Screams echoed through the swamp, a chorus of pain and despair that cut through the thick mist like a knife. Bodies lay scattered across the soaked ground, some still writhing, others already still, with severed limbs and exposed entrails. Among the dead, horrific creatures moved with terrifying agility: goblins with pale skin and dark veins that pulsed as if alive. Their black eyes glowed in the dark, and their sharp claws tore through the flesh of fallen soldiers. The smell of iron from the blood mixed with the stench of rot, creating a nauseating blend that burned the throat of anyone who dared to breathe deeply.
Prometheus, the son of Baron Alaric, fought bravely alongside his men, but a poisoned arrow struck him in the chest, sending him crashing to the muddy ground. As soldiers hurriedly carried him toward the fortress, one of the goblins let out a piercing shriek. The others froze, then turned in unison, their veined faces twisting toward the retreating humans. They advanced in eerie synchronization, as if guided by a single mind.
The clouds above glowed a blood-red, as if the sky itself were on fire. The swamp's mist, tinted by the sinister light, gave the decaying Fortress of Mirewood an infernal aura. Atop the hill, Baron Alaric stood motionless, his eyes distant. His mind wasn't on the battlefield or the stench of death—it was on his son, whose lifeless body was now being laid in the healers' tent.
A soldier approached, his voice hoarse:
"My lord… the healers say there's nothing more to be done. It's time."
Alaric didn't reply. His gaze lingered on the horizon, where the goblin horde had begun to retreat as suddenly as they'd attacked. He followed the soldier to the tent, where priests chanted prayers over Prometheus's body. Lady Seraphine knelt beside her son, her trembling fingers brushing his cold cheek.
"Why?" she whispered, her voice breaking. The question wasn't for God or man—it was a mother's plea to the void.
Alaric pulled her into an embrace, her silent tears staining his armor. The priest stepped forward to shroud Prometheus's face, but recoiled when the young man's eyes snapped open. Not the soft hazel eyes Seraphine had cradled as a child, but eyes as dark and ancient as the abyss.
Cain had awakened.
***
The pain was unbearable. The only thing that alleviated it was the constant flood of memories invading my mind like a dam that had just burst. My body felt "alien"—or rather, it was my soul that felt foreign to the body it now inhabited. The relentless struggle between body and spirit created a grotesque scene, worthy of a horror movie. As I adapted to the memories, my body, which had been thrashing about, began to change. My hearing sharpened, my vision became as keen as an eagle's. Those changes were familiar to me. I had felt them once before, long ago, when everything began.
A man with long hair and a serene face asked me:
"Cain, where is your brother?"
I, consumed by rage, replied:
"Why should I know? Am I my brother's keeper?"
The man, with a look of disappointment, responded:
"What have you done? The voice of your brother's blood cries out to me from the ground. Now you are cursed, and the ground that opened its mouth to receive your brother's blood will no longer yield its crops to you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth."
And then, the man marked me. A mark that etched my sin forever. Many would seek vengeance against me, but they would not succeed. The mark my soul carries is not just a symbol of guilt—it is a reminder that, even in a new world, the past will never abandon me.
Now, in Ethos, I feel the weight of that curse more than ever. With every memory that invades my mind, with every change my body undergoes, I am reminded that there is no escape. The land here may be different, but the blood that cries out for justice is the same. And as my senses sharpen and my power grows, one question echoes in my mind:
Can I escape my destiny this time... or am I just repeating the same mistakes in a new world?
The mark burns, as it always has. And deep down, I know it will never stop burning.
***
The people in the tent watched in stunned silence. The body twisted, bled, and paled. The screams were bizarre and deafening, a sound that seemed to come from the depths of an abyss. The cracking and reforming of bones echoed like a nightmare made real. The priest's prayers grew louder, his words almost a shout, as if trying to ward off the diabolical vision unfolding before everyone.
The air inside the tent was heavy, thick with fear and revulsion. The soldiers backed away, some crossing themselves, others murmuring hurried prayers. Lady Seraphine remained on her knees beside the body, but her hands trembled, and her face was as pale as the moon. She looked at her son—or at what now inhabited his body—with a mixture of hope and horror.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, the body stopped writhing. The screams ceased, replaced by a heavy, uncomfortable silence. All that remained were the looks of repulsion from those present, mixed with reverent fear. The priest stammered a final prayer, but his words sounded hollow, as if even he didn't believe what he was saying.
It was then that Baron Alaric stepped forward. His hand rested firmly on the hilt of his sword, and his eyes, once distant and filled with pain, now gleamed with cold calculation. He looked at the body that had once been his son, now transformed into something he barely recognized.
"Prometheus..." The Baron pronounced the name cautiously, as if testing it. The silence lingered for a few seconds before a hoarse, commanding voice, barely resembling that of his son, replied:
"Father..." Cain sat up on the bed, moving with an unnatural fluidity, as if the previous scene could be erased from the witnesses' minds. "Why do you come to your son with a hand on your sword? Is it not a good thing that I am alive and no longer trapped in agony, as I was before?"
He took a deep breath, and then, disgustingly, spat a black, sticky liquid onto the ground. The Baron instinctively recoiled, his expression hardening.
"Truly, I tell you," Cain continued, his voice carrying an authority that did not belong to a young noble, "know that, by divine intervention, I cannot depart. And here I am, in this world, seeking a second chance."
The Baron did not move, but his voice was as cold as steel. "Divine intervention? You think I would believe that? My son was dead. I saw him. And now you... you sit there, speaking as if nothing happened. What are you?"
Cain looked at the Baron, his eyes as dark as a starless night. He felt the mark on his forehead burn, a constant reminder of his curse. Abel, he thought, even here, you haunt me.
"How can you deny that I am your son?" Cain replied with indignation, his voice echoing in the tent. "Is my blood not the same as yours? Did I not fight for this land just as the soldiers outside fought? For this house, for this family, and for these people? Should you not be glad that I am still alive? Do you deny me just as the pagans and heretics deny our God?"
His voice rose in indignation as he tried to stand, but his legs faltered. Lady Seraphine, still on her knees, reached out a trembling hand to support him.
"Alaric..." she whispered, her tears flowing silently. "He is alive. That is all that matters. No matter how, or why. He is alive."
The Baron looked at his wife, and for a moment, his hardened expression wavered. He saw the pain in her eyes, the fragile hope she still clung to. But when his gaze returned to Cain, the distrust returned.
"Alive?" he repeated, his voice now lower but no less intense. "Do you think I am a fool? Do you think I do not see what is before my eyes? My son was dead, and now you are here, speaking like him, but not being him. So, I ask again: what are you?"
Cain held the Baron's gaze, his breathing heavy. He knew he could not reveal the truth, but he also knew he needed to convince him. Carefully, he freed himself from Lady Seraphine's support and took a step forward, still unsteady but determined.
"I am what remains," he said, his voice now soft, almost a whisper. "I am what survived. And if you cannot accept that, then perhaps Mirewood is doomed. Because I am the only chance you have to save this land. And, Baron Alaric, you know this."
The silence that followed was heavy, laden with unresolved tension. The Baron looked at Cain, then at his wife, and finally at the soldiers and the priest, who watched the scene with wide eyes. He knew that, at this moment, his choice was not just about life or death. It was about accepting the unknown... or succumbing to fear.
Finally, he let out a deep sigh and took a step back, his hand slowly moving away from the hilt of his sword.
"Very well," he said, his voice grave and full of authority. "You will have your chance. But know this: if you betray my trust, if you endanger Mirewood... no prayer or divine intervention will save you from me."
Cain inclined his head in a gesture of respect. "Fair," he replied. "And when the time comes, you will see that I am not here to destroy... but to rebuild."
The Baron did not respond. He simply took another step back, his hand finally leaving the sword. But his eyes remained fixed on Cain, filled with distrust and morbid curiosity.
As the tension in the tent eased, Cain felt the weight of the mark on his forehead burn once more. He knew this was only the first battle in a much larger war. And deep down, he also knew that, no matter what happened, the past would never leave him in peace.
"Take your sword and shield, as well as your holy book," the Baron commanded. "Take ten men with you, go to the five villages around the swamp, and bring the families back to Mirewood. Recruit and arm any man who can wield a sword or a spear, and bring them to the fortress. If you can complete this mission and return alive, it will be by the will of God."
The Baron made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Now go and fulfill it. The longer we delay, the more those vile creatures will gather to attack us again."
As Cain left the tent, followed by the soldiers who would accompany him on the mission, Lady Seraphine stood up, her face pale and filled with anguish. She turned to Baron Alaric, her eyes blazing with a mix of anger and despair.
"Alaric, what are you doing?" she asked, her voice trembling but filled with emotion. "You're sending our son to his death! He can barely stand, and you're sending him to face those creatures alone?"
The Baron did not respond immediately. He looked at the entrance of the tent, where Cain had disappeared, and then turned his gaze to his wife. His expression was hard, but there was a shadow of pain in his eyes.
"He is no longer our son, Seraphine," he said, his voice grave and full of authority. "Something has happened to him. Something we cannot understand. And if he is who he claims to be, then he will survive. If not... well, then the problem will be solved."
Lady Seraphine took a step forward, her hands trembling with anger. "You're talking as if he were a stranger! He is our son, Alaric! Our son! And you're treating him like an enemy!"
The Baron closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to control himself. When he opened them again, his expression was softer but still firm.
"Seraphine, I know this is hard for you. It's hard for me too. But I cannot risk the safety of Mirewood for the sake of personal feelings. If he is truly Prometheus, then he will prove it. And if he is not... well, then we cannot allow him to remain here."
Lady Seraphine shook her head, her tears flowing silently. "You're wrong, Alaric. Wrong. And if he doesn't return, you will never be able to forgive yourself."
The Baron did not respond. He simply looked at his wife, his expression impassive, but his eyes betrayed the pain he felt. He knew she was right, but he also knew he could not afford to be weak.
"I will do what is necessary to protect Mirewood," he said finally, his voice soft but filled with determination. "And if that means sending our son to his death, then so be it."
Lady Seraphine looked at him for a moment, her expression filled with pain and despair. Then, without a word, she turned and left the tent, leaving the Baron alone with his thoughts.
***
Outside the tent, Cain walked toward the fortress courtyard, where ten soldiers awaited him. He felt the weight of the mark on his chest burn, a constant reminder of his curse. But at the same time, he felt a determination he had not felt in centuries.
He looked at the soldiers, his dark eyes gleaming with an intensity that made some of them step back.
"You know what we must do," he said, his voice calm but commanding. "We go to the villages around the swamp, bring the families back to Mirewood, and recruit any man who can fight. We have no time to waste."
The soldiers exchanged nervous glances, but no one dared to question him. They had seen what happened in the tent, and they knew something had changed in Prometheus. Something that frightened them but also inspired them.
Cain mounted his horse, his posture upright and confident despite the weakness he still felt. He looked at the fortress for a moment, his dark eyes gleaming with a mix of determination and sadness.
"I will not fail," he whispered to himself, his voice almost inaudible. "I cannot fail."
And then, with a gesture of his hand, he led the soldiers toward the swamp, his resolve unshakable. He knew the mission would be dangerous, that the vile creatures would be lurking, and that the swamp itself could be his undoing.
But he also knew he had no choice. He had been condemned to wander for eternity, but now he had a chance at redemption. And he would do whatever it took to seize that chance.
As he rode, he felt the mark on his chest burn once more, but this time, the pain was accompanied by a sense of purpose. He did not know what the future held, but he knew he could not turn back.
And deep down, he also knew that, no matter what happened, the past would never leave him in peace.