The twilight clung to me like a shroud, the dying light painting the forsaken clearing in shades of bruised purple and deep, unforgiving grey. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig under my scaled feet, echoed the hollowness that resided in the cavity where my heart used to be. It’s a sound I knew intimately. The sound of loss. The sound of being utterly, irrevocably alone.

I emerged from the trees, the ancient oaks and pines parting for me like reluctant mourners. My eyes, remnants of the creature I’ve become, glowed faintly, cutting through the gathering gloom like twin embers. I could taste the metallic tang of blood in the air, smell the acrid fear clinging to the figure slumped against the broken altar. The person was a mess, drenched in crimson, their breath coming in ragged gasps. And I felt… nothing. Or perhaps it was worse than nothing. It was a dull, weary ache, a familiar companion that whispered, “Here we go again. Another broken thing in a broken world.”

My hand instinctively rested on the worn hilt of my sword. It's an ugly thing, scarred and pitted, its edge dulled by countless battles fought not for glory, but for survival. A weapon born of necessity, a testament to the ugliness of the world and the ugliness I've become a part of. I never wanted to learn to use it. Elira, my mother, would weep to see me now, this… thing, wielding a blade that's tasted more blood than I ever thought possible.

I was supposed to be a healer, like her. Gentle hands, a quiet heart, coaxing life from the earth. Instead, I am a shadow, lurking on the edges, a creature of darkness and whispered dread.

The person shifted against the stone, groaning softly. I didn't soften. I learned long ago that softness is a weakness, an invitation for pain. I didn't hesitate either. Why would I? This world offered only two choices: predator or prey. And I chose neither. I simply endured.

My voice, rough as gravel worn smooth by the relentless tide, and low as a coming storm, cut through the silence. It was a voice I barely recognized, a voice that carried the echoes of screams and the weight of unspeakable loneliness.

"What the hel1 are you doing here?"

The words weren't an offer of help. They were an accusation. An irritation. Another disruption to the quiet misery that was my existence. Why couldn't people just pass in peace? Why did they always have to drag me into their messes?

More than that, I felt a gnawing fear, a dread of being seen. Of being recognized. What if someone remembered me? What if, in the depths of their fear, they saw the ghost of the boy I once was? The boy who loved to draw robins, the boy who cried at the sight of a dying bird, the boy who was loved… and then abandoned.

The thought was a sharp, unexpected pain, a phantom limb twitching with a forgotten sensation. I shoved it down, burying it beneath the layers of scar tissue and hardened scales that protected my soul.

The person is probably just some fool who got mixed up in the wrong business, a brigand or a sacrifice gone wrong. Nothing I haven’t seen a hundred times. The world was full of suffering, and I am no savior.

But still, a tiny, stubborn ember of the boy I used to be flickered within me. A faint, almost extinguished light that whispered of compassion, of a duty to ease suffering… a duty I swore to Elira, long before my body betrayed me, before her love turned to fear, before I became the son she couldn’t love anymore.

I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to turn away, to retreat into the shadows and let the person bleed out on the altar.

Damn it. I hated this world. I hated what I’ve become. And I hated that, despite everything, a part of me still cared.