Echoes in the Night
The ruins stood silent under the pale moonlight, the once-mighty stone structures now reduced to crumbling walls and shattered pillars. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, and the distant hoot of an owl was the only sound breaking the silence.
Eryndor sat beside the small campfire, watching the flames flicker as his thoughts churned. The battle from earlier had left him physically unharmed, but his mind was restless.
"The dead should stay dead."
Those words wouldn't leave him.
Who were those assassins? Why did they fight like they knew him?
And more importantly—why had he fought like he knew them?
Lysara sat across from him, her staff resting beside her. She had barely spoken since the fight, but he could tell she was thinking the same thing.
"You should rest," she finally said. "We need to move at first light."
Eryndor exhaled, rubbing his temples. "I know… but something isn't right."
Lysara's gaze lingered on him for a moment before she sighed. "Then tell me what's wrong."
Eryndor hesitated. He didn't want to sound paranoid, but—
"I'm remembering things. Pieces of something I don't understand." He clenched his fists. "When I fought those assassins… my body moved on instinct. It wasn't just reflex—it was as if I had fought that exact battle before."
Lysara frowned. "But that's impossible."
"I know," he muttered.
Silence stretched between them. The fire crackled, casting shifting shadows on the walls of the ruins.
Lysara finally spoke. "Maybe you're starting to remember your past."
Eryndor's stomach tightened. "If that's true, then… I think I was a warrior. A skilled one."
Lysara gave him a serious look. "Then why were you killed?"
The question hit harder than he expected. He had no answer.
---
A Dream That Feels Too Real
Sleep came reluctantly.
Eryndor didn't remember when his body gave in to exhaustion, but the moment his eyes closed, he was somewhere else.
A vast battlefield stretched before him, littered with bodies. The sky was a deep crimson, as if stained with blood. The air reeked of iron and death.
He stood in the middle of it all, his sword dripping with fresh blood. His breathing was ragged, his muscles aching. He had fought. He had killed.
And then—
Pain.
A searing, unbearable pain in his chest. He looked down. A blade was buried deep inside him.
He gasped, staggering backward. The weapon was wrenched from his body, and he collapsed to his knees.
As the world darkened around him, he heard it.
A voice.
Cold, distant—yet terrifyingly familiar.
It whispered a name.
His name.
But it wasn't Eryndor.
It was—
---
A Name That Shouldn't Be Spoken
Eryndor jolted awake, his body drenched in cold sweat. His heart pounded as if he had truly been stabbed.
For a moment, he could still hear the name echoing in his mind.
It sent chills down his spine.
Not because he didn't recognize it.
But because he did.
Lysara turned to him, concerned. "Another nightmare?"
Eryndor swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. His hands trembled.
"No," he said, voice hoarse. "Not a nightmare."
He looked at her, the flickering fire casting shadows on his face.
"I think I just remembered my real name."
---
End of Chapter 3.