Another month passes. I think.
Time feels weird now. I've stopped trying to count the days.
The sun rises, the sun falls, and I just keep going.
Walking, hiding, fighting, surviving. Always fighting.
Goblins. Boars. Those weird bug things with spiked legs. I don't even know what half the monsters are anymore.
I fight them because I have to. Because I want to get stronger. Because there's nothing else I can do.
Each time I kill something, I feel myself getting a little faster, a little tougher. I learn where to stab, when to run, how to breathe when the pain gets bad. But it's not enough.
I'm still small. Still weak. And now, I'm starving.
My arms are thin like sticks. My cheeks are hollow. Every time I touch my face, it feels like someone else's.
I can see my ribs. My stomach doesn't even growl anymore—it just aches, dull and heavy, like a rock stuck inside.
My stock has run dry. I haven't found good food in days.
I keep moving anyway. It's all I know how to do now.
But today… something's different. My legs won't listen. Each step is heavier than the last.
When was the last time I slept?
The forest spins around me, trees stretching and warping like melted wax.
My vision flickers at the edges, shadows curling inward.
I stumble. Fall to my knees. Everything's blurry.
My breathing is slow, like the air itself is thick soup.
I look up, blinking hard. There—shapes in the distance. Two figures, walking toward me. I can't see their faces. Just silhouettes. One tall, one shorter.
They don't look like monsters. Or maybe I'm hallucinating again. "Elaria… mama?" I whisper, even though I know it's not her. Then everything goes black.
. . .
The first thing I feel is warmth. Not heat from the sun, not fire from a camp. This is different.
It's soft. Gentle. Like a blanket made of sunlight.
Then I smell flowers. Fresh ones. Not the wild weeds or sour-sweet berries I'm used to.
These are light and clean, like spring. I slowly open my eyes. I'm not in the forest. I'm inside a small cottage.
The walls are made of smooth stone and polished wood. Vines creep along the windows, blooming with bright green leaves and tiny pink blossoms.
A gentle breeze flows in through the open window. Somewhere nearby, birds are chirping.
I sit on a soft couch with a knitted quilt over my lap. And beside me… Elaria.
She sits next to me, one arm wrapped around my shoulder. She's smiling, just like before. Her orange eyes glowing with kindness.
"Mama…" I breathe, leaning into her. She doesn't say anything. Just pulls me close and strokes my hair.
I bury my face into her chest and inhale deeply. It smells like wildflowers and sunlight. "I missed you," I whisper. "So much…"
She hums softly. A tune I remember. The one she used to sing at night.
The tune fades. Her warmth fades too. I blink and look up. She's gone.
The room starts to shake. The windows crack. The vines wither and curl into ash. The birds stop singing.
Then I hear her voice—so far away, it sounds like wind through trees. "You shouldn't be here, Albus…"
The cottage vanishes. I jolt awake. My chest heaves like I've been drowning.
I gasp for air and sit up too fast. Pain hits my ribs like a club. I cry out and grab my side.
Where…?
I'm in a bed. A real bed. Soft sheets. Clean blankets. Bandages wrapped around my chest and arms.
The room is small, but neat. Sunlight pours through a window. It smells like herbs and something… sweet?
I look around, panicked.
There—two people. A man and a woman.
The man is tall and broad, maybe in his twenties, with dark brown hair and a short beard.
The woman is shorter, slender, with blonde curls tied into a braid. She has soft blue eyes and wears a long green dress.
I scramble back in the bed, nearly falling off the other side. My fingers grab at the pillow like it's a weapon.
"Who are you! Stay away from me!" I shout, voice hoarse.
"Whoa, easy now," the man says quickly, holding up both hands. "We're not gonna hurt you, kid."
"You're safe," the woman says softly, taking a small step forward.
"We found you near the edge of the woods. You were barely breathing…"
They're lying. I don't believe them. I don't trust anyone.
"Where am I?" I croak.
"You're in Willowmere," the man says. "A small village, not far from the forest. You've been here two days."
My legs shake. My eyes scan the room again. No chains. No iron bars. No soldiers.
I lower the pillow. Just a little. Still watching them. Still ready to run.
I don't relax. Even after they step back. Even after the woman speaks soft like Elaria used to. Even after I hear the name "Willowmere."
That doesn't mean anything to me.
Nowhere is safe. That's what I've learned. People smile with knives behind their backs.
I've seen it. I've lived it.
Still… they don't look like slavers. Their clothes are too plain. No chains on their belts. No collars waiting behind them. Just the smell of soap and cooked food.
And that's when I smell it. My stomach lurches, twisting like it's just remembered how to feel again. Something… warm. Rich. Like meat.
I sniff, not even meaning to, and my body leans toward the door before my brain catches up.
The woman notices. Her eyes brighten. "We made soup," she says gently, like she's speaking to a stray dog. "I didn't think you'd wake so soon, but it's still hot if you'd like some."
I don't answer. I just stare at her. Then at him. He shrugs and smiles a little. "It's not poisoned, if that's what you're thinking."
I flinch. They both see it. The smile fades from his face.
The woman steps back again and clasps her hands in front of her waist. "You don't have to eat if you're not ready. We'll leave it on the table. Take your time."
I don't respond. They nod and quietly walk out the room, shutting the door behind them with a soft click. Silence fills the space.
Only now do I notice how fast I'm breathing.
My whole body's tense. My hands ache from gripping the blanket so tightly. I peel my fingers off one by one, then swing my legs off the bed.
The floor is warm. Clean. I stare at it like it's some kind of trap. But eventually… I move.
Step by step, I walk toward the door, open it, and peek into the next room.
A kitchen. Simple. Wooden. Clean. A small round table sits in the middle. On it is a clay bowl filled with steaming soup, a slice of bread on a cloth beside it.
I step closer. Slowly. No one's in sight. I pull out the chair and sit. My body sinks down like it forgot how to sit properly.
I stare at the bowl. It smells amazing.
But I don't move yet.
What if it's a trick? What if it's drugged? What if they're watching me, just waiting to see how stupid I am?
My fingers tremble. My stomach twists again.
Still… I lean forward. I pick up the wooden spoon and stir the soup.
Carrots. Potato. Bits of meat. Real meat.
I scoop up a little. Raise it to my mouth.
Pause. Then slowly, I take a bite.
It's hot. It burns my tongue a little. But I don't care.
The flavor hits me like a punch. It's not just good. It's the best thing I've ever tasted in two lives.
I chew slowly. Swallow. Then take another bite. And another.
Halfway through the bowl, I stop. My vision blurs. Something drips down my cheeks.
Tears.
I don't even notice them until they fall into the soup. I try to wipe them away with my sleeve, but they keep coming.
Ugly, silent tears that won't stop. I cover my face with one arm and keep eating with the other.
I don't know why I'm crying like this. But I can't stop.
I don't realize they've come back until I hear the soft creak of the door.
I freeze mid-bite. The spoon hovers near my lips. My whole body goes rigid like I've just been caught stealing.
I look up. The woman stands in the doorway, her hands folded over her stomach. The man is behind her, holding a small basket of firewood.
They're both quiet. Watching me. But not judging. Not angry. Just… watching.
I lower the spoon slowly. They still don't move closer.
The woman tilts her head a little and smiles. Not wide. Not fake. Just… warm.
"Feel free to eat as much as you want," she says softly. "There's plenty more. Really."
The man nods, setting the basket down near the hearth. "We don't get visitors often. But we're glad we found you when we did."
I stare at them. My throat tightens. My brain's screaming at me not to believe them.
But my heart… my heart wants to. I whisper, "Why…?"
The woman blinks. "Why what?"
"Why help me?"
The man answers this time. "Because it's the right thing to do." He shrugs, walking to the stove. "That's all."
The woman nods. "And we couldn't just leave you out there to die."
I don't reply. I just go back to eating. Slow. Careful. Trying to keep my hands from shaking.
I don't get through the rest of the bowl without crying again. The tears come and go, small rivers on my face.
I try to act like I'm not crying. Like maybe if I ignore it, they won't see. But they do. And still… they say nothing.
The man sits at the far end of the table, placing a second bowl down for himself. The woman joins him with a cup of tea. No pressure. No questions. Just… silence. Safe silence.
I finish eating. Then stare into the empty bowl like it's something sacred. "T-Thanks," I say. The words come out so quiet, I don't know if they even heard me.
But the woman smiles again. "You're welcome, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. That word hits harder than I expect.
I suck in a breath and push the bowl toward the center of the table. The man picks it up. "Want more?"
I shake my head. "No. I'm… please."
They nod. The room feels warm again. Not just from the fireplace. But from them.
They aren't Elaria. They never could be. But for the first time in a long time, I don't feel hunted.
I don't feel like I have to sleep with one eye open. I don't feel like an animal. I don't even feel like a monster.
Just… a boy. A really tired boy. And for now, that's enough.
The bed is warm when I return to it. Warmer than anything I've ever slept in—soft mattress, clean sheets, the faint scent of lavender in the pillow.
Not mold. Not damp straw. Not iron rust or blood.
For a long time, I just sit there, staring at the blanket bunched up in my lap.
Part of me keeps waiting for the trick. For the door to lock. For the chains to come out. For the smiling faces to twist into masks of cruelty.
But it doesn't happen. There's just the sound of firewood crackling in the next room, muffled voices chatting low, and the creak of floorboards as they move about their home. Their home.
Not a cage. Not a cell. A home.
I lay back down. It's hard to sleep, even though I feel like my bones are made of lead.
My mind won't slow down. It keeps flashing between the dream of Elaria's arms… and the moment I left her behind in the mud.
Did I do the right thing? Would she be proud of me for making it this far? Or ashamed that I ran?
I press my face into the pillow and breathe in deep. I don't cry this time. But my chest hurts like I want to.
Eventually, sleep does come.
. . .
When I wake again, the sun is already high, pouring light across the wooden floor like a golden blanket.
I blink and sit up. My eyes don't feel tired.
The pain in my side is dull now—not gone, but manageable.
My arms and legs are covered in fresh bandages, the kind wrapped neatly, not just tied up with cloth scraps like I usually do.
A clean shirt lies folded at the end of the bed, along with a pair of soft pants that actually fit.
I blink again, unsure if I'm still dreaming. But I change into them anyway.
When I walk back out into the kitchen, the couple is waiting. The man is sitting by the fire sharpening a wood-handled knife. The woman is at the table, rolling dough into small balls and dusting them with flour.
They both look up when they see me. "Morning," the man says with a short smile. "Did you sleep well?" the woman asks. I nod slowly. "Yeah… I think so."
She gestures to a chair. "You can sit, if you'd like. There's tea and fresh bread."
I look at the loaf on the table. It's round and golden, steam curling from a crack in the top. My stomach gives a soft gurgle.
The man chuckles. "There it is again."
I glance away, face burning. "Sorry."
"Don't be," the woman says, already slicing the bread. "That sound just means we're doing our job right." She places a plate in front of me, along with a small cup of warm tea.
I stare at it. Then at them.
Finally, I ask, "Why are you really helping me?"
They look at each other. Then the man speaks.
"A long time ago," he begins, "I was a soldier. Young, dumb, angry. Thought I could fix the world by stabbing the right people."
He leans back and sighs. "I got captured by bandits after a mission went wrong. They broke my leg and left me to die in the woods."
The woman picks up the story. "I found him. Dragged him to my home, fed him, cleaned him up. He didn't trust me either."
He chuckles. "Still don't fully." She smacks his arm, laughing. Then turns back to me, her voice softening again.
"So we always try to do for others, what they did for us." She meets my eyes. "But you were alone. Hurt. And scared."
"And we couldn't just walk away," the man finishes.
I don't know what to say. No one's ever done something for me without wanting something back. Except Elaria.
I nod again. Slowly. Then whisper, "Thank you."
They both smile. And for a moment, the ache inside me quiets. It's not gone. But it's not screaming.
That night, I lie in bed again. Full. Warm. Clean.
I stare at the ceiling. And for the first time in what feels like forever… I start to believe that maybe—not all strangers are monsters.
Maybe there are still places in this world where chains don't reach.
Even for someone like me.
[Current Status]
Name: Albus
Age: 1
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Class: Slave(Former)
Occupation: None
Location: Willowmere
Strength: 6/ Toughness: 6/ Stamina: 6/ Dexterity: 6/ Perception: 8/ Charisma: 2
Titles: Soul Migrator/ Blood Moon Curse
Skills/Traits: Minor Healing(Lvl. 2)/ Poison Resistance(Lvl. 1)/ Combat Instinct - Basic(Lvl. 2)/ One Handed Weapons(Lvl. 3)