My hands shook. Whether it was from rage or terror, I could no longer tell. No. This wasn't real. I wouldn't die here. Not like this. My fingers tightened around the sword's hilt, slick with sweat. I turned, looking around. Nothing. He was gone. I couldn't believe it.
The silence wasn't empty. It felt like a presence, heavy, pressing against my skin. My breath came in uneven gasps. The room was still the room until it began to change. Shadows pooled in the corners, spreading, swallowing the outlines of the walls, the door, and the ground beneath me. My feet no longer felt solid. No, no, no. This isn't real!
Then I heard it. Laughter. Soft at first, like a whisper carried on the wind, then louder, richer, that damned man. The darkness swelled, coalescing, and there he stood, his figure drawn from the shadows itself, grinning as if he had never left. Or worse, as if he had always been here, watching me.
"So?" He sneered. "Still clinging to that thing in your hand, as if it gives you meaning? Tell me, what exactly have you accomplished? How many ladies have you laid? How many will remember your name? No one will sing of you. No one will mourn you." He took a step closer. "What did you think? That you could carve a purpose out of this world with a blade? You are a shadow, fading, and soon—" he leaned in, his breath cold against my ear, "—there will be nothing left of you."
I staggered back. Not real. Not real. Not real. But my mind, treacherous thing that it was, whispered. What if? He wasn't wrong. Never once had I tasted a lady before. Should I be ashamed? I even tried the ladies of the night, but not even their willingness to sleep with the weirdest of men allowed them to sleep with the joke of the city.
I heard his laughter, splitting into echoes, like it mirrored me, showing my own disgusting face. Face it or not, I had been able to escape, to try living somewhere else. Once, one traveler asked me. But yet, fearful as ever, I refused. Why? Wasn't my drive for adventure greater than all this bullshit? I raised my sword again, but the weight of it was unbearable. My arms trembled. My grip loosened.
"Go on," the chief taunted. "Fight. Prove that you exist."
I tried to answer, but my mouth was dry, my voice stolen. I was sinking now, dissolving into the dark. If I disappeared here, now — would anyone ever know I had been? Would it matter? Really? For me, what was important in that moment was to beat the shit out of this bastard. Revenge. I need that. Eye for an eye.
Iron against iron. I thought about all those years he spent torturing me with names and tasks. Did a soldier need to clean the cattle? Bullshit. I slashed. He evaded. I tried to follow. He kicked my knee.
The chief stood before me, grinning, mocking. "Look at you," he sneered, pacing in a slow, predatory circle. "Clumsy. Weak. Did you think you could challenge me? You?" His voice dripped with laughter. "You're nothing. You always have been. A mutt we let sleep by the fire out of pity."
I lunged, reckless, desperate. My blade whistled through the air, but it met only emptiness. He was already behind me. A fist slammed into my ribs. The world lurched. I gasped, my lungs refusing air, my own body turning against me. My grip on the sword wavered.
"Do you know why I never let you fight?" he continued, his voice almost gentle now, as if I was his child. "Because it was funny. Watching you toil, watching you pretend. A soldier." He chuckled, low and cruel. "You believed it, didn't you?"
I snarled, forcing myself upright. My blood roared. Another swing, another failure. A boot struck my stomach, and I crashed to my knees, choking on the taste of iron. My sword slipped from my fingers, clattering uselessly to the ground.
"You're no warrior," the chief whispered, crouching beside me. His breath was warm, but his words were colder than the darkness surrounding us. "You were just something to laugh at. A joke, kept around for the amusement of better men."
My hands trembled as I tried to lift myself, but my body refused. He was right. Hadn't he always been? I had no victories to my name, no legacy, no proof that I had ever been more than what they made me.
The chief leaned in closer. "Tell me… what do you think happens to men like you? The ones who are forgotten?" I was still on my knees, my breath ragged, my body aching, but the real pain — the real wound — was his voice, carving into me like a dull knife.
"You're afraid," he murmured. "Not of me. Not of death. No, your fear runs deeper than that." He crouched beside me again, his grin widening. "You're afraid of being nothing. Of living and dying without leaving the slightest mark." His fingers pressed against my forehead, mockingly gentle. "And the worst part? You already know it's true. I didn't have to teach you that. You came into this world already knowing what you were."
I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the nausea curling in my stomach. He was lying. He had to be. But then again, why did his words feel like truths I had always known but never dared to speak? The darkness around us thickened, shifting like smoke, pressing against my skin. I couldn't breathe. His voice came again, closer now, almost inside me.
"No one will remember you."
I clenched my fists.
"No one will care."
I gritted my teeth.
"You are not a man. You are a whisper in the wind, already fading—"
Something inside me snapped. The fire that had been smothered, trampled, and mocked into embers — it roared to life. I lunged. My fingers found the hilt of my sword, cold and reassuring, and before he could move, before he could laugh again, I slashed.
Faster than thought. Faster than he had ever seen me move. Faster than I had ever seen me move. For the first time, I struck true. The chief didn't stumble, didn't even flinch. His smirk remained, frozen in place, as his body… dissolved. The sword passed through him as if through mist. And then, just like that, he was gone.
I stood there, panting, my chest rising and falling in jagged bursts. Had I won? Then I saw them. Two figures stood where he had been. Two pairs of eyes. Eyes I would never forget. My mother. My father. Staring at me, faces twisted in disgust.
My mother stepped to my left, and her eyes — those sharp, cold eyes — glowed with unmistakable disappointment. Her lips curled as if the very sight of me disgusted her.
"Look at you," she sighed, shaking her head. "What a waste. A man who has built nothing, given nothing. A disgrace. No wife. No children. No home to speak of. Do you know how ashamed I am when people ask about you? I tell them about your younger brother instead. He is a man. He has a family. He brings me pride." She turned to me, narrowing her eyes. "And you? What have you given me but sorrow?"
A laugh — low, bitter — echoed from my right. My father. He walked with heavy steps, arms crossed, his face twisted in something far worse than disgust — anger. Deep, unmovable anger.
"I should have expected it," he muttered. "You never had the strength. Always the runt, always the fool." His voice dripped with contempt. "A soldier? Don't make me laugh. A soldier commands respect. A soldier earns his place. But you?" He leaned in, his breath cold against my ear. "You are a joke. A shame upon this city, upon this family, upon me. I owe them an apology for having a son like you."
Something inside me snapped. They were not real. They could not be real. But their voices cut deeper than any blade. The flames of rage swallowed reason, burned away hesitation. I moved before I could think, the sword a blur in my hands. I slashed — wild, desperate, furious. But the moment the blade struck, they vanished.
No sound. No scream. Nothing. And yet… something remained. The air changed. Thickened. Then, from the void, something began to walk toward me. It was far — just a shape in the distance, moving with slow, deliberate steps. I could not see its face and could not hear its voice.
But already, I felt a fear unlike any before. Not the fear of pain. Not even the fear of death. This was something else. Something worse.