, holding a cup to his lips. The liquid hot, wrestling down his throat. He coughed, the pain in his chest flared.
"You're lucky we found you," the woman said. Her voice stead and certain. "You'd be a sidewalk trash any later."
Eryn pried his mouth to speak, "Where...?"
"Safe," the woman said. "For now."
Her words certain and harsh. Safe was never long-lasting. Eryn knew this.
His memories remained, fragile, but alive. A piece of something good, worth holding onto.
The woman by the fire watched him, "rest," she said. "You'll need your strength."
Eryn closed his eyes. The fire crackled, the warmth seeped in his bones, and the memories carried him away.
Time passed, days became moments that ran like words in a sentence, becoming clear at the end.
Eryn woke to the sound of footsteps. They were soft, deliberate, moving across the wooden floor. The fire had burned low, leaving faint embers glowing in the hearth. Shadows stretched and flickered on the walls. He tried to lift his head but groaned as pain shot through his side.
"You're awake," the woman said. She was sitting by the fire, sharpening a blade. The scrape of metal on stone filled the room.
Eryn blinked at her, trying to focus. Her face was sharp and angular, her dark eyes fixed on the blade in her hands. She didn't look up as she spoke.
Eryn leaned back against the rough wall, his body still heavy with exhaustion. The memories of the alley, the cold, and the armored figures came rushing back.
"Who were they?" he asked.
The woman shrugged. "Collectors. They work for the mistress. Find the broken ones, the strays, and drag them in. You're another stray to them."
"Why did you help me?"
The woman's lips twitched into something that might have been a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "You looked like you might survive. The mistress doesn't waste time on the dying."
Eryn frowned. "The mistress?"
"You'll meet her soon enough," the woman said, standing up. She walked to the door, her cloak brushing the floor. "Rest while you can. You'll need it."
She left without another word, the door creaking shut behind her.
Eryn stared at the empty room, his thoughts a tangled mess. His body was too broken to fight or run.
The fire crackled and Eryn let his eyes close again. The memories came, pulling him back to a time when life had been simpler, warmer.
Alyssa's laughter echoed in his mind, and for a moment, he could see her, sitting by the fire, her hands busy knitting.
"You're stronger than you think," her voice whispered again.