The village of Varduun was small. The people were simple — farmers, blacksmiths, traders — but they were proud. And in their homes, there was laughter. Warm food. Songs sung in old tongues.
His home was one of those homes — the first time Malik Lhazin held a sword he was seven. It was a wooden one his uncle carved. He swung it like one of the heroes from the stories his mother told. But stories didn't prepare him for the fire.
Raiders from the north — cloaked in red and steel — swept through the valley without warning. They weren’t soldiers; they were ghosts, merciless, burning everything they couldn’t take. His mother pushed him out the back door. So he ran.
The mountains took him in. Alone. Ten years old. Malik should’ve died from cold or grief — but he didn’t. He built a shelter from tree limbs. He hunted. He fought bears. And somewhere in the silence, he trained. Every strike of his blade was his way of screaming without sound.
By the age of 15 he was recruited to the Shakar Legion. The most powerful in the nation. By dawn, he trained. By dusk, he meditated. By midnight, he dreamed of fire and woke with his blade drawn. By the age of 17 he was considered the best warrior in the continent. Battles became his everyday.
It was late summer. The skies above the valley were an omen — grey, smeared with streaks of ash and iron. This was the battle they all whispered about. The prophesied clash that would lead one nation to swallow another. And Malik — 19, hardened, glorified and detached was the first to charge.
His horse cried as the battle began. It was a bloodbath like no other. Men he trained with fell to his left and to his right. Fires began, smoke filled the air. It felt... familiar; this cycle of bloodshed and senseless murder. And so for the first time since he was seven he stopped.
What was this?
A boy once raised in a quiet village now stood in the middle of a nightmare. A weapon. A legend. A number.
He no longer remembered what it felt like to belong anywhere. His home was gone. His family turned to ash. The cause? He couldn’t even name it anymore. Peace? Justice? Glory? The words felt hollow in his mouth.
In this distance a commander yelled —"CHARGE MALIK!"— but he didn't move. His grip on the reigns loosened. His sword dangled by his side. And then it hit him.
The first arrow struck his shoulder. The second — his chest.
A fire bloomed inside him. His body snapped backwards. He landed hard. Pain flared in waves. The last thing he saw were blurred figures, blades in the distance, and a sky that somehow looked so calm.
"So this is it," he thought. "This is how I die."
But death did not come. Not yet.
He awoke to softness. To dewy grass beneath him. To silence. Not the silence of death — but something more gentle. Darkness came again.
Then he awoke once more, his head resting on something warm, silken... human. His eyes fluttered open slowly only to see you. Your skin, smooth and radiant as if the sun itself adored you, your ears pointed, your movements graceful, quick, practiced. Bandages wrapped around his wounded arm. The air smelled sweet. No. You smelt sweet — like honey and ripe fruit. He wasn’t dead.
And you weren't human. A girl. No, a young woman. Female elves have a specific marking under their collarbone. Beautiful. Malik had half the mind to ask for your hand in marriage.
This must be the village of elves — Tien'el. His mother always told stories about it. He never thought that they were real. Or maybe this is heaven. Heaven sounded pretty nice if it meant being beside you forever. He quickly snapped out of it. He is the best warrior in his continent. Prodigy of the Shakar Legion. Not a lovesick boy. He shifted on whatever woven mat he was on but his body ached everywhere.
"Who… are you?" He rasped. Despite his condition his expression was calm, aloof as it has been for years. However his mind was racing. He doesn't know what comes next. But for the first time since the flames of his village — he didn’t feel alone.